#laiquendi fashion

[the-quiet-fire-of-defiance]

Some Gender Headcanons On the Eldar:

In my opinion, the close proximity of the Amani elven cultures to each other lead to a lot of cultural exchange and overlap in certain areas. So although gender carries different significance for the Vanyar vs the Noldor vs the Teleri (for example, we know that in Noldorin culture it’s usually men who cook but women who make bread) their concept of gender and classification systems are pretty much the same.

Eg, fa’afafine / leiti / vakasalewalewa / ’akava’ine are words from different Pacific islands but all refer to essentially the same concept; multiple culturally distinct Native American tribes who had frequent contact with each other all recognised five genders pre-colonisation; and so on.

But the elves of Beleriand diverge culturally from their Amani counterparts the moment that the two groups part, because we know that there’s no communication between them. So their cultural development and concepts of gender head down different paths. In a similar fashion, some groups of Avari separated earlier in the Great Journey and remain relatively isolated during the First Age (especially those who never enter Beleriand).

So what are their actual gender systems? I haven’t quite pinned down my thoughts on that yet, except that Valinor doesn’t really have much of a concept of genderfluidity. It’s much more commonplace and understood on the other side of the sea. In Laiquendi culture, they conceive of all gender as fluid to a degree (but that fluidity looks different for every person). They have beautiful swirling dances inspired by the fluidity of gender.

I also hc that the Haladin have three genders; man, woman and bigender. Bigender people often have special roles in spiritual rituals. Haleth herself is bigender, and thus their spiritual leader as well as a social one. There are many more customs around gender for the Edain, but I’ll give them their own post.

#eldar #headcanons #trans tolkien #quiet rambles #gender in tolkien #arda needs more pride #yes i know anmp is happening again in like four days but i have the patience and self control of a pigeon #elf culture #haleth #haladin

[joyfullynervouscreator]

A Wedding in Imladris

Inspired by this drawing, by stephescamora @motherofbees, thanks to @avoyagetoarcturus the detective ^^

 TA 109, somewhere in Greenwood.

Shifting his son on his lap, Thranduil, King of Greenwood, held his reins loosely. The large elk he rode – Dairon had died last winter, but his son Caranor was proving to be just as good a mount as his sire – shared its naneth’s colour, as well as her spirited temper. Firithel had died only a few years after his birth, defending her fawn from a large wolf, and it made him sad to see one more link to his lost Queen disappear from the world, even if it was something as comparably minor as her favourite mount.

“Ada!” Legolas cried out, breaking Thranduil free of his thoughts, amused when the elfling – had it really already been thirty years since the small leaf had been placed in his arms, all red and wrinkly and heartbreakingly beautiful? – pointed at the small yellow bird that had a nest in the tree they were passing. “Look!”

“It’s called an Eilinel, ionneg,” Thranduil murmured. Caranor snorted, moving with easy steps through the dense woods. His antlers were not yet as large as Dairon’s had been – Thranduil had a wry thought that his old mount would have needed to choose his path carefully to avoid getting stuck – and the new tines were still covered with peeling fluff. The little bird trilled, and then it was gone in a yellow flash of feathers. Legolas giggled, repeating the word.

“But Ada,” he objected, after some deliberation, “Eilinel is not a bird!”

“Yes, ionneg,” Thranduil chuckled, throwing a glance over his shoulder where one of his favourite singers was riding, “but Eilinel is named for the bird.”

“But she has brown hair,” Legolas said, and Thranduil could easily imagine the frown on his small face, trying to puzzle out the answer, even though he couldn’t see it. Twisting to look up at him, Legolas repeated his answer, as though Thranduil was being silly. “She has brown hair, Ada.” Tugging on one of the pale locks of Legolas’ own hair, Thranduil chuckled gently.

“Eilinel was named for her voice, Legolas.” For a moment, it looked like Legolas would object to that reasoning – Thranduil wasn’t sure he wanted to explain how the naming of elflings worked in this moment – but then he nodded, turning back to look at the forest, straining himself to see more elusive animals as Caranor cantered along.

“Where are we going, Ada?” Legolas asked, when it became clear that there would be no more birds keen for inspection in the trees surrounding them, the dark conifers stretching towards the sky.

“To Imladris, Legolas,” Thranduil replies, distracted by a commotion towards the back of their caravan.

“Why?” The small voice said, tugging on Thranduil’s green sleeve when the answer didn’t come quick enough.

“Hmm?” Thranduil hummed, twisting in his seat to look behind them. Someone had fallen off their mount; he recognised one of the younger ellyn – a troublemaker – but Captain Bronwe had already restored order among his underlings, and the young guardsman regained his seat with his ears flaming with embarrassment.

“Why are we going to Imladris?” Legolas repeated.

“Because a friend of mine is getting wed,” Thranduil replied patiently, steering his mount with his legs as he kept one ear on the goings-on behind him. “Lord Elrond of Imladris is going to marry Lady Celebrían, a kinswoman of ours through her adar, Legolas, and we have been invited to attend the celebrations.”

  “Ada!” The happy voice and the sudden weight attached to the train of his robes made Thranduil immediately aware of his son's desire.

“Legolas is sitting on your robe,” Elrond said, rather redundantly in Thranduil's view. He nodded. The Lord of Imladris did not approve of his robes, Thranduil had realised, but they had spent far too long in armour together for Erond to point out the large swathes of fabric trailing behind him. Thranduil thought these Elves – a motley mix of Sindarin and Noldorin Elves, with a smattering of his own Ada’s Laiquendi people thrown in – considered his robes an affectation of fashion, but he didn’t much care. At first, he had worn the voluminous robes as a sort of armour, a mask to shield his battered spirit from the world, and later he had worn them to hide his gaunt frame from his subjects, but these days they were as much a part of the Elvenking as they were a part of Thranduil himself. Looking at the younger – only by about three centuries, but Thranduil felt far older at times – ellon, the Elvenking of Greenwood smirked.

“Yes,” he replied evenly, having learnt self-control in Doriath and managing to keep his laughter from showing on his face. By now, he had spent so many years among the less formal Silvani in Greenwood that the stiffer etiquette he was once taught in Doriath sometimes took him by surprise when he was among other Sindar. The elfling he had been in Doriath never would have dared sit on Oropher's robes if they had been long enough for Legolas's favourite game. Well, he wouldn’t have dared outside their home, of course, Thranduil admitted to himself; Oropher had always been the image of a proper Sindar lord in the court of Thingol.

“Aaaaaaada!” Legolas's voice turned plaintive and Thranduil relished the flabbergasted look on Erestor's face at the sound. The former Seneschal of Eregion had always been a dour fellow, and peace did not seem to have mellowed him or his sense of propriety. Beside him, Elrond seemed to be having trouble deciding what to think of the small elfling demanding his Ada’s attention. Thranduil did not snicker, but only because he had more self-control than that and paid him no mind. Legolas was far more precious than any fancy artwork Elrond wanted to show off as Lord of the recently-named Imladris, the newly finished home of the survivors of Eregion as well as some of the former inhabitants of Lindon, who had followed their young Lord through the struggles of wartime.

“You will find, Elrond,” Thranduil said calmly, turning his head to smile at the small boy who shared so many of his features, “when you and the Lady Celebrían have elflings of your own-” pausing, Thranduil was rewarded by the sight of Elrond's ears reddening, “-that there are very few inconveniences you will not suffer to make them smile.”

“My Lord?” Elrond asked, apparently confused. Thranduil smirked, feeling the experiences that separated them keenly, like a mantle of wisdom born of the trials of parenthood.

“Watch,” he chuckled, handing Erestor the vase he had been meant to admire - it was lovely craftsmanship, made of thin-blown glass, but not particularly pretty in Thranduil’s opinion. Squaring his shoulders, Thranduil set off at his usual brisk walking pace; the Elves here might like their slow and steady meandering through their gardens, but Thranduil was used to an altogether different speed of motion. Not for the first time, he wondered what would have happened if Oropher had decided to head for Gondolin when Doriath was sacked instead of staying with Círdan’s people, wondered who he might be if the past nearly three thousand years had not happened the way they had, but he shook off the thoughts. Despite the grief he had suffered, he knew he would change none of it, choosing to dwell on the joys of his long life whenever possible.

“WEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!”

Behind him, sliding across the even floors on the long train of his robes, his youngest son squealed with laughter. The expected result made Thranduil chuckle into the goblet of miruvor he still held, turning around with a wry smirk in Elrond’s direction as he toasted his host with the goblet. Erestor looked sour, striding off in silence, but his absence was no great loss in Thranduil’s opinion. Setting off once more, he returned to Elrond's side, prompting another loud round of giggling from his Little Leaf. Thranduil smiled. The new Lord of Imladris stared. Legolas kept giggling to himself, and Thranduil felt his heart swell with love.

“Again, Ada, again,” the elfling begged, but Thranduil picked him up instead, putting down his empty goblet. Legolas snuggled into his chest, trying to hide a yawn.

“It is late, ionneg,” Thranduil murmured. “Why are you not in bed like Amathanar?” He had bid Legolas goodnight hours before, leaving him in the competent care of Maeassel, but he knew that the little boy’s mischievous spirit – a joy to behold, but also a piercing reminder of his oldest son, who had been the embodiment of mischief right up until the day an Orc’s spear claimed his life – had probably overcome him; his youngest son wanted to experience everything, rarely content with being sent to bed if his ada was awake and doing things. Thranduil knew that he indulged the boy, but he couldn’t find it in his heart to stop, even though he knew Nínimeth would have laughed at him a time or two if she could see them.

Legolas murmured something unintelligible in response and Thranduil wrapped a fold of his robes around the sleepy elfling, humming a soft tune.

“I... You do that often?” Elrond seemed to change his mind mid-sentence, but Thranduil just nodded. In fact, all of his robes had reinforced shoulder seams, precisely because Legolas liked to ride along behind him. In the beginning, Thranduil had found the habit peculiar, but slowly it became a simple source of joy to watch his son smile when his turn of speed made the small belly tickle with exhilaration. It was the same expression he saw when he took Legolas riding, the same expression his Naneth had worn when she challenged him to a race or a swim, dragging him anywhere in their vast forest home to show off all the joys to be found beneath the green leaves.

The habit had lessened over the years as Legolas grew capable of running around on his own, but it remained one of his favourite games; especially when he was a little tired and wanting reassurance. Thranduil smiled softly, pressing his mouth to the tip of a finely pointed ear. Legolas burrowed closer into his chest, his breath turning into soft snores as Thranduil rocked him slowly.

“If it makes my son laugh, there is very little I would not do,” Thranduil admitted, knowing that he did not need to add any other reason: Elrond had seen his Queen on her way to the Grey Havens, and he knew what it was to grow up without a parent, even if he claimed that the Feanorioni had loved him and his brother. The Lord of Imladris nodded silently, leading the way back towards the feast in the main hall where Lady Celebrían was looking even more radiant than her mother as she entertained the guests.

Legolas slept peacefully in his arms. The sight brought softness to many eyes, most of the assembled still remembering terrible years of warfare and the cost of the peace they had won. To many - and to Thranduil himself - little Legolas was proof that their peace would last: at the age of 30, he was still a young child, the slower growth a visible reminder that the Darkness had been defeated and Barad-dûr thrown down.

 Taking a seat by Elrond - he was among the highest-ranking visitors and merited a seat of honour even if they had not been friends - Thranduil shifted Legolas’s sleeping body into his lap and picked up a goblet of spring water, sipping slowly. Around them, the celebration continued, but Thranduil was content to hold his son and listen as he enjoyed the joyous feeling of celebration that hung in the air.

“May I?” Celebrían asked, and Thranduil couldn't find it in his heart to deny her, even if he would have preferred to spend the rest of the night holding his son. He nodded, letting her pick up the sleeping elfling and take him further down the table. When she was out of earshot, he chuckled lightly.

“Hmmm?” Elrond asked, pouring wine into their empty goblets. For a moment, he had been lost in staring at his radiant beauty, but Thranduil’s mirth made him turn his head away from the silver hair that glowed in the light of the moon.

“I dare say you will know the joys of fatherhood ere long,” Thranduil smirked, watching the soon-to-be Lady of Imladris cooing over his son. Elrond choked on his drink.

“Should I not wed her before you begin taking about elflings,” he spluttered, wiping ineffectively at his robes. Thranduil chuckled, handing him a napkin.

“I give you no more than thirty years before your first elfling arrives,” he predicted, feeling smug when Elrond's ears reddened again. Sometimes, Thranduil thought smugly, having had his elflings at a comparatively young age like most Silvans, the Lord of Imladris was far too easily flustered.

“You're on!” Elrond called, when he had stopped coughing and downed the rest of his goblet. Thranduil laughed outright.

“I shall expect settlement in silk, I think, my short-sighted friend. Enough for a new robe.”

In 130, Thranduil received a messenger from Imladris bearing a scroll with the single word ‘Twins!’ on it, and several bolts of fine silk cloth in a small wagon.

He laughed for a very long time.

#tolkiengenweek #legolas #thranduil #baby legolas #fic