#Good king finwe

[tanoraqui]

Kingmaker

@finweanladiesweek, Day 2: Findis and Írimë Lalwen

[polished version on AO3!]

Lalwendë had never been more proud of her little brother than on the edge of the Ice, watching him stand his ground against Fëanáro’s fire and Nolofinwë’s…not his best arguments, really. They were all too far into the dark, into blood and madness, for anything like sense or reason.

All but Arafinwë, who’d always been the only one of them who could step back and really consider common sense before he acted. Lalwendë certainly couldn’t—her only merit was knowing her lack (as opposed to her older siblings). Lalwendë was, quite frankly, going to kill Moringotto with her teeth if that was the only weapon she could find, and would follow Fëanáro gladly if that’s what it took to get there.

She was proud when Arafinwë turned his back on them all, head bowed with frustrated grief, and walked home in the starlit dark (she’d start thinking of that as an oxymoron, soon, but at the time it was so, so dark). She was relieved—Lalwendë only had one sibling she got to baby, and she was glad to see him staying safe.

She was nearly as glad, and nearly as proud, when she watched him step ashore on the Isle of Balar with his head high and steel-helmed, his eyes wide but not uncertain—not for more than a moment, at least; not so much that it threw off his bearing that was reminiscent of Fingolfin, of Finwë, of his own self, finally settled into his height and the potential breadth of his shoulders. Lalwen’s little brother had grown up and it turned out that he, too, was a king. 

And thank the Valar for that, because Lalwen was not. She’d never been interested in rule. Yet to her it had been left to hold the Noldor together these last seventy-five years, by the skin of her teeth...

And by the aid of friends, kin and as-good-as. Círdan was as generous as the sea. Idril—now there was one who had grown up! She’d had all her father’s will and all her mother’s ruthless practicality, and her husband Tuor faced every new problem like a challenge of adaptation (and then they’d sailed after a false hope twenty-two years ago). And most of all, Gil-galad, the young sergeant from Nargothrond who still insisted that he’d only taken charge of its fleeing refugees because “everyone with more seniority was too wounded, in body or heart.”

That excuse had been weak when he’d arrived at the coast with nearly 200 refugees and promptly went back to search out more; it’d held up even less when he didn’t immediately surrender his command—not that he wasn’t unfailingly polite!—so much as as start sheepdogging Lalwen’s twitchy remnants of Hithlum as well, Noldor and Sindar and Men. He’d adopted every new wave of refugees much the same, always unperturbed when Lalwen just wanted to put her head in her hands and scream (and sometimes, to be fair, vice versa). The proud Iathrim, the shocked Gondolindrim, the stubbornly independent Halathrim and the Avari who felt trapped on even so fine an island as Balar. The terribly few left of Sirion... Círdan and his people saw that they were all fed (they ate a lot of fish) and Lalwen saw that everyone was housed and clothed, and Gil-galad saw that everyone was armed and ready, and that weapons were pointed outward rather than inward or sideways, and that as few people as possible took further wound to body or heart.

(Once upon a time this would’ve been Lalwen’s job, too. Once upon she could’ve organized a clapping, laughing ballroom dance in the middle of an active battlefield...but maybe she couldn’t have. Maybe she just hadn’t known any real battlefields.)

Arafinwë came as a hero, with a jeweled helm that was the brightest, cleanest thing Lalwen had seen in decades. Even after battle, the bloodstains came off of it like water off a fish’s back (Lalwen’s little brother could fight, now). Arafinwë came as a savior, with an army of not just Noldor but Vanyar and Maiar at his back, borne on Telerin ships. Arafinwë held his head high and introduced himself as “King of the Noldor” like that still meant something great and glorious, rather than bedraggled, broken, and stalked by death like a lamb in a warg den. Like it still meant one thing, and he couldn’t promise anything but (he whispered to her with unconcealed joy, that Findaráto had been re-embodied, so maybe...) he hoped, he couldn’t wait to welcome them all home again, just as soon as this last, greatest war was done.

Arafinwë had turned back, though. Arafinwë hadn’t been here the last time they’d said things like that, when the Siege-line stood strong, the watch-fires shone only to send messages of peace, and the sun was bright and clear on green Ard-galen. He hadn’t watched their older brother ride out like a falling star, and felt Morgoth’s terrible roar of triumph shake mountains and bones soon after. He hadn’t watched all their nephews and nieces, save his own missing daughter and one grand-nephew who never left the forge anymore, fall one by one to fire, dragons, balrogs, and worse. (Lalwen considered all her last nephews to have died in Sirion.) Arafinwë hadn’t even set foot on the Helcaraxë. He barely spoke Sindarin.

Arafinwë, too, was unfailingly polite to all his new allies, to Falathrim, Sindar, Avari and even Edain, whom he’d never met before save (more or less) Eärendil and Elwing. He’d always had good sense, more than the rest of the family. He was kind. He was sympathetic. He looked incredibly awkward and backtracked immediately after joking that it only made sense that they’d run out of kings in Beleriand, because there being no other candidates on offer was how he’d gotten the job in Tirion, too.

Lalwen found him conversing with Gil-galad on the forward-lines of the Western Host’s new shore encampment, one head sun-gold and another the russet brown of dry earth, with their helmets under their arms. Arafinwë’s armor shone with the unmatched beauty and craftsmanship of Valinor. Even Celebrimbor couldn’t get all the dents out of Gil-galad’s (though you could be damn sure he’d ensured that they were only cosmetic). Gil-galad greeted her as she approached, and immediately strode off to handle some matter with bowstrings.

Lalwen still knew her little brother’s face. As he watched Gil-galad walk away, it was set in the expression he wore when trying not to look like he was desperately trying to remember someone’s name.

Knowing that she knew, Arafinwë murmured, “Should I know his parentage? I swear his face is familiar, but I cannot place it.”

Gil-galad had never spoken of his parents, not to Lalwen at least. By his accent, she was fairly sure one was a Noldo and the other a Sinda. But coming from diverse Nargothrond, who knew. If Arafinwë recognized him, maybe one had been a friend of Finrod’s from Tirion?

She took her little brother by the arm and drew him to the side, and spoke in an undertone. 

“I beg you, don’t react overmuch to what I tell you, much less speak of it to Gil-galad—much less pressure him in any way. He still mourns, and regards crowns as curses—for his father was Fingon– Findekáno, and when Dagor Bragollach came upon us, he was sent to foster in safety in Nargothrond, where he loved many and stayed until it fell.”

Arafinwë breathed in sharply. Be he otherwise stayed as calm as though she’d commented on the breeze. 

“His mother was of the Falathrim.” The greatest storytellers drew from fact, and Fingon had been married. It’d just been…complicated, and they’d never had children. “She was shy of ceremony, so it was a fairly private wedding, but clever and fierce in spirit. She fell in the Nirnaeth—and then Ereinion was very close with Artaresto as well... Again, he doesn’t like to speak of it...”

“I will not burden him,” Arafinwë promised. 

But he eyed Gil-galad, now speaking vehemently with a quartermaster, with new, more respectful consideration (and, to be fair, the wistful hunger of one yearning for any new word of his dead grandchildren). 

It gave Lalwen the chance to silently, internally, roll her eyes. Had they all truly been so naïve once, to think blood mattered before it was spilled?

Well, Gil-galad would be annoyed at her once this new rumor got out, but he’d forgive her eventually—and maybe she’d even get a crown on his humble head, if they all somehow survived this “last, greatest war.”

#lalwen #the silmarillion #finweanladiesweek #finarfin #gil galad #gil-galad son of plothole #ficlet #my fic #hey look it's not even midnight. nailed it #gil-galad later when he finds out about this: are you telling me you started a rumor that i was heir to finwe's throne because #you were /annoyed at your brother/ #lalwen: no i started a rumor that you were heir to finwe's throne - arguably fingolfin's or i GUESS /kind of/ feanor's - because #i value the independence of hte beleriandrim noldor; and also because you'll be a good king #and check your family history - if I was annoyed at my brother this is FAR from #the stupidest thing I much less any of my siblings have done for just such a reason’ #gil-galad: not MY family history!! #lalwen: it is now kiddo!

[thevalleyisjolly]

Crack AU concept: Every Second Age Finwëan apart from Galadriel doesn’t actually have the origin they’re commonly purported to have:

No one is sure of Gil-Galad’s parentage because he’s actually a highly competent Green-Elf who looked around at the general chaos and destruction near the end of the First Age, sighed, rolled up his sleeves, and decided that someone had to start taking responsibility for this shit.  Look, he never actually stated that he was anyone’s son, it’s just that people are more likely to listen to someone named “Scion of Kings” than they are to a random (if exceedingly capable) elf, and the assumptions kind of snowballed from there.  His favourite pastime is dropping contradictory hints about his parentage and watching the ensuing confusion.

The fact of the matter is, Celebrimbor is a popular name among Elves.  There was a Celebrimbor of Gondolin and a Celebrimbor of Doriath and even a Falmari Celebrimbor, formerly of Aman, who insists that he was the first Celebrimbor.  They also all happened to be very skilled craftspeople so maybe there’s something to the name after all.  So when a dark haired Elf with incredible skills in craft shows up in Lindon after the war calling himself Celebrimbor, son of Curufin, the only part that anyone bats an eye at is the “son of Curufin” part because who would knowingly associate themselves with the House of Fëanor in this day and age?  Surely nobody would lie about that, and if they wouldn’t lie about that, why would they lie about anything else?

When it comes down to it, nobody really understands what it means to be peredhel, and especially not when it comes to their lifespan and aging.  Furthermore, nobody really knows what happened to Elwing’s sons after the Third Kinslaying; everybody just assumed they were taken hostage and/or killed.  Therefore, when during the War of Wrath, a pair of grown, clearly half-elven twins with a strong resemblance to Lúthien wash up in Balar, everybody assumes (with more than a little wishful thinking) that they must be Elwing’s sons, miraculously spared by the Fëanorians.  As for the twins themselves, they feel more than a little guilty about assuming the identities of the nephews they never met, but they also figure that if they told the truth of their survival, they might be disbelieved or taken for spies of Morgoth, so they’ll go along with it for now and if their nephews do turn up, they’ll deal with it then?

(They did actually turn up a few decades into the Second Age, having been in the East where Maglor sent them before shit really started going down.  They’re honestly just delighted to have living family more or less on this side of the Sea, and agree that it’d be too much of a bother to reverse the identity confusion now.  One of them decides to go back east to the Greenwood where he’d made some good friends with the Silvan elves there, the other stays on with “Elrond” as a councillor and ambiguous “kinsman” who helps him fill in any missing details in the story)

Out of all of them, Celebrían is actually the child of Galadriel and Celeborn.  Sometimes people are a little confused because they heard once that her parents had a son, Amroth, but it’s chalked down to poor communication and confusion with Amdír’s son since Amdír was friends with her parents.  Celebrían thinks it was incredibly tacky to give your child the same name as your friend’s child, so really, she was doing her parents a big favour by renaming herself Celebrían.  And honestly, while they don’t mind being Amroth (the superior Amroth because Amdírion is an idealistic romantic with his head in the clouds), they also like being Celebrían a little more. 

(Galadriel concedes that naming them Amroth was not the most creative move and that Celeborn possibly lost a bet with Amdír before their birth, but she also thinks that Celebrían could do better than the lady of a little valley in the middle of nowhere, so really, Celebrían’s had enough of her mother’s advice for the next long-year or two)

+Gildor never claimed to be Finrod’s son, he’s just never actually disclosed how they’re related and since none of the other Finwëans (real or otherwise) have ever said anything about it, people just sort of follow their lead and assume it’s a non-issue.  It’s actually the most mundane thing ever - his parents were among Finrod’s retainers in Aman and crossed the Ice with him; when they were both slain in the Dagor Aglareb, Finrod took the young Gildor on as a ward of his House.

#lotr #silmarillion #crack au #long post #let's have fun with all the ambiguity and all the different versions of the stories in the legendarium! #we can have a little gnc celebrian. as a treat. #due credit to kazaera for their excellent fic about scam artist celebrimbor which inspired a lot of this post #the thing is; it doesn't actually matter if any of them are related to finwe by blood #all of them were who they needed to be and in the place and time where they were needed to be #gil-galad's still the king who rebuilt a large portion of elvendom in middle-earth and stood against sauron regardless of whose son he is #celebrimbor still made the rings; through which sauron wielded great evil but also much good was able to be preserved #elrond and celebrian are still the people who made the homely house into a refuge and a place of peace and love #gildor is neither fucking around nor finding out; he's just sort of gadding about middle earth and honestly good for him

[sweetteaanddragons]

Happy Thanksgiving! In celebration, have an awkward family dinner scene from my current WIP.

“You know,” Earwen said, taking a careful sip of her wine, “you could petition the Valar.”

This was not a new concept. It had not been tried recently, but Nerdanel still had to pause in her meal for a moment to poke at just why Earwen was presenting it so cautiously.

“On what grounds?” She had certainly tried everything she could think of.

“Precedence, mainly. It is not so different from the case of Finwe and Miriel.”

Arafinwe sat with his fork half frozen between his plate and his mouth. Nerdanel felt half frozen herself, trying to understand. How could the statute of Finwe and Miriel possibly be similar to her own case?

“I know you might not have anyone in mind now,” Earwen continued, “but it might help to already have your right established.”

Her right. Her right to -

To do what everyone had been so insistent she do.

Get up. 

Smile.

Move on.

She could get up. She could smile. She could - move.

But to move on? To take someone else in his place?

She was furious with him. Incandescently so. She wanted to claw out those clever, unsatisfied eyes. She wanted to bite out his beautiful, poisonous tongue. She wanted to pour molten rock over him and let it settle around him until he could never move from its confines again.

But to move on? To take someone else?

She imagined someone coming to Feanaro after his vaults had been torn open and telling him it was alright, really, that the Silmarils were gone; look, they had all these pieces of lovely shattered glass, and he was welcome to take his pick between them.

“I could remarry, you mean,” she said, and Feanaro would have known that just because her voice was still, it did not mean she said it calmly. “Have children again, even.”

“If you liked,” Earwen said, though her own voice was careful now.

Nerdanel sipped her wine. “I do not know why you do not take your own advice. You would not even have to appeal to the Valar for it; no one would have the slightest right to object to you and Arafinwe having another child. Then it wouldn’t matter that Aegnor is never going to come out of the Halls.”

Earwen’s face went white.

“Excuse me,” Nerdanel said and left.

. . .

She was already packed by the time Arafinwe came to her room. She had steadied by then, though not calmed.

“She meant well, and I did not,” she conceded without looking up from securing the last of her things. “I won’t trouble you till I’ve thought up a proper apology.”

Everyone remembered that she had fought with Feanaro. No one ever seemed to remember that if it had just been Feanaro raging, it would not have been a fight.

“Please don’t leave,” Arafinwe said wearily, leaning against the door. “We’ve had quite enough of that.”

“It’s what I do,” she said shortly. Hear something horrible. Say something horrible. Leave.

Not come back until it was too late, and he had already sworn that stupid Oath.

He scrubbed a hand across his face. “As your apology to me,” he clarified, “please at least wait until morning.”

She paused.

He looked so very tired.

“Alright,” she conceded. She sank down on top of her bags. “Do you think I should move on?”

It was poking at a bruise for no good reason. Her answer wouldn’t change for him. 

But she wanted to know just how long she should take to come up with an apology.

“I have no right to tell you how to handle your personal affairs,” he said, and for a moment, he sounded like her king, gracefully holding himself to the limits of his power.

She scowled at him.

“No right,” he repeated. “And if you want to - to never make another statue of him and run off to join the choir in Alqualonde, I will be the last to tell you otherwise.”

“But?”

“But if you came back and told me you wished to remarry, I think I would offer you the crown of the Noldor not to,” he admitted. “As much as he would laugh to hear one of my mother’s children speak against it. Right now it is only the verdict of the Valar that he may never return, and the Valar have changed their minds before. If we should lock that door forever . . . “

It was probably immaterial anyway. The Valar had needed Miriel’s permission to allow Finwe’s remarriage; Feanaro, surely, would not give it.

Surely. Surely she still meant more to him than that.

She did not wish to bare that corner of her soul tonight, not even to Arafinwe. Instead, she confessed to an easier thing.

“When I was pregnant with the twins,” she said, staring at the ceiling, “it was - difficult. More difficult than any of the other births had been. I had half lost myself by the end.”

“I remember,” he said softly.

That surprised her; she did not remember him from then at all, but she supposed that only supported her point. “I was convinced I was going to die, and I was in no state to think clearly about it. I swore to him over and over that I would come back, that the very moment Namo allowed it I would come back, that he would not need to be patient long.”

Some irrational part of her had been terrified that they would lie to him; that they would say she had refused the call of life while she was desperately pounding on Mandos’s walls.

When she had been saner, she had known the fearful fancies for what they were. But in the midst of them . . . 

“He kept promising that I wasn’t going to die, of course.” And he had been right about that, though it was the only one of their arguments that she would concede now. “But when that didn’t settle me, he told me that he believed me, and that if it took me a hundred thousand years to return, he would believe me still and wait.”

She had never doubted that promise. Even when they had burned everything else between them, she had believed that promise. In their worst moments, it had been because she was sure he would never concede any ground whatsoever to Indis’s marriage, but she had still believed it.

She hadn’t returned the promise. She hadn’t thought she would need to.

But now here she was, still standing, and the Valar promising that he would never, ever return.

It was not yet a hundred thousand years.

And when it had been, she would keep his promise in his stead and still wait.

#silmarillion #fic #nerdanel #finarfin #earwen #nerdanel is not perfect #nerdanel is not happy with feanor #but she hasn't given up on him #part of a prequel to Memento Pugna but can stand alone

[animatorweirdo]

Soundless

Your father discouraged you from seeking the elf, but since you were desperate to have your locket fixed -- you decided to let his words go soundless in your ears. Turns out, the ill-famed Feanor wasn't so bad after all.

[] = Sign language

Warnings: mentions of a dead mother, hearing loss, rumors, Feanor's reputation, softness, and Feanor not being bad after all.

(Note: I decided to take a softer turn for this guy,)

---------------------------------------------

Your life has not been an easy one. Despite being born into nobility as the child of a Telerin lord, you faced your share of hardships from a young age. Your mother passed away shortly after your birth, and then you lost your hearing to a strange illness.

Growing up without the ability to hear the sounds of nature or music was incredibly challenging. Many people looked at you with pity, and some even speculated that you were cursed, given the unfortunate circumstances surrounding both your mother's death and your hearing loss. This placed a heavy burden on your father, who was left to care for you alone.

You two shared a great bond, and he had been genuinely a good father to you, helping you adapt to your disability and trying to make sure you were happy. However, you knew how tired he was and how he held a look of longing in his eyes. He was most likely still waiting for your mother to return from the halls of Mandos. 

Your mother had been born with a weak body thus the childbirth took a severe toll on her and her spirit. The Valar and the Maiar assured that she would heal over time, but it would take a long time. There was a high chance she would return when you had already grown into your teens. 

Your father was deeply saddened by the news and carried a heavy burden of guilt, believing that he was responsible for your mother being stuck in a state of recovery. Despite any rumors or beliefs held by others, he never allowed you to bear the blame. Instead, he shielded you from such notions, ensuring that you understood it was not your fault and that you were not to blame for your mother's passing.

You didn't want your father to blame himself, so you always strived to be on your best behavior and do things that would make him happy. You also wanted to prove to him that he didn’t always need to worry about you and that you could handle yourself, even if you were deaf. That was one of the reasons why you were determined to learn how to read people’s lips and make communication easier for yourself.

One of the only things you had from your mother was a silver locket.

Your father allowed you to keep it, and you held on to it ever since. Unfortunately, the lock had gotten stuck, thus making you unable to open it. 

Your father didn’t know what the locket held inside, so you pleaded with him to have someone fix it. However, since the locket was an older design from the First Age, none of the craftsmen knew how to repair it. They all advised you to dismantle the locket and salvage whatever was inside, but you were unwilling to do so. You were fond of the locket itself and didn't want to risk damaging whatever precious contents it held.

You began to lose hope when there were no more craftsmen to turn to, and even your father seemed less eager to save the locket. He eventually told you to simply keep the locket as a memory, assuring you that knowing what was inside was not important.

You valued your father's advice, but you also couldn't shake the desire to know what was inside the locket. Perhaps it contained a picture of your mother, since you had so few of them in the house, or maybe it held a cherished item she kept as a memory.

You then heard about an elf who was rumored to be one of the best craftsmen known in history: Feanor, King Finarfin’s older brother and the eldest of Finwe’s children. You heard that he had done troubling things in the past and nowadays lived in seclusion with his sons, rarely attending social events. Despite his reclusive nature, his reputation as a skilled craftsman persisted.

You felt hope for your mother’s locket, but when you asked your father if you two could meet him, he suddenly became angry and refused. You were startled as you had never seen him so angry before. 

Your father apologized for snapping at you and then explained that Feanor was not someone who should even be spoken about. Despite the passing of many years, the wounds he had inflicted were still fresh in the hearts of many. He was not to be trusted, so it's only for the best that you forget the whole thing.

Normally, you would have listened to your father, but your stubbornness to have your locket fixed strived you forward. 

During a celebration event with most noble houses and the city attending, you sneaked away from your father’s side and made your way to the workshop where you heard Feanor usually occupied alone with his gadgets. 

You had visited many workshops while trying to get your locket fixed, so you had a good idea of what to look for. It didn’t take long for you to find the place and walk inside. The workshop was empty, as most of the people were attending the celebration. Although it was a bit eerie to be alone, you pressed on until you found a door with light emanating from the room beyond.

You quietly peered inside and observed a dark-haired elf seated beside a table, engrossed in some task beneath the flickering candlelight. For a moment, you were awestruck, realizing that this was the famed Feanor, the elf who had allegedly committed terrible deeds.

With cautious steps, you entered the room, mindful not to startle the elf, and pondered how to approach him without alarming him. Unbeknownst to you, the door behind you closed shut, causing the elf to startle and snap his head towards you.

You were frozen in your place when you locked your eyes with Feanor. His features were sharp and he frowned when he saw you. For a moment, he looked a bit terrifying. 

“Child? What are you doing here alone? Where are your parents?” Feanor questioned, but you awkwardly remained quiet as you only managed to catch ‘here’ and ‘parents’ from his lips. Your lip reading skills weren’t the sharpest despite you having been trying to improve them. 

You took a deep breath and then tried to explain in sign language why you were there and that you had hoped he could take a look at your locket and perhaps know how to fix it since no one else knew how to. 

Feanor gazed intently at you as you signed, and then there was an awkward pause. You weren't sure if he understood sign language, and you mildly regretted not bringing a piece of paper and a pencil, which would have made explaining much easier.

Feanor’s eyes then softened, and to your surprise, he motioned his hand in sign language. 

“[Come here…]” he said. 

You then walked up to him and handed him your locket. 

He inspected it carefully, taking in the design and the lock. After he tested it and tried to open it, he then laid it down on the table. He grabbed one of the vials and what seemed to be a small tool. You looked at him curiously as he started doing something. 

He then glanced at you. 

“[Take a seat. This might take a while…]” He signed. 

You nodded and quietly sat on the opposite side of the table, watching as he gently poured drops on the lock. 

“[What is that?] you curiously asked. 

“[A type of acid. It can remove the rust that had locked the locket from the inside,]” he explained. 

“[Wait! So you can really fix it without having to break it?!]” you asked excitedly.

“[Of course I can. I do need to take the lock apart to clean the excess rust from the inside,]” Feanor explained while dropping drops on the locket. 

“[How do you know sign language?]” you asked. 

“[I was the one who first developed it,]” he answered, making your eyes widen. 

“[Did you or anyone in your family have hearing problems too? ]” you asked. 

“[No. I just wanted a way to bad mouth my half-brother without him understanding anything. I was a bit of a drama seeker,]” he explained, making you giggle. 

“[Then it was adopted by those who were unable to speak or hear words,]” he added.

“[How long have you been unable to hear words or sounds?]” he asked while cleaning your locket’s lock. 

“[My whole life. I lost my hearing somewhere in my birth,]” you answered.

“[Do you want to talk about it?]” Feanor asked, and you became excited. No one else besides your father has spoken to you in sign language this long. 

You then talked about your life. How your mother died during your birth, and how your father had taken care of you your whole life. You also talked about how your father seems to be blaming himself for your mother’s death and how you hated when others would look at you with pity and think you had been cursed. 

Feanor listened attentively while fixing your locket. 

After half an hour of talking and watching him work, you took a break, but then you saw how the elf in front of you placed all the parts back in the locket and opened it. 

You looked at him eagerly as he closed it and then opened it, making sure the lock worked properly before handing the locket back to you.

You grabbed the locket and took a look at what was inside. It was a small picture of your mother and father. They looked happy together, and there was also a small gem inside. It was most likely the gem your father gave your mother as a gift, and she had kept it inside the locket for safekeeping and carried it with her. You felt immeasurable joy looking at the picture and holding the gem. 

Your father would be so happy when you showed these to him. 

Feanor then caught your attention by tapping the table in front of you. 

“[The locket should work fine for now, but make sure to take care of it and not leave it somewhere where it could rust again, ]” Feanor explained. 

“[I will. Thank you,]” you signed. 

“[Now come on. I take you back to the entrance. You shouldn’t be here,]” he said, then stood up. 

You followed the elf out of the workshop, and you two then stood on the empty street while the celebration was still going in the distance. 

“[Do you need me to escort you back there?]” Feanor asked. 

“[No. My father is pretty easy to find, and I don’t think he even noticed that I’m gone. I’m pretty quiet after all, ]” you answered. 

“[Very well, and by the way,]” he said, making you look at him curiously. 

“[Your mother’s passing was not your fault. No matter how tragic it was, you are not at fault,]” he explained. 

You looked down for a moment. 

“[But others think differently,]” you said. 

“[There will always be people who will judge you for what you don’t have. Don’t let their words get to you. Otherwise, your life will become difficult and harder to enjoy,]” he signed.

 “[And remember, hearless or not, your mother would have loved you]” he added. 

The thought made you smile. Your mother had a weak body, but it didn’t mean she did not want you. Your father and the rest of the relatives always explained how she was excited to have you. 

She might be in Mandos, but she was going to return one day. 

“[I won’t. Thank you, Mr. Feanor,]” you said, and he softly smiled. 

“[Now get along now. Your father will notice your disappearance soon enough,]” he said. 

You then suddenly hugged his legs, making him look at you surprised. He then patted your head as you freed him and began making your way back to the party. You waved at him, and he waved in return till he saw you disappear into the crowds. 

Feanor returned to his workshop, feeling pleasant over the encounter. 

#silmarillion x reader #middle earth x reader #silm fic #tolkien #silmarillion imagines #feanor #feanor x reader #feanor x child reader #silmarillion fanfiction #silmarillion #middle earth #deaf reader

[polutrope]

Just pure headcanons, what do you think happened during Maglor's reign as a king? I don't know if his reign was short or something but I remember it took some time before Fingon was able to save Maedhros and unite the noldor and there was still some division between the host of nolofinweans and feanorians. I wonder if he considered himself a placeholder until Maedhros returned or was he a reluctant king? Did the host respect him as a king, did his own brothers respect him as a king? I am so intrigued because, aside from Maedhros, I think Maglor deserved some shoutout lmao (No, this isn't a maglor-obsession-spree that I have been on, nu uh). Also, I feel like he would have some cordial relationship with Fingolfin, they could bond as the second sons having to take leadership because the eldest died/was abducted idk.

Oh no, starlitelwing. I hope you know the Pandora's Box you've just opened. King Maglor is one of my all-time favourite things to think about.

First of all: there's actually no canonical information on Maglor's position after the capture of Maedhros (in fact, we don't even know what Maedhros' title/position was after Feanor's death; all we know is that Feanor "claimed now the kingship of all the Noldor" in Tirion. Contested leadership is SO GOOD isn't it? anyway...).

The published Silmarillion glosses right over the question of who's in charge during the time between Feanor's death and Fingolfin's official assumption of the Kingship of the Noldor (which, if you ask me, Fingolfin effectively had been King since the time of Feanor's exile, and he was in any case Regent at the time of Finwe's death... he said he'd follow Feanor but the people following him were calling him Finwe Nolofinwe soooo... aiee, I digress again). The book gallops at such a breakneck speed that you don't really notice the gap in leadership. Or, I didn't.

But then you look at the Grey Annals (where Tolkien Gateway gets most of its First Age dates) and you see that there are 2-3 Tree Years and 5 Sun Years between Maedhros' capture and his rescue. Now, however you imagine time works in Tree Years when there are no Trees, that's still a long time. Maedhros was gone at a minimum 6-7 years, more likely closer to the equivalent of 30 "regular" years. (That's way longer, by the way, than the time between Feanor's death and Maedhros' capture, which was like, a day to a month, at most. Maedhros, if he even was King, was King for way less time than whoever followed him. And he sucked at the job, btw. But I digress. Again.)

So someone had to be in charge for those 6 to 30 years, but whomst? That the leadership would pass after Feanor's death to the eldest son is logical, and that it would then pass to the next eldest is also logical. I see no reason to refute that, but note: it would not be uncanonical to have someone other than Maedhros or Maglor in charge at this time. You can make King Celegorm a thing and still be canon-compliant!

This passage in the published Silm is basically the extent of the activities of the sons of Feanor during Maedhros' absence:

Then the brothers of Maedhros drew back, and fortified a great camp in Hithlum; but Morgoth held Maedhros as hostage, and sent word that he would not release him unless the Noldor would forsake their war, returning into the West, or else departing far from Beleriand into the South of the world. But the sons of Feanor knew that Morgoth would betray them, and would not release Maedhros, whatsoever they might do; and they were constrained also by their oath, and might not for any cause forsake the war against their Enemy.

The sense here is that all six sons acted as a unit. But in the 1937 Quenta Silmarillion, the text on which this passage is drawn:

Morgoth held [Maedhros] as hostage and sent word to Maglor that he would only release his brother if …

To Maglor! Excellent evidence that Tolkien was also making the logical conclusion that Maglor, the eldest, was in charge. (My best theory for why Christopher Tolkien took that out is Too Many Names, but it's an odd decision.)

All that was to say: We don't know, canonically, that Maglor was in charge at Mithrim. But it makes a lot of sense, and it's my headcanon that he was.

Now. More interesting headcanons.

I don't think Maglor was called King until it was politically necessary.

I see him as someone who is comfortable in command (one meaning of Cano is "commander", after all) but who likes to command collaboratively. Double-edged sword: he values the input of others (admirable quality) and he does not like being fully responsible for the outcomes of a decision (less admirable).

Unlike much fanon I've come across, I don't think Maglor was a particularly reluctant or incompetent leader or that he hated it. He was miserable, yes, because his father just died and his brother was just captured, and he wasn't thrilled to become a leader on top of that, but he keeps it together.

So how do I imagine it all went down?

The problem with Maglor being in command is that his "collaborative" style of leadership is not appropriate for a time of crisis or for his family. While the Silm often talks about "the sons of a Feanor" as a unit, I do not think they were of the same mind on everything. At all. They need a firm hand, and Maglor does not have that.

But who does have a firm hand? Who would be a more martial ruler, someone who could get people in order during a crisis? Celegorm. And he knows it.

So why did the Feanorians "get nothing done" during those 6-30 years (sidenote: I don't actually think they got nothing done, but it does seem they didn't get anything BIG done)? Well, for one, they were fighting amongst themselves.

Maglor could not get his brothers to agree on anything, and yet he did not know any other way of commanding, and over time he becomes more and more miserable as a leader.

Celegorm, meanwhile, is chomping at the bit to "relieve him" of the burden.

Around them, everyone else is picking sides.

Curufin is an interesting case. I headcanon he actually was fully behind Maglor at the beginning, because he respects the orderliness of succession. But as Maglor proves himself unsuitable for the role, he aligns with Celegorm.

Outside the family, I headcanon that the Mithrim Elves were actually quite taken with Maglor, the poet-king. Their alliance hinges on him. But the Noldor, especially the army, would rather follow Celegorm.

As everyone knows, a rival for leadership with the army's support is Bad News. And yet Maglor manages to hold on. He should definitely get credit for that.

But why hold on? If he is hating this ruler job, why not just let Celegorm have it? Couple reasons:

It's Celegorm. He may be able to perform well, but Maglor knows he's the most like Feanor in temperament and, well, Feanor's kingship didn't end well.

If Maglor gives up that crown, he will have admitted to himself that Maedhros is not coming back. This is the same reason he doesn't give it over to Fingolfin when Uncle Nolvo shows up. He is hanging onto that thing for dear life because, to him, it belongs to Maedhros and only Maedhros. He is the crown's custodian, never its rightful owner (this bleeds into my headcanon that Maglor does not "in his heart" agree with Maedhros' decision to cede the kingship — he'll never be as vocal about it as the others, though).

Now we come to another piece. What did Maglor call himself? Like I said up top, I don't think he initially called himself King. He was "head of his House", or maybe, "Lord of Hithlum," or maybe King Regent, but never King. If one of the Mithrim got mixed up and called him that, he would always correct them.

That changes when Fingolfin shows up. Now there's another claimant to the title of King. Possibly a more legitimate one than even Maedhros (as Maedhros later says himself).

By that time, Maglor has been keeping that crown out of Celegorm's hands for years; he is not giving it up now. And Fingolfin is less likely to challenge his leadership if he offers no room for ambiguity. If he dons the mantle of kingship and pretends Maedhros is dead.

So that is what he does... Does Fingolfin accept it? Well: "Then there was peril of strife between the hosts."

For three years, on opposite sides of the Lake, they're at an impasse. Fingon doesn't go looking for Maedhros because he thinks Maedhros is dead (and other reasons: the mission is insane and desperate not the least, and contrary to popular opinion Fingon is not a rash idiot).

How does Fingon eventually learn the truth? You'll have to wait and read what @melestasflight and I are cooking up for Silm Epistolary Week ;)

ETA: Despite this, I do think you're right that Maglor and Fingolfin could have bonded over their similar experiences! There's the personal and there's the political, and I love the idea of the tension between these straining what could be an emotionally supportive familial friendship between Maglor and Fingolfin.

#asks #maglor #high king maglor #or not #bless you for this ask #apologies for the length #istg I did proofread this before hitting post #apparently not well

[amethysttribble]

AU thought just hit me like a freight train, here’s a story concept:

Instead of making Tengwar, a teenage-ish Feanor makes the silmarils early. Everyone is shocked and awed, and a much younger Feanor still doesn’t know how he made them, and he’s a bit more overwhelmed than proud about the whole thing (still proud). He comes home and gives them to dad.

Finwe’s very proud, and Feanor’s wee brothers and sisters are mostly thinking “oooh, shiny”. Melkor still wants. Feanor still denies. Seeding unrest among the Noldor was going to be, ya know, fun, but this is far more interesting. Oh well. It wasn’t that important to make the ants fight.

High King Finwe is murdered not in remote Formenos, but in the Palace of Tirion upon Tuna. The Trees go out. The Silmarils are stolen.

Feanor is, basically, sixteen and now Indis is his legal guardian, the only facsimile of a parent he has left. His siblings are children, and now they also know what it is to lose a parent. There’s the crown to think about?

While the people debate, Indis decides. Feanor is young, but Nolofinwe is eight, Findis ten. And, she knows as she puts the crown on her stepsons head, this was always Finwe’s intention. Some of the Valar are reticent, some supportive, but more importantly, Varda and Yavanna are looking at, not a king, but the only one who got close to recreating their light.

We have a project for us to collaborate on, Feanor. What do you say, king?

Feanor thinks that he is scared. Fear does not come naturally to him but he is completely alone in the world without his father (is there Master Mahtan and Nerdanel? Perhaps. In some ways. Is there his father’s counselors? Some of them, perhaps. Is there Indis? His half-siblings? He… doesn’t know) and he is scared. There is a roar in his heart that tells him to go, go east, retake what is his and avenge his father and…

And Feanor is alone. Who would follow him? He is only king by Indis’s hand. And he killed his father- not intentionally, not even himself, but he cursed him and killed him, just like he did his mother. Feanor wouldn’t follow him either.

But perhaps he can make something new again. Something good this time, given to the right Valar freely, and he will be redeemed in his people’s eyes a little.

And he must wait. Father will surely come back to him soon.

The crown, the light, and his siblings are his responsibility in the meanwhile.

#feanor #tribble post #just a little thought #the silmarillion #tolkien

[annoyinglandmagazine]

So I’m just gonna say it. Finwe had 15 grandchildren and only two of them are female? Statistically it’s possible but come on, the odds are staggering. The Doylist explanation of this of course is good old fashioned gender roles, the Finweans were all extremely important and powerful, also mostly warriors and leaders, so Tolkien probably didn’t want to write too many of them as women. You know, he wanted these to be main characters. Tolkien doesn’t really seem to want to write many women at all which is a pity because the ones he did write were amazing.

The Watsonian explanation however is a lot more fun. Because I tend to believe that in universe a lot of them were actually female and a few transmasc as well and that some mortal historians along the line took one look at their story and thought ‘well this was clearly a warrior so they must be male,’ and they don’t really question it too much because Elvish names? Really androgynous (Maedhros? Caranthir? Laurefindel?!). So all of a sudden people are reading about the seven sons of Feanor and High King Fingon. And they read about trans and genderqueer elves and they can’t figure out the pronouns but then they read about them leading people into battle and they immediately go ‘oh, ok this one’s male too, I was confused for a bit.’ Ironically this is really affirming for the transmascs.

So it actually was a pretty even distribution of AMAB and AFAB grandchildren of Finwe but they all gradually got turned into guys by history. The ‘sons’ of Feanor too, I mean seriously who has seven sons and no daughters. Also in what universe are Maglor, Curufin and Caranthir cis men? Not mine. Finrod is genderqueer (oh wait, that’s just canon). Maedhros and Fingon were gnc lesbians.

#silmarillion #tolkien #Shitpost #finweans #finwean family drama #Genderbending #genderqueer #lesbian #sons of feanor #maedhros #maglor #celegorm #Galadriel #aredhel #caranthir #curufin #trans #finrod #fingon

[anipologist]

Ok, I'm watching Rings of Power (in small doses)...first impressions below.

(Part 1)

Valinor is not Heaven anymore than Galadriel or Luthien are the Virgin Mary...does no one understand what subcreation is?

Bullying in Valinor...unlikely as portrayed. The elves are mostly unfallen at this point and most of the issues are between the adults and after Morgoth starts roaming freely spreading lies. Galadriel is also from a high position in society (a princess) she is hardly an outsider.

Noldor elves absolutely delighted in color and jewelry why is everyone wearing sheets? In fact the Noldor in general just loved making stuff...

To everyone that thinks that the mean elf children are her cousins, Artanis is the youngest child of the youngest son of Finwe...even Amrod and Amras are probably a fair bit older than her.

FINROD"S HAIR! I know it's been said before but wow...ugh. Suspension of disbelief shatters every time it shows up...

Also elves died in Middle Earth before they all moved to the undying lands...so yeah they definitely knew what death was. In fact Artanis and Finderato's uncle was among those presumed lost or dead. (He wasn't, but that's a whole story itself)

And yes, I am using Artanis/Nerwen and Findarato/Artafinde/Ingoldo because nobody is speaking Sindarin in Valinor...and Galadriel hasn't met Celeborn yet (and seems unlikely to at this point) so he hasn't given her the name Galadriel.

moving on....

Wow....that is the most heavily redacted account of the Flight of the Noldor ever...

Where do I start?

Artanis spoke out against Feanor and he personally led his people in an attack on her mother's people...on her grandparents! This is something deeply important to her...in some accounts Tolkien actually has her fighting her cousins and uncle in Alqualondë in defense of the Teleri.

This also makes it look like Finrod is swearing Feanor's oath!...there is one image that Tolkien gives of an oath sworn at this time alongside drawn swords and Finrod is another specifically mentioned by name as having opposed it!

(On a side note given that Finrod is later betrayed because of that oath this is rather sick...almost like releasing a bad Tolkien adaption on the anniversary of his death...)

Once again...Finrod and Galadriel along with Fingolfin and many others spent years crossing the Helcaraxë to get to Middle Earth, THEY DID NOT SAIL THERE.

So far the dialogue is consistently atrocious. The landscapes are pretty but feel cgi and the costumes are uninspired...this was the perfect opportunity to go full panoply of ancient kings...and they didn't. I am not seeing "most expensive tv show in history" anywhere.

NB: I fully intend to criticize blatant betrayals of what Tolkien actually wrote. Tolkien has been a huge part of my life and his writing and the world he created has been a light in many dark places. The characters he wrote have made me want to be a better person and seeing them diminished and twisted is just awful.

So yes, I take it somewhat personally when they are maligned and given that the Silm is my favorite of all Tolkien's writing so this hits very close to home.

That being said, I don't blame people for wanting to see Middle Earth again. I desperately wanted this to be good. And I don't blame the actors who were handed once in a lifetime roles and were clearly very let down by the production itself.

SO why do I feel the need to complain? Well, why do people complain about any bad adaption? Nobody thinks people are wrong to criticize the Percy Jackson movies or that Avatar: The Last Airbender movie that no one talks about about....

So no I am not going to attack people who watch it but I am going to plant my flag here and make my stand. Because this is something that means a great deal to me and I hate seeing to ruined.

#rings of power #amazon lord of the rings #rings of power critical #jrr tolkien #tolkien #tolkien elves #the silmarillion #silmarillion #galadriel #finrod felagund #lotr #lord of the rings #noldor #silm #the second age #sauron #anti rings of power #critique of rings of power #anti rop #rop critical #my critiques #artanis #nerwen #ingoldo #rop spoilers #rings of power spoilers #one ring to commercialize them all

[imfromthemiddlekingdom]

When I engage with the Silmarilion fandom it’s always very educational and enlightening no matter what side they’re on regarding Finwe and his sons. But whenever I interact with the HoTD fandom it’s always “you’re condoning XYZ and therefore you’re a horrible person!!!” Or doing mental gymnastics to try to justify whichever atrocities their side committed.

Thematically both stories are quite similar. We can find parallels with Rhaenyra and Feanor but even at his worst (Pulling a sword on Fingolfin, First kinslaying, burning of the ships etc.) Feanor had never put a bounty on a toddler (Rhaenyra stating that Maelor should be bought to her dead or alive causing him to be ripped apart. Like hello??!??? How is that ever a justifiable thing to do???). I can find parallels between Feanor and Rhaenyra, sure. But if I’m honest the parallels stop with them being the only child of a kings first wife who’s father then went on to face four more kids with another women. Finwe is ten times the father Viserys was. And literally none of the kids (Feanor included) would ever take their anger out on their siblings child like we see the so called Maegor come again do.

But I digress, I was talking of the fandom. I may get heated talking about whether Feanor was right in his anger at Indis or whether Fingolfin should’ve absolutely demanded more reparations from the sons of Feanor when he crossed the ice. But I’ve never seen anyone in the Silm fandom saying that someone should die because they had an opinion.

But I’ve seen many instances of HoTD fans threatening rape and death on people who think Alicent is not the monster they portray her as, or that Rhaenyra isn’t as ‘girl boss queen slay!!!’ As people say she is. Maybe it’s because HoTD is a TV show and many of the fans haven’t read the books and therefore don’t understand nuance since the TV show focuses so much on Rhaenyra’s manifest destiny arc that team green gets painted as the ‘ultimate’ villain for our girl boss queen Rhaenyra to ascend to the throne since it’s her ‘birth right’.

Not to mention how the whole made up show canon prophecy to justify colonialism means that team black stans are really showing their true colors on what they think is right. Because guess what? The Silm also has what could be said to be as a colonizing story line with the Noldor coming to Beleriand and settling but most fans agree that the cutting up of Beleriand was very much a colonizing behavior no matter what they think of Thingol.

Point is, most HoTD fans can’t hold and intellectually simulating debate over their characters without feeling like said debater is personally attacking them since their entire personality is so deeply entwined with their fav that a critique on them would automatically equate to a critique on themselves. Therefore making it entirely impossible to have a decent conversation on the thematically very important foils that Rhaenyra and Alicent pose to each other (since they still think a good story must have a black and white view of the protagonist and the antagonist lmao).

Media illiteracy in these fandoms truly is a cancer that spreads to even the most level headed and literate individuals. Pick up a book! Understand themes and how foils are supposed to be written without internalizing criticism of your fav as a criticism of yourself! I don’t get mad when people criticize Feanor, nor do I get mad when people say I’m wrong when it comes to my own interpretation of the statue of Finwe and Miriel. It’s called having a discussion and you can only do that when you’re not on the front lines dying for a fictional character who wouldn’t spit on you if you were on fire in front of them!!!

#media literacy #hotd #the silmarillion #feanor #pro alicent hightower #alicent hightower #anti team black stans #anti team black #pro team green #please I’m begging for people in this god forsaken fandom to stop defending a fictional character with your life #cw rape #anti rhaenyra targaryen #anti Rhaenyra Targaryen fans #rhaenyra targaryen #as you can see I despair at the lack of reading comprehension skills and media literacy skills most team black stans have #literally head empty only girl boss slay queen omg she’s such a boss bitch!!!! #if you can’t recognize the flaws in your fav character maybe don’t debate their actions online? #like #a character having irredeemable flaws is like half the reason you like them

[stealthily--nobody]

Even Villains Deserve a Moment of Reprieve

Summary: Of all their brothers, Curufin and Celegorm alone have returned to life. Most don't take kindly to their return. Curufin is not sure where Finrod stands but he's willing to take on all of Finrod's anger so Celegorm doesn't have to.

Prompt: Contrasts

Also on AO3

In his youth, Curufin had held Tirion on a pedestal, because of course, he did. His grandfather was the king of Tirion and his father was the crown prince. Of course, he thought Tirion was the pinnacle of elven ingenuity. As he grew older, he began to feel the confines of the city. It was hard not to notice how he passed the same elves each day and exchanged the same platitudes day after day. When his father left Tirion, Curufin was grateful to follow him despite the shame that came with banishment. 

Still, Curufin had been grateful. The city was suffocating, each and every citizen commenting how much he looked like his father and in turn like his grandfather. There was sort of a reverence in their voices that always made him uneasy as if they were seeing his grandfather through his visage. Their words felt like it wasn’t really for him but for his predecessors. 

“Curufinwe,” He could hear over and over. At times he wasn’t sure if they meant to speak to him or his father. Worse still was the ‘Finwe’ always said to the back of his head in the ancient accent. Often, before he could say a word, his assailant would mention something that Curufin felt unadept to answer or speak to. If they wanted politics, they should seek out his grandfather or his eldest brother. If they wanted to discuss anything else, they should consult his father. 

Curufin was different. He was not as intelligent as his grandfather or father. He did not want the pressure of answering incorrectly and having to answer to his betters. He would rather they just ignore him! 

Things were only marginally better in Beleriand. His father and grandfather were dead and he and his brothers clutch tightly to the fraying string that was their authority on those shores. Even Maedhros had only a few deeply devoted followers and the rest of them were just as poorly staffed. There simply wasn’t anyone asking him questions in Beleriand.

In those days, few people asked anything of Curufin and he had only answer to Maedhros. 

Not that he did any better playing at leader in Beleriand than he did shrinking from leadership in Tirion. Time and his death revealed plainly how terrible the decisions he’d made were. How much of that was the Oath pushing him and how much was his own incompetence? Curufin could not say. It all blurred together in a sort of never-ending rage long before it had been cut away. 

A rage that dissipated quickly when Nimloth pierced him with a blade and he realized how foolish everything really was - how meaningless it was. 

Leaving only shame in its wake. 

The Halls of Mandos were certainly eye-opening. For one, Namo forced Curufin to scrutinize his actions throughout his time in Beleriand and separate them into good times and bad times. There were a lot more bad times than good. (Not that Curufin was buying into Namo’s subtle ‘You Should Have Stayed Here’ propaganda.)

Was he regretful of the hurt he caused people? Yes. 

Would he have changed anything? That- was a harder question to answer. Curufin didn’t believe in do-overs. Not like what Namo was asking. What was done was done and nothing Curufin could say would change it. Because at the end of the day, Curufin was aware of how tightly historical events were wound. Would changing something bad also change the good that happened? 

If Curufin never drove his son away, would Celebrimbor have reached the heights he did in Ost-in-Edhil? If Curufin had never driven his son away, would Celebrimbor have been tortured to death by Sauron? 

So no, Curufin would not have changed anything. He couldn’t afford to consider changing anything even as his heart shattered and his soul crumbled watching his son’s end. Even now, Celebrimbor lingered in the halls of Mandos, scared of everything around him. Curufin couldn’t even approach Celebrimbor without his son’s fea shaking so badly it fractured at the edges. 

So Curufin had left and thought for a very long time. There was only one solution he came upon and he set about accomplishing it with his favourite brother. Celegorm was only too gleeful to participate, especially in the part Curufin had relegated to his brother. 

In no time, Namos was practically begging them to leave his halls and walk into Aman once more. Curufin could only grin. There was no one better than he and Celegorm at stirring unrest and it worked brilliantly even amongst the dead. 

However, Tirion was not the place he remembered. Certainly, the buildings were the same and most of the people (those who had not crossed the sea either with his father or Fingolfin). The language was just as butchered as ever, but not illegible. 

Or perhaps it was wrong to say Tirion changed when the more correct answer was that he and his brothers had changed. 

No longer was he the naive prince who looked eerily like the king. Curufin looked nothing like Arafinwe, the golden king, who was praised by Tirion’s remaining residence as the saviour of the Finwe bloodline. However, his appearance was still noticed. Only no longer was it quite so favourably. 

There was no grandfather to be mistaken for. Only he and his father and no one had any nice things to say about either of them. His father was called the scourge of the Noldar and he was the villain of Luthien’s tragedy. 

Walking through Tirion was once again an exercise in restraint and not a particularly pleasant experience. Only, instead of people stopping him with kind words or messages for his father and grandfather, people would stare with hands over their mouths as they whispered to one another. They spoke as if Curufin had lost his ears in Beleriand and nothing they said was pleasant. 

Celegorm avoided the worst of it, having returned to the forests of his youth and his place at Orome’s side. Curufin wasn’t entirely sure how his brother had managed such a thing, but he was happy for Celegorm. His brother had been so miserable in Beleriand (they all had, really, but Celegorm most of all) and if nothing else came of their return, Curufin would consider it an afterlife well spent. 

But Curufin had no such luxury as to hide away in the forests. He had his own plans that were still in their infancy and an indeterminate amount of time to accomplish them. Worst of all, they required his presence in Tirion and in particular his correspondence with Arafinwe. 

A correspondence that resulted in a commanded visit to the palace. 

The palace itself was a strange place for Curufin. He remembered so many better days when he and his brothers would run and play in the sprawling courtyards as his father spoke with their grandfather. He remembered playing happily with his half-cousins before age and their fathers’ grudges split them apart. 

The gardens still existed with the same foot trails and managed flower beds. But Curufin felt ill at ease in the nostalgia of his childhood. He had become the antithesis of his childhood aspirations and it was a reminder that continued to hurt his still thriving ego. 

He hastened his pace with the intention of leaving quickly. His business with Arafinwe was concluded and he wanted nothing more to do with this forgotten childhood innocence. 

Unfortunately, before he could make his escape, a voice from both his childhood fondness and adult nightmares called out, “Curufinwe?” 

Odd. When was the last time that voice called him with that name? How long had it been since Finrod - Findarato - spoke the language of their shared childhood when Curufin was present? 

Curufin half-turned so he could catch a glimpse of his golden-haired cousin out of the corner of his eye. Findarato looked well. Just as glittery and ephemeral as he always had. Except, gone from his face was his usual smile, replaced by a look of concentration (or perhaps contained rage). 

Curufin internally sighed but greeted his cousin with the reverence expected for the crown prince, “Findarato.” 

“My father told me you were here,” Findarato spoke, his face looked haunted. Despite how healthy his face was, evident of much better and higher amounts of food than they’d ever had access to in Beleriand, there was a shadow in his eyes that Curufin was much too familiar with. It was that shadow that marked him as Finrod and not the brilliant Findarato that Curufin remembered from his youth. At least in this, they were the same: both too changed from who they were to be their childhood selves once more. 

“And so you thought the best course of action was to seek me out?” Curufin couldn’t help his tongue. He may not want to hurt anyone with his hands again, but he had never been kind with his words. Not even in the days of tree light. 

Something that might have been a smile tugged at the corner of Finrod’s mouth. He evidently also recalled when Curufin’s acidic personality was a part of his personality and not a mark against him. 

But Finrod refused to indulge Curufin with a smile. Instead, he nodded his head toward the garden sitting area where their parents used to watch over their hyperactive elflings. Curufin found himself following his cousin and sitting across from Finrod. 

It was the least he could do after everything. 

“I was surprised when you and Celegorm were returned to us,” Finrod commented as he stared at Curufin with that same unreadable expression. “I was certain Maedhros would return before I would hear even a whisper of your names.” 

“What? You think we deserve life less than our brothers?” Curufin kept his voice flat and suffocated his emotions. He would not let anyone find his weaknesses, not even Finrod - especially not Finrod. 

But Finrod only flipped the question on its head. “Do you believe that?” 

“What does it matter what I believe? We’re back. End of story.” And it was the end of the story. Curufin would not give anything else away. He would not reveal his weaknesses. He could not let anyone, even Finrod, realize that his two fracturing points were his brother and his son. He could let anyone know how to exploit him. 

“Apologies, but I doubt that,” Finrod leaned forward, his eyes searching for something that Curufin would never admit, “Why you and Celegorm? I never forgot what you said to me the last time we saw each other. I wondered if the solution was hiding in plain sight.” 

Curufin glowered. Of course, Finrod would bring up those words he said in desperation and anger. He could still recall the moment with perfect clarity. It had been early in the morning, so early that the city rested and only Finrod and his few loyal were awake as they prepared to leave the city for the very last time - as they prepared to walk to their doom. 

“You’re a fool. You’ve always been a fool,” Curufin had spat at his cousin. 

Finrod had looked up with a much-subdued smile, “It is nice to see you too, cousin. Are you here to see us off?” 

“I’m here to gloat!” Curufin had sneered, lifting his chin as Finrod wandered closer, towering over him. To his great disappointment, he was the shortest of all the cousins. “You have lost spectacularly.” 

“I fail to see your victory,” Finrod had shot back, “My nephew inherits my city and I would have left regardless.” 

But Curufin would not allow Finrod to say such things. “You think Orodreth has any power here? One word from me and he too would be gone. Without you, this city is mine.” 

“I would not be so confident,” Finrod countered, his voice firm. “You and your brother are not as beloved as you would like to believe.” 

“Really?” Curufin had snorted, his breath harsh and his eyebrow raised sardonically. “We must agree to disagree unless you would rather I show you.” 

But Curufin had spoken too brashly as Finrod only laughed and pushed Curufin lightly. “Unfortunately, cousin, I have prior engagements. But know that I will laugh when your actions come to haunt you.

This is farewell. I don’t suppose we’ll ever see each other again.” 

“Good riddance,” Curufin tried to sneer but failed just enough that Finrod’s eyes lightened. However, Curufin would not allow for some mushy parting as if they were lovers in the night. He had more pride than that and most importantly he was right. “You won’t be missed. I have other priorities than crying over your massacred corpse”

“What were those other priorities?” Finrod pressed. “Since my re-embodiment, I thought you referred to the Oath. But if you held the Oath so closely, you would not be returned. What is so important to you that even your father’s legacy and your Oath was lesser in importance?” 

Finrod was an airhead. This was the truth known by their family. Unfortunately, it was not always true. And at this particular moment, Finrod was displaying an odd amount of tact and situational understanding. 

Curufin sniffed and tried to hide his unease. “My priorities changed.” 

“But did they,” Finrod practically snapped in his haste to reply, “You forget that I know you, Curvo. I knew you before the Oath and during it. What if you never changed, but just got better at hiding things.” 

“And just what would I need to hide? I was a lord, respected and powerful,” Curufin threw his head back and laughed. He would continue to play the villain. He was good at playing the villain. “If I never changed then I must have been awful from the start.” 

Now Curufin was the one leaning forward with his eyes lit up and maniacal. “Did you ever think that maybe I was simply better at hiding it before the Oath? That the prince everyone adored in those days was the fake?”

“Then why have you returned?” Finrod refused to let Curufin cower him. “Why return to a place where everyone hates you? Why denounce the Oath so heavily that part of your fea was torn away? No, I think there is something more driving you.” 

“You are as arrogant as ever, Findarato,” Curufin humphed as he leaned back and crossed his arms. “You think this is about you? I haven’t thought of you since you left. Why should I have? You were so forgettable.” 

“No, I am not so arrogant to think I played any part in your decision to return,” Finrod returned even as his hands shook. He was not as composed as he was before. Did he genuinely think that Curufin’s return had anything to do with him? Curufin had greater loves than their flings and he would never admit to the tears shed when tales of his demise spread through Beleriand. “You are deflecting. What drives you, Curufin? Why are you and Celegorm back?” 

But Curufin was done with this. He owed Finrod a conversation, not his innermost secrets. “You think I would tell you? Why? What importance are you to me? How could you possibly compare to-” 

Curufin had said too much. He cut himself off and glared at Finrod. Unfortunately, his cousin was smart enough to extrapolate from his outburst. 

“It’s them, isn’t it?” Finrod’s eyes lit up. “Celegorm and Celeb-”

“Don’t say his name,” Curufin snapped. “You don’t get to name my son. Not after what happened.” Not after Finrod’s actions indirectly caused Celebrimbor’s tragedy. 

“Curvo,” Finrod’s voice was instantly quieted and a blanket of sorrow fell over their conversation. “I am so sorry. What happened to your son shouldn’t have happened to anyone.” 

“No,” Curufin agreed, jerking his head away to hide the moisture building in his eyes. If he had to have this conversation, he wasn’t about to let Finrod see him so vulnerable. “Even at our worst, we were never so cruel. What he did - I don’t know if it's possible to recover from such scarring.” 

“Only Este would know,” Finrod’s eyes widened as he no doubt started to realize what Curufin wasn’t saying. “Curvo, you would shatter yourself so for your son?” 

“I would do so much more,” Curufin said even as he refused to admit to Finrod’s words. He felt very wisp-like as if he had shed his hroa and returned to Mandos. 

Agreeing had been so easy. Celegorm had been fading. He needed to leave and Curufin was willing to try anything if there was even a chance of helping his son. Agreeing to Namos’ stipulations was easy. He would do much worse for them. He had done so much worse for them. Those two: Celebrimbor and Celegorm were his whole world. He became a villain for them and he would happily become a monster (a freak) for them. 

He couldn’t even remember if the procedure hurt, having the Oath cut away from him, amputated like Maedhros’s ensnared arm. Nor could he recall what the Oath had felt like. Everything that had been warped with the swearing of the Oath was gone and so too was part of his understanding of events and reasoning behind his actions. Only the feelings remained.

And yet, if he really did the things he was accused of, how could he be anything other than a villain? Once he’d figured that out, it was easy really to play the part and take the brunt of public perception, allowing his brother to return to his passion with the hunt.  

“I hated you then.” Curufin whipped his head up to stare at Finrod in shock. He hadn’t thought his cousin had the capacity for hatred, not shining darling Finrod. But Finrod continued, his lips curling into an unkind grin that was halfway to a snarl, “When I lay, dying before Sauron, I blamed you and your brother for everything going wrong.” 

“That’s good,” Curufin kept his voice from shaking. Just what was Finrod trying to say and why did those words hurt so much? He had resolved to play the villain. He was supposed to be hated. He remembered that moment so clearly when he chased Finrod away and smeared his victory in Finrod’s face. Of course, Finrod should have hated him. 

Finrod’s eyes searched his face and seemed to see something he liked as continued, “But after my death and rebirth, I’ve been thinking. You were acting odd in those last few moments. You and Celegorm both were more argumentative and furious than even when Maedhros was captured and we first arrived across the ice.” 

Curufin looked away. He had no idea what Finrod was talking about and he had no desire to hear Finrod try to find a reason for his actions. He was a villain. He would play his part. 

“Were you trying to goad me into staying?” Finrod asked, his voice frank but his eyes searching. He reached out a hand and gently pressed the tips of his fingers to Curufin’s. 

Curufin jerked back and glared. “Of course not.” He was no saviour. He hadn’t been kind even before Beleriand. 

Finrod didn’t force any more of a confession from Curufin. Instead, he flipped his outreached hand so that it was palm up and smiled, blisteringly bright. “I always thought you were too hard on yourself and much too argumentative.” 

“Only one of which has changed,” Curufin returned but in the silence that followed, Curufin found himself gingerly reaching out and resting his fingertips on Finrod’s. 

Finrod didn’t push for anything more than Curufin was willing to give but his smile somehow increased by another thousand watts. “I don’t think either has. And I am perfectly content with that.” 

Curufin wasn’t sure he agreed, but he curled his fingers into Finrod’s and let the tension ease from his shoulders. 

He would continue to be the villain. But even villains deserve a moment of reprieve.

#curufin #celegorm #c+c week 2024 #silmarillion #finrod

[tolkien-feels]

Speeeaking of Fingolfin, this would be way too long for the ask game, but a headcanon I have that is very dear to me is that among elves in general and definitely among the Noldor, there's no taboo about crying in public. But Fingolfin specifically has ten thousand hangups that make him want to be in control of all his emotions at all times. Which he manages to do! Extremely well! He keeps his cool even about his brother chasing him with a sword!! It's also why he is usually a pretty good king!

Unfortunately for him, when Finwe dies, this same instinct to remain calm kicks in, especially because he's afraid of what Feanor might do with his own emotions so heightened, and long story short, even though he wants to, and is expected to, Fingolfin doesn't cry even though he very much is grieving his father. He simply can't make himself cry.

He doesn't cry at any time during the Helcaraxe either, even though, again, people are expecting him to (some maaay be accusing him of being unfeeling), and he certainly is upset at all times.

Then, long story short, Argon dies, and that pushes Fingolfin enough that he starts crying, and then he has like ten different traumatic events he's processing at once, including Finwe's death (and Elenwe's!), and he's just completely ruled by emotion and nothing anyone does seems to get through him. Think.... the same intensity of emotion as he displays after the Bragollach, but it's grief rather than rage

#this is such a pointless headcanon but it's one of those i keep thinking has some basis in canon but doesn't actually have

[eri-pl]

Why did Melkor hate Feanor so much?

(No, this is not a very pro-Melkor post, I'm using the name because it's about the time period before he was called Morgoth)

Tldr: It's Finwe's fault. It's everybody's fault.

Yes, Feanor was the best elf, and stealing and breaking the best of every group was Melkor's thing. Yes, he hated everyone in general and Feanor had a temper.

But I don't think that's all.

I think the main reason was jealousy for something Feanor had and Melkor didn't ever have and very, very much wanted to have since forever.

Feanor had a lot of unjust favoritism, positive bias and not always healthy love from his father. (Because Finwe felt guilty about the whole marriage situation)

Just imagine: you're a little narcissistic Vala, who thinks he's better than all your siblings (you remember when they didn't exist and it was much better), and that you deserve better, and should rule everything, but Iluvatar (the very name means "everyone's dad", not *everyone's dad but especially Melkor's") tells you that you're just as much valid as everyone else, and please stop messing up, and no, you can't be king of Arda, Manwe gets to be the kind of Arda.

And then there's this elf. Everybody praises him. His father lives him much, much more than the other children. He's the crown prince, the heir, the everything. And his personality is so much like yours, only he's more patient (which is of course unfair to you). And you warn him that his younger siblings will try and usurp him, after all that's what siblings do and maybe later he would help you get your siblings in their place. He threatens his brother with a sword and his father doesn't tell him that his brother is valid too, doesn't tell him to stop messing up, doesn't demote him. Instead, Finwe goes to exile with his son and it's very passive aggressive at everyone who was against Feanor.

And this throws Melkor into a rage and hating Feanor, because that's exactly the sort of behavior he would want from Iluvatar, but Iluvatar is, well, God, and not an emotionally immature elf traumatized by the death of his wife.

Seriously, very little things hurt as much as when you have an unhealthy expectation (especially after you've been repeatedly told it's unhealthy and started internalizing that), and someone else has the exact unhealthy thing happen to him and it works perfectly well for them. Repeatedly. I've been there and it's infuriating.

So add that to a divine power with full on narcissistic personality, and you have a recipe for disaster. And the disaster of course happens, with the trees and Finwe, and everything.

I'm glad Feanor died on the Balrogs, I'm afraid to think what would happen if he was captured alive (think: Maedhros but up to eleven).

And no, I don't blame it on Finwe only.

He was the emotional center, but he didn't do that much. Just some bad parenting. If he didn't remarry, of course... But also, if Miriel didn't say she won't be back (which turned out to be wrong anyway), if Feanor wasn't so jealous, if the Elves didn't go to Valinor in the first place (which was canonically a bad idea on part of the Valar, but also wouldn't be a thing if Melkor didn't mess Beleriand up. Of course it's still mostly Melkor's fault). So many ifs.

(I don't blame the Valar for letting Finwe remarry, I think he might do it without their consent too, and it's not really their business to let him or not. They might have given him some advice, but I doubt they had any good advice.)

So yes, Melkor bad, but the situation was triggering, and especially if you assume that he did reconsider his behavior a little during those 3 ages, some interesting what-ifs arise

(Also, if Feanor was more positive towards him, it might end up with the army of Noldor trying to fight the Valar to give Melkor "his rightful place", because Feanor would see himself in Melkor and the whole "usurped by youngest siblings" thing)

#tolkien #silmarillion #tolkien legendarium #feanor #melkor #finwe #morgoth

[imakemywings]

Fandom: The Silmarillion

Relationship: Indis/Miriel (w/ Finwe/Indis)

Summary: Indis knows that Miriel is the only one who understands their connection. This is why it should be Indis who looks after Miriel's body.

AO3 | Pillowfort | SWG

Warnings: Necrophilia/non-consensual somnophilia (not sure which is more applicable to Miriel's corpse here tbh)

Photo credit to Kelly Sikkema on Unsplash.

__________________________________________________

            The Noldor had a saying, that a craft object remembered the hand of its builder. This was said often about homes, which were no less a craft than anything else the Noldor built. Indis had found it a charming saying in her earlier sojourns into Tirion—the thought of a building holding its own care and memory for the hands that had brought it to being—but it was slightly less endearing to see it from this angle.

            For the house of Finwë remembered its builder well. Míriel Serinde breathed in the walls of the royal palace, not least because her tapestries still hung there, themselves the most wondrous memorial to the departed queen the Noldor could have contrived; because her son glared at Indis from doorways Míriel herself had erected. Those first few weeks she spent in that house she expected to round a corner and come upon that imperious look on Míriel’s round little face (She had held herself like a queen long before she wore the crown of the Noldor.)

            But of course, Míriel was gone. She had been gone for years. Her son was more than half-grown (He had all of Míriel’s haughtiness and pride with none of the temperance of age). She was gone, but not gone:

            When Indis commented on some decorative little pots Finwë had in his study: From Míriel’s foray into ceramics…it did not last long.

            When she complimented a rice pudding from the royal kitchens: It was Queen Míriel’s favorite desert.

            When the people came before her to speak to the queen: We hoped you would lend your favor to the Fiber Arts Guild; Queen Míriel always supported us most generously.

            Even where none meant to offend, the hand of Míriel Serinde seemed to hang over her husband and her son—and now Indis too. She had stepped into the shadow of this woman and it seemed there was no edging out of it.

             But of course, there were other, more concrete problems for her to attend to—for one, that the palace of the Noldor had been running without anyone to truly manage it since Míriel’s departure (and truthfully, since Fëanor’s birth). There were countless things for Indis to review, restore, and in some cases, rework, and there were varying degrees of resistance to each of them.

She made a point of leaving Míriel’s tapestries in place (though she made sure they were all given a good dusting), hoping this might placate Fëanor, but it did not seem to do much good. He still needed time to adjust, she thought (It was why she had talked to Finwë about putting off having any children of their own, so as not to overwhelm Fëanor with too much too soon).

            Indis found even her own thoughts trending towards the former queen. She had given Míriel little enough thought before, except to admire her from a distance and be admittedly envious of Míriel’s fortune. She remembered being in Tirion once for a formal appearance of the king and queen—how radiant and powerful she had looked, bedecked in all the Noldor’s finery, glittering in jewels beside her comely, noble husband. How Indis had wished to be in her place, even as she celebrated Míriel’s joy! What a childish wish, she thought as she knelt among the orchids, carefully plucking away the weedy ingrowths. Now she had it—Míriel’s husband, Míriel’s house, Míriel’s son—and yet it all still belonged to Míriel, didn’t it? Míriel’s handprints were all over it, just as her fingerprints were impressed into the porcelain pots. These things remembered their builder.

            It was in the spirit of these thoughts that Indis first lied to Finwë. Not that she had never told him an untruth before—though she tried not to, for she did not think much of lying—but it was the first time she had ever planned to lie about a thing, and carried it out. If she told the truth, she worried he would discourage her, by word or even only a dip in his dark brow, and Indis would acquiesce. He would not stop her, but Indis would stop herself, and she did not want that.

            “I thought I would go walking out of the city today,” she said at breakfast. Finwë smiled at her over the congee with the besotted look of a new husband.

            “Ah, yes? This day promises to be a lovely one. Shall we go together?” For a moment, Indis almost accepted. Wouldn’t it be nice, to go walking with her beloved, and enjoy the peaceful scenery, perhaps take some food with them for a picnic…perhaps even Fëanor would join them, and she would not do what she meant to do.

            But no. That would not do, not that day.

            “I had wished for a quiet time to think over some things,” she demurred, offering a little smile so he might not think anything amiss.

            “Do I talk so terribly much?” Finwë teased, and Indis’ smile grew.

            “Nay, my lord, only I am so easily distracted!” Finwë made a small gesture with his hand.

            “Trouble yourself not, wife. Míriel preferred her time alone as well; I understand.” This mention of her made Indis all the more determined to that day’s course (Although she had told him before she did not mind if he spoke of Míriel, for she had lived and been a part of his life and it seemed unfair to relegate her only to the past. Little had she known how unnecessary that concern was!)

            She dressed warmly, for spring was still early, and a chill still in the air, and stepped out into the golden light of Laurelin. Her gray palfrey she took at a relaxed pace up to the gardens of Lórien, fretting once she was on the path that someone might see her.

            Míriel was still there, of course. Privately, though Indis had never dared say it out loud, she had thought that once Míriel had made her choice to remain in Mandos, that her body would begin to decay, but no such thing had happened. She lay there as smooth and fresh as the day she had first laid down; when Indis knelt at her side, she half-expected Míriel to sit up and complain about her rest being disturbed.

            The queen was as lovely in death as she had been in life—or at least the last months of it. The full-cheeked, glossy-haired, strong-armed beauty in which she had existed before childbearing had robbed her of it had never completely returned. She was dressed in a simple robe, yet one whose soft fabric and delicately embroidered hem showed the time and care that had gone into it. A thin garment, off-white underlaid with blue; she would have been chilly in it that morning, if she had been awake to feel it.

Finwë had confided to Indis, during their courtship, of what it had been like with Míriel in the end. How the childbed crippled her; how the light went out of her eyes, how her warm tawny cheeks grew thin and sallow, her hair dull and lank. At times she seemed almost to be around a bend, he said, but each peak left her only worse off than before. By the time she went away to Lórien, she was nearly entirely bedbound, and even little Fëanor’s weeping and wailing could not stir her to more than dispassionate pity.

Finwë had been so sure that she could find the rest she needed in Lórien, and for a time it even it seemed she might. She gained back some of the weight she had shed, her eyes lost a touch of the glassiness they had acquired since Fëanor’s birth, and at times she even tolerated visits from her young son, though she avoided always any mention of when she might return home. Yet as with her other false starts, this brief healing seemed to leave her spirit only more drained in the end, and one day she simply laid down and closed her eyes, and never again opened them.

“Your son does not much care for me, I think.” There were so many things Indis could have started with, but it seemed somehow easier than all the rest to speak of Míriel’s boy. “I suppose I cannot much blame him. It is quite a lot of change, and we Elves do not always brook it well, do we?” She smiled thinly. A few wisps of silver hair stuck to Míriel’s lower lip.

The Maiar of the gardens tended to Míriel regularly, so that no animals disturbed her, and any debris from the dove-tree above her was promptly cleared away, so that the former (?) queen of the Noldor should not become covered in leaves or fallen buds. Yet she had worn the same hair and the same gown since she chose that hillock for her resting place, and somehow, abruptly, this seemed terribly sad to Indis. Clothes had been one of Míriel’s delights. (Indis would not admit it, but she had been through the storage room to where Fëanor had removed his mother’s wardrobe—she had seen the great variety of Míriel’s things and she could almost imagine the quick-fingered queen paging through her robes, the care with which she might construct each day’s outfits.)

“Finwë thinks of you still,” said Indis. She meant to say more on this theme, but found the words would not come, so she left it aside and moved back to the easier topic.

“He’s quite a clever boy, Fëanáro. You would be proud, I think. He has a mind as suits the crown prince of the Noldor. He’s a very beautiful boy too; I have no doubt that in a few years he will have all the young Elves of Tirion falling at his feet, if they have not already begun! He has a great deal of Finwë in his looks, but something else too, something just his. Yet Finwë says he is most like you in temperament.” Indis’ hands fidgeted in her lap.

“Your tapestries…in the palace…they are truly remarkable. I wish I could have spoken with you of them. I have some small crafts myself, but nothing so fine as that. I am trying to care for the gardens. Finwë says you did not pay overmuch attention to such things. Not as a criticism! Only a preference. I think your staff are unused to a queen’s meddling in them! I wonder if you would like the way they look now? Did you have a favorite flower? Was it the dove-tree? I could plant one for you,” she blurted out, as if she were seeking to appease some ill-content spirit.

She bunched her robe up in her hands against her thighs. She had not yet become used to the Noldor fashion and she found it at times awkward to move in; she thought again of Míriel’s aloof grace on the day Indis had seen her in Tirion. She moved like even the crown upon her head—which must have been considerable in weight given that it constituted possibly an entire mine’s worth of metal and gemstone—was simply a part of her.

“The Noldor remember you quite fondly,” she murmured. She reached out now, and brushed those strands of hair away from Míriel’s mouth. “I blame them not; by all accounts, you were remarkable beyond compare. If Fëanáro is anything on which to base a comparison, I believe it.” Míriel’s skin felt cool beneath her fingertips, yet it seemed to Indis not quite the same as the ice-cold frigidity of any other corpse. But perhaps it was only in her mind.

The gray lashes of Míriel’s wide, almond-shaped eyes lay delicately against her cheek. Her silver hair mingled with the spring green grass beneath her. Had she once rested so in the yards of the palace, Indis wondered? Napped in the afternoon light, enjoyed the rest of Aman, where no beasts or shadows preyed upon them?

“It seems unfair to me,” Indis said, feeling her throat tighten, “that you alone should be denied peace here, when all the rest of us have found it. I hope you have it now, my lady.” She touched her fingers to her lips in a gesture of respect. It was not a thing done among the Noldor, but it felt appropriate, and Indis thought Míriel would not mind one small Vanyarin tradition.

“I will let you rest,” she said, rising to her feet. In the end, she had stayed some two hours with Míriel, and could think of nothing more to say but the litany of her fears, doubtless uninteresting to anyone but herself. “I will do my best to care for them in your stead,” she concluded, offering a proper Noldor bow. “I hope this pleases you.”

She did not expect to visit Míriel again.

***

But she couldn’t stop thinking about Míriel’s hair. Specifically, that she had been wearing it in the same style for nearly twenty years now. It wasn’t at all how Míriel would have wanted it, was it?

How had Míriel worn her hair, Indis asked Finwë?

He was obviously surprised by the question, but he explained a few of the hairstyles she had preferred, which were relatively common among the Noldor—high, tight buns pierced with jeweled hair sticks and hung with combs, charms, and clips of all sorts. They still had much of it, he said, in the storeroom. Others, Fëanor had taken for himself. (Generally, Finwë allowed the boy whatever he wanted of his mother’s possessions, and there was a particularly soft look that came over his face when Fëanor entered the room wearing something of Míriel’s.)

Finwë said she was welcome to have a look, but Indis waited until Fëanor was out of the house. He disliked her giving any attention to Míriel’s things, and she did not wish to start a fight with him. There were chests of them, glimmering gilded hills of polished wood and jewels and filigreed metal. Indis spent some time sifting through them just to look. The Vanyar style tended towards something much simpler and far less inclusive of gemstone, which made Míriel’s cache of treasures particularly overwhelming to Indis.

Then, she selected a few things—more than she would need—including a lovely jade comb carved into the shape of koi, to stow into her bag. These things she took up to the gardens of Lórien.

Finwë had visited her often, in the beginning, both before and after her death, but Míriel had little desire for company in those days. Even at the height of her health, she had often wandered alone and preferred her own companionship to that of others, he had said. But after childbirth, it had seemed to weary her, having to converse with or even observe others.

Perhaps she would be irritated, if she knew that Indis was visiting her. (The Noldor had loved their queen, but few outside the most obsequious would claim she was a patient woman when it came to others.)

“I shan’t impose long,” Indis assured the queen when she knelt down beside her, setting her bag in the grass. “I thought only you might wish for a bit of change.” It seemed a silly thing to say to a woman who had chosen the constancy of death. Nevertheless, Indis called over one of the Maiar.

“Would you hold the queen upright for me?” she asked. “I desire to fix her hair.”

“Is there something amiss with it?” The Maia spoke softly, but her words seemed to resonate inside Indis’ head, as if she spoke at once with voice and with ósanwe, creating a faint echo.

“No, but it has been the same for such a long time. Do you not think she might like it changed?” The Maia might have shrugged, if she were an Elf; as it were, she only stared blankly at Indis, then moved forward to do as she had been asked.

She had to hold the queen’s body up, and her chin as well, as if she were a rag doll in the hands of a pair of children, so that Indis could undo the braiding already there, slightly mussed where the back of her skull rested against the ground. With her own comb, Indis carefully brushed out Míriel’s hair until it hung in a sleek silver curtain down her back.

It occurred to her as she brushed through small knots and tamed fly-aways, that Fëanor still regularly visited his mother, and might notice if her hair was different. It left her with some unease; Fëanor still had not reconciled himself to his father’s remarriage, and while Indis had much hope on that account, the boy was still quite sensitive about it, and was unlikely to respond well to Indis meddling with Míriel. Perhaps he would think one of the Maiar had done it, she hoped.

“She has such fine hair, doesn’t she?” Indis murmured as she swept it back behind Míriel’s cold ears.

“She is a very beautiful Elf,” agreed the Maiar.

“She must have been proud of it,” Indis thought aloud. Onto her fingers she dripped some of the osmanthus oil she had brought, and this she combed through Míriel’s hair to make it smell fresh and pleasant. “This is mine,” she murmured. “I hope that does not trouble you. I could not find any of yours left; I imagine Finwë has used it or given it away. This one is rather popular among the Noldor; perhaps you used it as well?”

She began to twist Míriel’s hair into the bun which she had planned for her, and then realized it would put her neck at an awkward angle when she lay back on the ground. Indis had failed to plan appropriately for a dead woman. So she let Míriel’s hair fall loose again, and instead began to weave it into a fresh set of braids.

“He took your pots down from the study,” said Indis as her fingers worked through Míriel’s hair. “But I told him to leave them be. Why should I need to erase the memory of you to be comfortable here? Can we not live together, you and I? In peace?” She combed the small, frail hairs behind Míriel’s ears into the braid. A few of the strands had come loose in Indis’ hands, and she wondered about that. Míriel would not regrow them now, would she?

“I wish I had known you more in life,” Indis sighed. “Perhaps then I would know better what to do, what to say. Fëanáro seems so certain I bear you ill will, but it isn’t so. I should never desire to have benefit of another’s unhappiness.” She almost blurted out that she had taken Míriel’s hair accessories without Fëanor’s knowledge, but at the last second remembered the Maia, and held her tongue. Instead, she quietly worked the jade comb into Míriel’s hair and clipped the hair along her forehead back with a small clasp on either side.

“There,” she said. “I’ll take her.” Gently, she took Míriel’s body from the Maia, and cradling the back of the former queen’s head, laid her back down in the grass. Míriel weighed but little to Indis; she thought she could have lifted her without much effort. “That will please her some, don’t you think?”

***

It was in the soft dark of early morning that Indis jolted awake, breath stopped up from a dream of something chasing her. The terror of being hunted was not pleasant, but it was the sickening feeling of only being able to move her feet at a snail’s pace that shoved her heart up into her throat. It was a familiar nightmare to her—perhaps because she was a runner, her mind focused excessively on situations where she was not able to do something which came naturally to her.

She threw herself out of bed (Finwë had offered to take Míriel’s side and give Indis his own, but Indis had waved this off as an unnecessary accommodation, and so she slept in the space where once Míriel had lain, where she had slept and stayed awake whispering to her husband and where she had made Fëanor) and padded quickly into the adjoining dressing room, which had blessedly been cleared of Míriel’s clothing before Indis’ arrival. Into the washbasin she poured a measure of water to splash against her face. She pressed her hands against her too-warm cheeks and looked up to the mirror to calm her heart.

But in the glass she saw only Míriel’s face; Míriel’s hands; Míriel’s long, silver hair; Míriel’s embroidered nightdress.

The scream that left her throat was still hers, at least.

Thankfully when she woke in truth it was silently, a chill sweat prickling along her spine and beneath her breasts. She turned onto her side and grasped weakly at Finwë’s back. He stirred, still mostly asleep, but rolled over and flung an arm over her. And yet, Indis could not shake the feeling of another body at her back, and she was not sure it troubled her as much as it ought to do.

***

Indis could have taken the dream as a sign Míriel was displeased about the changes to her hair, but she did not think dead Elves had that much power. Still, she kept to her work and her gardens in the days after. Finwë seemed to sense something amiss, but when he inquired, Indis put him off. He suggested they go for a ride, and the fresh air did seem to clear Indis’ head. Fëanor refused to go with them, and stalked off in disgust when Indis invited him. Finwë made to go after him, but Indis waved this off as well.

“He is upset,” she sighed.

“He need not take it out on you,” Finwë said with a frown.

“Give him time,” she said, reminding herself as well as Finwë. Fëanor was clever enough to be quite cutting, and young enough not to have the grace to restrain himself, but he was still a youth, and he had taken the news of his mother’s refusal to return to life quite hard. It would be difficult, she thought, for any child not to feel that a dearth of his mother’s love had caused her choice, even if it were not so. She was not surprised that the years since had not yet been enough to move him past it.

So they went out just the two of them, and Indis had not realized how much she had cooped herself up in the house with chores until they were out past the city limits with the breeze in her hair and Finwë’s laughter beside her. They alternated riding and walking alongside their mounts, and the vibrance of Laurelin was glorious to see.

It was in this relaxed, ebullient spirit that she blurted out to her husband that she had visited the body of his dead wife.

That brought the morning to a swift halt.

“Oh?” said Finwë, in the voice of someone very much attempting to remain casual about something they certainly did not feel was a casual topic. “Is that what took you away the other day?”

“I only wished to see her,” Indis said, somewhat breathless. “To pay my respects. I…we share so much now, she and I. It seems only right that I…offer some…” She fumbled for the right word.

“Nothing wrong with that,” Finwë said quickly, when Indis did not presently come to a decision on how to describe whatever offerings she had made to Míriel. “Only I…” He hesitated, and drew his horse nearer to hers. “I know it has been difficult for you,” he said softly. “There are many who have not forgotten that Míriel was queen. Yet you should not feel now that you live in her shadow. She would not wish that.”

“How can you say?” Indis asked, locking her eyes on his.

“Because I knew her,” he said. “She was not sentimental. A touch possessive, perhaps, but not sentimental. She would not blame you for taking a place offered to you. If she were wroth with any, it would be with myself! So.” He reached out and placed a hand over Indis’. “Do not feel you must placate her, or make some obeisance because you now sit on a throne that was hers. It would not be just to invite you into my home only to ask you to leave space for one who came before.”

“I’m being rather foolish, aren’t I?” Indis gave a breathless smile. “You have given me more than enough reassurance. Still, she was here, and I wish to give due respect to that.” She paused, considered, and then felt it not inappropriate to say: “She looked so…”

“Live?” Finwë said grimly, his hand tightening over Indis’. “’tis a trick of the gardens. I have almost though to ask them to release her body from their spells, yet…I believe it comforts Fëanáro, to visit her. This I would not take from him.”

“No, neither would I,” Indis agreed at once. “It was only stranger than I imagined it would be. It was not like death in Endor.”

“Praise Ilúvatar for that!” Finwë said fervently. On this, they agreed whole-heartedly, and Indis let the matter drop, and even Fëanor’s sour scowls when they returned that afternoon did not unsettle the peace she felt after their outing.

The unsettling Indis did herself.

Too many times that night she almost turned to Finwë to say that she agreed with what he said about not fixating too much on Míriel, but—surely someone should do something about her clothes! Surely Míriel Serinde would not be happy wearing the same gown for years on end! She had enough presence of mind to realize she would be returning this conversation to an uncomfortable place, yet the thought persisted.

Surely someone ought to change Míriel’s clothes.

Indis timed her visit in and out of the storage room quite early in the morning, when neither Finwë nor Fëanor was likely to be about. It took her two and a half hours of sorting through Míriel’s clothes to choose something. Her first had been a vibrant red robe accented with gold, but she realized what a shocking change this would make for anyone visiting Míriel’s body, so she forced herself to put it back (despite knowing how its colors would flatter Míriel’s complexion, its cut her shape), and choose a pale green with a pearly white complement. She stuffed it into a sack and put the sack in her own wardrobe to be retrieved later.

Only by the barest margin could she convince herself she wasn’t intentionally deceiving both her husband and his son, but she assured herself that even if it were so, this was necessary, and once it was done she would feel better, and she could let the matter rest.

Míriel lay undisturbed where Indis had last left her. No one had commented on the change in her hair style, so Indis could only assume that no one was bothered, or no one had traced it back to her.

“I brought you something,” she announced to Míriel as she knelt beside the former queen. “I thought you might enjoy a change of dress.” She patted the sack she’d brought with her. “It shan’t take long. I know not which were your favorites, so I picked one rather similar to what you have now.”

She reached for the close of Míriel’s robe and then hesitated. In her mind, the change had been perfunctory and painless, but now beside Míriel’s limp and lifeless body, Indis was forced to concede it would likely be rather difficult, and involve quite a lot of intimate touching.

“Allow me, Your Grace,” she murmured, casting her eyes down as she loosened the ties of Míriel’s outer robe and spread the creamy fabric open. It occurred to her she could have brought Míriel a fresh interior robe as well—but did she really need such things? Her body secreted no oils nor fluids anymore; she didn’t move to dirty it.

Shaking herself out of these thoughts, Indis moved her attention to carefully working Míriel’s arms out of the robe. It was hard to do, and she had to bend the queen’s arms and shoulders at awkward angles to slide them out, which spiked her anxiety.

“Finwë and I went for a ride the other day,” she said quietly. “How lovely it is to go riding here, knowing nothing will trouble us…he seems content now, but I wonder if he still misses you. He must, mustn’t he? How could he not? Could one ever cease to yearn for a lost partner? None can truly replace another person.” When she had Míriel lying flat on her robe, she worked her slippers off (she had brought a fresh pair of these as well) and then frowned. It seemed to her inappropriate to be manhandling a body this way, and she hoped none of the Maiar were watching her, but she was committed to the course at this point.

“Forgive me, Your Grace,” she said, and hooked an arm around Míriel’s chest, under her arm, to lift her up. Míriel had always been lean of figure, with skinny hips even after childbirth (it had given her great pains then) and small, neat breasts. Quite different, Indis thought, from her own body, thick around the thigh from the hours she spent running, and much taller than Míriel, who had stood more than a foot below Finwë in height. 

Slowly, Indis eased the old robe out from underneath the queen’s body and as she folded it to set aside, felt that she had broken out into a nervous sweat. Several times she looked around her, worried someone else might have come into the gardens and observed this act, but it remained empty of other Elves that she could see.

“This will make you feel better,” she asserted as she started to shrug Míriel into the new robe.

“Recently I mentioned to Finwë about that face he makes when focused on something in particular—I do think it’s a rather charming look—and he said that you told him often of how ridiculous it looked.” Indis gave a high, girlish laugh. “I thought it terribly amusing, that we both had noticed the same thing. It is rather silly-looking, isn’t it?” She hooked an arm under Míriel’s legs to lift the lower part of her body off the ground so she could smooth out the new robe underneath her. “Perhaps I should have told him I agree with you.”

She wrung her hands a little, and then started to pull the new robe closed, feeling her heartbeat in her ears as her fingers skimmed over Míriel’s chest. No warmth came from her now, and Indis felt acutely aware of the stillness of Míriel’s ribcage.

“I told him I had been to see you,” she said quietly, almost in a whisper. “But only the first time did I mention. I think he worries…he worries because we share so much. But I see it another way. It makes us sisters of a kind, do you not think?” She took great care in tying the close of the robe, to make sure it looked nice and sat well and wasn’t too tight or too loose. “I am happy to share things with you, Míriel Serinde,” she said. “It is an honor.”

She slipped the new shoes onto Míriel’s little feet, making sure the heel was tucked neatly inside.

“There,” she said cheerfully, almost panting. “Is that not more comfortable, my lady? Although, as we are both queens, perhaps I should call you by name. Do you think we might have been friends?” For a moment she fidgeted, then stuffed Míriel’s old robe and slippers into the sack. “I had best be gone,” she said. “The house will wonder where I am.”

For dessert that night, she made a special request: rice pudding.

***

At the party, Fëanor was the perfect young host. He was gracious with their guests and smiled charmingly at all who greeted him by name (although little of his bearing came from his father, he could at times sport Finwë’s heart-meltingly winning smile). He was present and talkative which was certainly not always the case, and even toured them around the house, expounding on the histories and techniques of Míriel’s tapestries and Míriel’s looms and Míriel’s inventions-that-did-not-come-to-be. It all would have been terribly laudable, and Indis might’ve even been proud, if he hadn’t done it all to humiliate her.

He made sure throughout the night that she was watching, and that sharp-eyed gray glare with which he caught her gaze left no doubt that his praise of Míriel was meant to show how unaccomplished and feeble-minded Indis was by comparison. But how could she or Finwë chastise him for honoring his mother in front of their guests? Clever boy, Fëanor.

He wasn’t wrong, either. Indis did not have great deeds or a fearsome temperament or a history of leadership to her name. At times, admittedly, his words stung, but she couldn’t truly be angry.  It was not even worthwhile to suggest to Finwë that it had all been done as a petty jab at her. Certainly it would improve nothing in her relationship with Fëanor to be seen as tattling on him to his father.

So she said nothing to either of them, and when she woke later that night and eased out of bed, there was a pleasant ache between her legs. Wrapping a dressing robe around herself, Indis slid open the bedroom door and entered the hall.

The path to the storage room was relatively undisturbed at that hour. Indis let herself in and then leaned back lightly against the door, exhaling quietly. The impulse that had driven her had not died down, but standing then among Míriel’s things, she could feel the shame of knowing she was doing something of which others would not approve trying to force its way into her consciousness.

It did not overcome the thrill of being there.

Alone amidst Míriel’s wardrobe, Indis shed her dressing robe and stood only in her underwear, the gooseflesh over her arms not a marker of any chill in the room. Her inner thighs were still tacky with Finwë’s release from earlier in the night; as he had pressed tender kisses to her throat, she could not help but wonder: Was it like this? With her? Was it like this when you made Fëanor?

Indis walked among the rows of fabric, running her fingers over Míriel’s tiny, meticulous stitches. Clearly the queen had favored warm, bold colors, and Indis could see at least some of the places where she had tried things that were not typical for Noldor fashion. Others she knew where styles or methods of Míriel’s own invention which were now commonplace among them.

Indis pulled a salmon-pink robe down from the rack and held it up to herself. Did Míriel’s friends try her things on, she wondered? Did Míriel make things for them? Did Míriel have friends? She must have! Certainly there were many among the artists’ guilds who held her in great respect. She put the robe back and continued, selecting next a sapphire blue gown, which she twirled about with herself, and then something which appeared to be an underrobe, but which was made almost entirely out of lacework, painstakingly hand-done. It would have obscured very little.

“For what did you wear this?” Indis murmured, rubbing the delicate lacing between her thumb and forefinger. That it was fitted quite well to Míriel’s size Indis guessed even from her limited knowledge, and judging by how short it was on Indis, could not possibly have reached below Míriel’s knee. (Nothing of Míriel’s was sized in a way that would fit Indis; even the queen’s bracelets were too small to clasp around Indis’ wrists.) With some reluctance, Indis replaced it and went on digging.

Next, she pulled down a bright yellow robe and its cut was so loose she couldn’t resist sliding it off the hanger to see if it would fit on her. It was pulled taut across her shoulders, and she could only just tie it off in the front—and it seemed somehow more obscene than simple nudity in regards to her breasts—but she did get it on, and the color wasn’t a bad look on her. There was a mirror which Indis had brought in before, when she was selecting a replacement outfit for Míriel, and she went up to it now, and turned this way and that to see how she looked in Míriel’s robe.

“What do you think?” she murmured. “I carry so much else of yours. I may as well wear your clothes. Who else will?”

For a moment, she fantasized about returning to the bedroom in this, about climbing on top of Finwë, and feeling their bodies join, about rocking on top of him in that robe and feeling it come undone around her as she moved and watching him look at her in this robe.

Biting her lip, she turned her head to sniff at the shoulder of the robe, but it smelled only of dust, and the powder with which Indis dusted her skin at night. When she took the robe off, the smell of the powder remained and when it went back on the rack among Míriel’s other things, this touch of Indis lingered. Now there was another thing they shared.

No, Indis could not be truly angry with Fëanor, for at the end of the day, Indis was queen just as Míriel had been, and she pitied him.

***

There was not much more that Indis could do for Míriel, but the notion of ceasing to visit Lórien made her stomach twist unpleasantly. Surely she could think of some other task for the former queen that might bring her again to Míriel’s side. It crossed her mind to wonder if the Maiar who tended the garden bathed Míriel’s body. She might require it less than a living body, but it must still need care! But this seemed a task perhaps to leave to them.

So it was without any clear motive that Indis went next to Lórien, and perhaps it was fitting that as she had no purpose, this was the visit she was interrupted.

The air always seemed to still when one stepped into Lórien: not in a stuporous way, more akin to the quiet lulling of laying about in the warmth of late afternoon, not dozing, yet neither waking, and feeling ever so content with all the world. (Had Míriel believed that Lórien would fix her, when she came?) The trees seemed to stir their leaves only lazily, and the heady scent of jasmine filled the air. Sound seemed softened in the slow air, and Indis did not see until she had rounded a clutch of glossy-leafed bushes playing host to a gossiping quartet of white-faced plovers that Míriel already had a visitor.

Fëanor sat by his mother’s side, reading something open on his lap to her. Indis came to a halt and the sound of his voice reached her when she turned her attention to it; from the tone and tenor, she guessed he was reading an academic text to Míriel.

He made some inquiry, and paused for several long seconds, looking down at Míriel, before continuing.

Indis felt her throat tighten and her eyes grow hot at the sight. She wanted to go over and pull Fëanor away, for a child did not deserve to call out so plaintively to one who would not answer. Yet she knew he would not listen; indeed, he would be in a fury to see her there at all, and she had best get herself gone before he turned and saw her.

Míriel had not wept when she left her husband, nor her son, and no Maiar reported she had shed any tears when she lay down to die, so Indis wept for her as she left Lórien, shed bitter tears for the grief of Míriel’s family, and all of the love of her that now had nowhere to go.

***

The Vanyar were the only ones in Aman to make regular use of public baths. Naturally-occurring steam vents and hot springs in their territory made such things easier, perhaps, and ease had paved the road for cultural norms. Indis found herself missing those days, of joining friends in great pools of steaming water to catch up on the day’s happenings. Tirion’s palace had a bathing room, of course, but it was for the private use of the family, and as she sat in the cooling water, she thought of the baths of Valmar, and wondered if Míriel would have ever joined her there. Finwë, she was certain she could convince, unless some need for dignity of office held him back, but what of Míriel?

As Indis rubbed a bar of sweet-smelling honey soap over her shoulder, her mind drifted back to Míriel lying in the garden of Lórien, still and cold and alone, and she wondered if she had company in the halls of Mandos, at least. Was it lonely there, she wondered? Did she ever yearn for her life in the treelight? Or was she as indifferent to her separation from the living as she had been when first she refused to return?

Indis had never gotten to make her final trip to see Míriel, and she had not gone back since nearly running into Fëanor there. Perhaps it was only right to close things out officially, she thought. It wasn’t that she thought the Maiar of Lórien were doing a poor job taking care of Míriel—only wasn’t it different, coming from another Elf? One who knew what it was to have a hröa?

And shouldn’t it be Indis? Míriel’s spiritual successor? Would Míriel not do the same for her?

Indis gathered the necessary supplies and hauled it all up to Lórien. As usual, no one stopped her or even inquired into what she was doing. The Maiar did not have Elves’ natural sense of curiosity, nor an innate understanding of what was or was not typical Elven behavior.

“The water is cold, I’m afraid,” said Indis as she squeezed one of the waterskins into the small wood basin she had brought with her.

This was the difficult part—once more she had to strip the queen, but this time, to the skin.

“It is too soon now, of course, and I have told Finwë as much,” Indis began as she made the most business-like approach she could to undoing Míriel’s robe, “but I was thinking of children last night.” A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “Perhaps it would be nice, don’t you think, for Fëanáro to have a little sibling? I sometimes wonder if it was lonely for him in the palace, without a mother, and with no brothers or sisters to play with.” She first removed Míriel’s outer robe before attending at all to the inner. “There are many things he could teach one.”

Her fingers trailed down Míriel’s breast, over the cold, bare skin before reaching the close of the robe, and she swallowed with difficulty.

“Do you—did you—would you have had more, do you think? It is lovely, is it not, to have such fruit of a marriage? Something made of both of you?” Her fingers trembled lightly at the tie of Míriel’s inner robe. “Finwë makes at least the start of the job quite easy.” She gave a tittering laugh, shifting so that her thighs rubbed together. “Was it so easy for you?” she asked unevenly, tugging at the tie until it came loose, and then gently easing Míriel’s inner robe open to bare her from throat to ankle. “I wonder about this. I would think it improper, but…well, it is something we both share, is it not? I wonder if he touches me as he touched you,” she said softly. “If it felt to you as it does me.” Her trembling fingers skimmed over Míriel’s exposed sides, pushing the fabric away until Indis could ease her arms out from it. To keep her clothes dry, she lifted the slight queen of the Noldor in her arms, her heart thudding against her burden, and laid her down in the grass nearby.

“I have not decided if I would name a baby something Noldorin or Vanyarin. I know her primary name must be Noldorin, of course, but I know the Noldor give also a mother-name, and perhaps it would be alright for this to be a little Vanyarin. It will be in their blood, after all.” She dipped a small cloth into the basin and began at Míriel’s collarbones, wiping her down with all the care of tending an invalid.

“How long did it take you to decide on Fëanáro’s name? Do you know he prefers your name? He’s almost never called Finwë.” Indis worked the cloth down each of Míriel’s arms, between her delicate, calloused fingers, over her palms softened by years of idleness. “Perhaps I should name my child something to match.” She sat facing Míriel and pulled her upright, leaning against Indis’ shoulder, so that she could wash her back, and then laid her down once more. Míriel’s breasts were still soft under Indis’ hand through the cloth, and Indis’ breath caught in her throat as she washed them, her hand trailing halfheartedly down to Míriel’s belly button. Indis removed the former queen’s shoes and thoroughly washed her feet, moving studiously up each leg. She had meant to wash between her legs as well, but courage fled her then, and instead she moved away to wipe Míriel’s face, her fingers moving carefully around Míriel’s heavily-lidded eyes and broad nose.

When this was done, Indis let out a long exhale. Her cheeks were hot to the touch; she nibbled at her lower lip, and had to jerk herself into action to redress Míriel and get her back into her usual position.

“Is this not more comfortable?” she murmured as she situated Míriel back onto her discarded robes. “’tis a far cry from what I would give you were you still here, but…alas, I cannot presently take you back to Valmar with me, even if I were to take such a trip. The baths there are quite wonderful though; always hot, and one almost always runs into a friend there.” She smiled. “Ah, and this, too—” She took some of the powder she herself liked to use and dabbed some of it under Míriel’s arms and beneath the curve of her breasts. A satisfied look passed over her face as she neatened the front of Míriel’s inner robe and secured it around her. “I am sure the Maiar here think not of everything.”

It often felt like stealing time with Míriel, so when her task was done, Indis did not linger much, and quickly packed her things to go.

Back in the palace, when she had put the bathing supplies away and left her horse in the stables, she sought out Finwë in his study, where she greeted him with warm kisses and pulled his hands away from his work.

“Had a nice ride?” he asked with a smile.

“Mhm,” Indis mumbled, leaning in for more kisses. “But I am not weary,” she added.

“Ah?” He finally grasped her insistence and it took little enough cajoling and groping for him to hoist her up onto the desk; she exhaled with mingled relief and pleasure as he entered her. She wound her fingers into his thick, dark hair, tugging and gasping quietly as his hips struck against her.

Was it like this with Míriel? Here? In this room? On this desk?

It was not the first time she had envisioned herself overlayed with the ghost of Míriel, but that afternoon it was different. Míriel was not a shadow over her, nor alone with Finwë, but rather besides Indis—or even alone with Indis. For a moment, it was not Finwë but Míriel she pictured thrusting between her legs, and then it was both, and she moaned, tipping her head back. Her stomach felt knotted with desire to feel Míriel’s stone lips against hers as Finwë drove her up to the heights of pleasure; she thought of Míriel’s stomach under her hands that morning, of Míriel’s shoulders and her fine fingers and her well-shaped calves and reached down to rub herself furiously, choking on a cry as she and Finwë finished her together.

Was it like this for you? she thought as she fell backwards against the desk, her toes curling, spots in her vision. Oh Míriel, Míriel, was it like this?

***

The ghost of Míriel haunted her son, and to a lesser degree her husband, and now she haunted Indis too, but Indis could not regret it. Míriel’s presence in her mind was not an unwelcome intrusion, but rather a warm companionship. It assured her there was nothing wrong with being compared to Míriel, for they were two of a kind, and they understood each other as outsiders did not. Even Fëanor’s most vitriolic words slid off of Indis after just a moment. He did not understand, but he could not be expected to understand.

If Finwë and Míriel’s marriage bond could never be fully severed, did it not stand to reason Indis had espoused herself to Míriel as well?

She lay in the divot in the bed where once Míriel had lain, and Míriel’s husband kissed her goodnight and good morning, and she bid Míriel’s son goodbye when he left for the day, and she sat upon Míriel’s throne—how could they not be bonded?

The light of Telperien shone gleaming silver above the rooftops of Tirion when Indis swung her feet out of bed. She smiled as she braided her hair back simply and dressed in something comfortable. The ride up to Lórien was quiet, though she passed some acquaintances on her way to the edge of the city and gave them a cheerful wave.

Lórien seemed cast in blue in the night light, and Indis felt almost that she walked in another world, some place removed from the rest of Aman, from the rest of Arda. She left her shoes with the horse and let the blue-green grass poke up between her toes as she made her way through the carefully-tended plants to where Míriel lay beneath her sepulchral tree.

“Think you of me now?” she whispered, laying down alongside the former queen. “You must; you are in my thoughts day after day.” She lay quite close, and rested a hand on Míriel’s chest. “Do you send me these dreams? Am I here with you now, or at home in bed?” She lifted her head and pressed her lips to Míriel’s; they were still and cold, yet soft, not how a corpse would be, not like the kisses Indis had left on their lost compatriots on the journey from the east.

Her hand fumbled at the front of Míriel’s robe and she slid her hand in until she could grasp and stroke Míriel’s thigh.

“Have you watched us, Finwë and I? Does it please you? I hope you are pleased. I think of you then, too,” she confided. “It would please me if we were seen by you, as you cannot join us.” She made little circles on Míriel’s inner thigh with her index finger. “I think he has great pleasure in lying with me…but I would give it to you as well.” She leaned over Míriel, her breasts flattening against Míriel’s body, and kissed her again. “Would you have it from me?” she whispered, her hand moving up to the juncture of Míriel’s legs. The nest of coarse silver-gray hair brushed against the first knuckles of her fingers. “Would you permit me, Míriel?” She turned her face into the crook of Míriel’s neck, where there remained traces of the scent of her own powder beneath the smell of grass that embraced Míriel. Her fingers lingered at the apex of Míriel’s thigh.

“I would have it from you,” she breathed, and plunged her fingers into Míriel’s cold sex.

Indis shuddered against her, pressing nearer, and moaned softly against Míriel’s shoulder. She bent her head down and closed her mouth around one of Míriel’s breasts, sucking and laving her tongue over the nipple until the clammy flesh glistened in the white treelight.

“So much already do we share, we should have this too,” Indis breathed, working her fingers in and out of Míriel. The flesh was not slick as it would have been were she alive; there was not the looseness of her muscles that would have come with arousal, yet neither was she a desiccated corpse. She was a dormant body; a thing in suspension; an almost, a maybe, a should-have-been. “I know our husband in his pleasure; I should know you the same.” Indis’ hand went on, but it was only she who reacted, flushing, whining, arching her body towards Míriel as she stroked the dead queen’s sex until her hand cramped.

“I shall care for them,” she whispered to Míriel, spreading her fingers and pressing her thumb against Míriel’s pearl. “I shall care for them.” She gasped at the aching throbbing between her legs and fought the urge to rut against Míriel’s leg like a beast. “Will you care for me too?”

When she could bear no more, she took her hand from between Míriel’s legs and lay beside her, staring up at the sky, panting, overheated.

“I wish you had lived, but if you had, I would never have met you,” she said. “What paradox is this?” She turned her head to look at her companion. “You have this feeling as well, do you not? This connection? There is a point of the thread of fate which weaves us together…and I am glad to know it.”

Míriel, of course, said nothing, and Indis looked back up at the star-strewn sky. For a long while then she lay in silence. So they might criticize her for wedding one already wed—but what did they know? Did they think Míriel was no longer a part of this marriage? Did they think her gone away? Gone in body perhaps, but not in spirit!

Indis rolled over and pressed a kiss to Míriel’s lifeless cheek. “Fear not. I will return to see you again soon,” she whispered.

#miriel #indis #mindis #miriel serinde #the silmarillion #tolkien tag #rocky writes #fanfiction #tolkien fanfiction #indis x miriel #so indis how are you handling the concept of remarriage

[yourlocalnetizen]

Quenta Silmarillion/Dance of The Dragons parallels

The Dance literally feels like a much darker Feanor's bloodline "survives" instead of his younger half-siblings AU except Feanor is split up into Daemon & Rhaenyra.

Feanor has 7 kids (Maedhros, Maglor, Celegorm, Caranthir, Curufin, Amrod, Amras)

Daemon & Rhaenyra have 7 kids combined (Jacaerys, Lucerys, Joffrey, Baela, Rhaena, Aegon III, Viserys II)

Feanor & Daemon both have a set of identical twins, one of whom gets burnt (though technically Amrod died, my point stands).

Feanor, as well as Daemon & Rhaenyra are controversial figures in-universe. Held in high regard by some, despised by others.

Feanor & Rhaenyra are both noted for their incredible beauty/good looks.

Feanor & Rhaenyra both die in flames with at least one of their children watching.

Silver haired Miriel & silver haired Aemma being the 1st wives of a King, dying in childbirth with their one child carrying on their memory.

They also share similar heritage to their husband with Miriel & Finwe both being Noldor elves and Viserys & Aemma both having Targ blood.

Finwe & Viserys are the same exact person I will not elaborate.

Indis & Alicent are both religious (presumably, in Indis's case), don't share similar heritage to their husbands, & pop out 4 kids.

Maedhros & Aegon III are both canonically exceptionally handsome men who lived lives full of loss, suffering, pain, & tragedy.

Maglor & Viserys II are their elder brother's shadows, always following them, sometimes advising them. Outlive all their brothers, the descendants of the children they raised go on to do very important things.

Feels like too much to be a coincidence.

#the silmarillion #fire and blood #hotd #house of the dragon #feanor #daemon targaryen #rhaenyra targaryen #finwe #viserys i targaryen #miriel #miriel therinde #miriel serinde #aemma arryn #alicent hightower #maedhros #aegon iii targaryen

[dalliansss]

little sunshine

As he is wont to do, Finwe Noldoran gets to the council room in the palace at Tirion way before any of the Lords are allowed into the bright and airy chambers. Scrolls are waiting by his end of the table, as do a platter of honey-glazed doughnuts, a basket of fruits and a silver pitcher of chilled wine. There is also coffee, should he want it. As the King surveys the topmost scroll from today’s pile, he hears a soft giggle.

He looks up.

Pattering toward him, from Eru-knows-where, is his seventh grandson, little Artafinde, the first child of his third son Arafinwe. Finwe’s soft cheeks round up as he smiles as his little golden grandson waddles toward him. 

“Hello there, little one, good morrow to you. To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?”

Finwe sets his scroll aside, pushes his high-backed chair back a little so he can accommodate the over-eager elfling, who clambers up, up, up on his lap, clutching a handful of his robes. He scoops up little Artafinde and sits him on his lap. The king immediately buries his nose into those perfect golden locks, breathing deep – and the little one smells like lavender and roses. 

“Grampa, grampa,” Artafinde giggles. “I hide? I hide with you? Please?”

“Ai, what are you hiding from, little one?”

The child answers with a giggle. “No tell!”

The double doors open. The Lords of the Noldor start coming in, and many quirk their eyebrows up at the sight of the little golden prince on the king’s lap. But Finwe’s brilliant smile brooks no time for questions. Everybody resumes their place, and before council officially begins, Finwe has something to say.

“Welcome my lords. My grandson will be joining us today; someone is way too excited to be part of this council and cannot wait.”

Which is answered by laughter. State business proceeds. Finwe listens to all concerns and petitions, pausing here and there to kiss at his little grandson’s hair, or else poke Artafinde’s round, pink cheeks, or pat that little round tummy of his. Yes, excellent, this is good— a round little elfling meant a well-fed and well-taken care of elfling. Finwe would not suffer any malnourished child, his or not, as long as he reigned over the Noldor. Aman is a land of bliss and plenty, and all who dwell in it should display it — good health in full view included. 

To his credit, little Artafinde is very well-behaved. He is content to sit on his grandfather’s lap; helping himself to a handful of Finwe’s gorgeous dark hair to chew and drool on. Otherwise he fidgets only gently, turning here and there to nuzzle at his grandfather, or touch Finwe’s cheek, and get himself a smidge of attention and a dimpled smile this way. 

The council is discussing some roads that need new paving when the double doors across the room open just a little, and the dark-haired nursemaid tending to Artafinde peeks inside. She scans the room, sees her charge on his grandfather’s lap, and her eyes bulge. But Finwe winks at her, raising a finger to his own lips. No matter. He has his grandson. He’ll take care of it. The elleth is quick to understand the cue, and so she hastily curtsies and quietly leaves, closing the door as quietly as she can. On Finwe’s lap, Artafinde giggles.

Council drones on and on. Artafinde helps himself to one of the doughnuts, biting into it – thus getting sugar on his chubby, pink cheeks and a dollop of strawberry filling on his chest, effectively ruining his tunic. He doesn’t care. He eats and eats, until he finishes the doughnut. He licks his fingers clean and claps.

Council pauses on account of this applause, but Finwe simply laughs and gently redirects business to resume. Adult talk continues to drone onward.

He is a restless child, Artafinde Ingoldo. He can stay still for about an hour, or two, but then he will soon start to bounce up, and look for something else to occupy his mind with. It drives Arafinwe and Earwen mad; their son is a little escape artist, notorious for his ability to escape his own nursery so he can run around, sneak into other people’s gardens, wallow in their muddy vegetable patches, or else find himself all the way to Tirion’s central fountain swimming around as if he were a giant goldfish. An adventurer in the making, Finwe told Arafinwe once upon a time.

That restlessness is bubbling now. Artafinde pushes himself up onto his feet, standing on his grandfather’s thighs. He cups Finwe’s cheeks with sugar dusted and drool-sticky hands, and paps the soft flesh there. Finwe puckers his lips for a kiss, but Artafinde giggles and dodges the kiss. But then he smooches his grandfather loudly on the chin.

“Grampa! Love you! Mwah!” Artafinde declares.

(And perhaps, many of the Lords in the King’s Council remember their own little elflings, and sigh.)

Before Finwe can ask his grandson to sit, Artafinde shimmies down from Finwe’s lap and waddles around the council room like a fat penguin chick. He tugs on the lords’ sleeves, and when the men look at him, he gives them his most convincing puppy expression.

“Eat? Eat?” Artafinde asks. (For Finwe instilled in all of his grandchildren a love of food and eating, even more so on the babies. His sons complain that he has a tendency to make his grandchildren round. Artafinde is no exception.) “Mellow eat?”

The Lords coo and sigh. Someone gives Artafinde a nougat. Another hands over a small packet of sugared peanuts. Another gives him a fudge bar. Someone gives him a banana, and another a dragonfruit. 

Now, Artafinde has not seen dragonfruit before. When he gets given this gift, his eyes grow to their widest extent yet, and he waddles back excitedly toward Grampa, now effectively disrupting the council as he lifts the dragonfruit for Finwe to see.

“Grampa! Grampa! What is? What? Can eat? Can eat with Innoldo? Eat? Grampa! Ai!”

Finwe swears he will melt. He looks to his lords with a helpless smile. “Thirty minute recess, everyone. Thank you, thank you.”

As the lords shake their heads and pack up their belongings and stand and stretch, Finwe remains seated. He hoists Artafinde back up onto his lap and attacks those cute cheeks with kisses. 

“Alright, we will eat the fruit together.”

A servant is summoned, and the dragonfruit is momentarily taken, where it is washed, and peeled, and then sliced into elfling-friendly chunks and served. Artafinde wiggles excitedly on Finwe’s lap as he beholds the fruit’s red flesh. He quickly fishes for slices with his fingers and eats in the clumsiness of a toddler. Finwe eats in a more dignified manner, using a fork. Yum yum.

Artafinde looks like a murder scene. Red juice all over his cheeks, chin, neck, chest and hands. His clothes can no longer be saved, but Finwe can and will commission a million clothes for him and all of his grandsons, if needed. 

“Delicious dragonfruit, no?” Finwe smiles as he wipes his baby grandson’s cheeks with his sleeve, now also destroying his robes. Ah, no matter. 

“Lishoos,” Artafinde agrees, chirping. “Lishoos fruit! Thank you, grampa! Love you! Mwah!”

Finwe laughs. He squeezes Artafinde in a hug, and kisses the child’s golden hair. 

#silmarillion #silm #my drabs #finrod #finrod felagund #findarato #finwe #finwe noldoran

[lordgrimwing]

Okay, you must tell us about αβΩ au

I'm going to call it an atypical alpha/beta/omega take on what Middle-earth could be like if the Valar didn't bring the elves to Valinor/the elves refused to go. This all came about when someone did some art of Glorfindel, Erestor, and Elrond and mentioned that it was for an a/b/o au with minimal explanation. Of course, I and @nighttimepatrons went a little crazy over it.

What I've actually written so far is mostly focused on Celebrian, Gil-galad, and Elrond, who are all married and very happy. Celebrian is a princess of the Noldor and Sindar realms and travels gracefully from diplomatic meeting to minor crisis. Gil-galad is a merchant and low-level politician in Lindon working very hard to make sure he's never connected to the High Family (Finwe's family) because thoughts of somehow becoming king haunt his nightmares. Elrond's a healer raised by the nomadic Feanorians who has the unfortunate habit of complicating Gil-galad's life because the path to political upheaval is paved with good intentions (re: bringing Avari Glorfindel to Lindon and picture).

[breaking here because this is getting Long]

The core idea for the au is that Elrond went on an expedition with Pengolodh and others to document one of the few Avari tribes that's been untouched by the outside world since leaving Cuivienen, but the tribe lives within another realm that is very set on keeping them free of outside influences so the research group has to promise to not interact or let themselves be seen by anyone in the tribe. Well, as one might expect, this doesn't go as planned. A great beast of the wilds attacks the group but an Avari they'd been watching (Glorfindel) steps and saves them but is grievously wounded and will die unless they help him. Elrond, being Elrond, insists on doing what he can in the field and on smuggling him back to Lindon on one of Gil-galad's ships when it becomes clear the Avari will die without in-depth medical care.

Really, it's an excuse for me to yank Glorfindel out of his home and shove him into a new culture because I love him being an outsider among the Noldor. (I'm basic, what can I say?)

Nightie and I also think A Lot about Miriel/Indis/Finwe and Feanor :) (spoiler: Feanor gets mirked by some Men which inspires the first Manslaying)

Anyway, you might be wondering what any of this has to do with a/b/o. Well, in the 'modern realms' like the Noldor and Sindar, very little importance is put on if someone's an alpha (Celebrian), beta (Gil-galad), or omega (Elrond). Sure, sometimes someone could have hormonal things that make them act a bit different (re: Elrond's nesting habits), but it's no big deal. HOWEVER, the Avari tribe has Very Different feelings on the matter.

The tribe believes that an evil spirit or force causes elves to become alphas or omegas (they don't use those terms but whatever). There isn't much they can do if someone becomes an omega, but generally omegas can live a normal life but just lose control of their bodies sometimes. So, omegas can stay in the tribe but don't have much respect unless they dedicate themselves to healing and or soothsaying etc. Alphas, on the other hand, are considered violent and dangerous and are not allowed to stay with the tribe after reaching adulthood unless they go through a ritual to cast the evil spirit from them. This involves a moderate degree of mutilation and pain and is very unpleasant and sometimes people die during it.

Glorfindel's an alpha. He went through that ritual and is a very good warrior/hunter/protector for the tribe. He is very proud of his scars.

This makes things a bit awkward in Lindon, where everyone is horrified by this thing that he takes deep pride in.

Anyway, that's a lot and there's even more but I should probably stop (warm hug if you read all that).

#i'm struggling so hard to create a logical flow to this explanation #anyway don't mind me lore dumping about an au #carry on #silm abo au #elrond #gil galad #celebrian #glorfindel #the silmarillion #the void answers #grimwing gripes