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moononastring · 2 years

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What was your experience like as an OG Elucien? I haven't been around in the fandom that long, but I've seen multiple posts recently about how Eluciens in 2017-18 weren't treated that great by other shippers :(

So I joined the fandom in 2017 after getting into Throne of Glass. EOS had been released at that time and like any normal person who finished EOS and had to wait for the next book at that time, I was having a mental breakdown HAHA. Which is when I realized that I had bought a copy of ACOTAR a few months prior and hadn’t even touched it. Naturally, I knew SJM had drugs in her books so I had to start that series and I became obsessed.

By this time, ACOWAR had already been out which was great for me and I gobbled up the series. Then I joined the fandom. And it was great in the beginning tbh! People were so excited and had so many hilarious shitposts and theories and yeah, different ships were celebrated! People genuinely had fun.

I was a Moriel shipper through and through (which ya know, was toast in ACOWAR lol) and had always loved the idea of Azriel and Elain being really good friends. I had loved Lucien and Elain from the moment he reached for her in the ACOMAF Hybren scene and they were just it for me. I was sold! It honestly surprised me that more people didn't ship them at the time because the aesthetics were immaculate.

But people had different ships and different preferences! And it was totally fine and pleasant and I had so many mutuals that shipped what I didn’t but it was normal, fine! Supportive! We used to reblog each other’s fics and posts, even when we shipped opposite things!! It was really really nice those first few months!!

Until one day…it wasn’t so pleasant anymore. This shift happened where people decided if you shipped Elucien…something was wrong with you. “They are never going to happen.” “Sarah wouldn’t keep Elain with an abuser.” “You’re misogynistic if you ship them.” And all the adorable things Elucien shippers still hear to this day.

And it was never all shippers that said or did this. But it was enough that were nasty and mean. Enough shitty behavior that was normalized and my askbox started getting filled with these nasty anons. But I wasn’t the only one who started seeing this negative behavior and it pushed a lot of eluciens away, which truly sucked. There weren’t so many of us anyway and then many of those that were here then started getting fed up and backed away. It became a thing of “well we’re louder so we must be right” kind of thing from that side which as we all know, is what it looks like now.

There was always some nastiness. However, the difference is that there were people back then who called out that kind of behavior. There was always a reminder that “hey, this is fiction. Chill the fuck out.” There wasn’t as much self-righteousness as there are these days where “my opinion is the only one that is right and if you disagree you’re a pos” lol.

Fandom was fun times and a celebration of creativity. Until everything started getting personal and people turned these fake characters into self-inserts and if you don’t like the way they think about these characters, you’re a garbage human being. At the end of the day, we like what we like about this series and we dislike what we dislike. We can guess, we can theorize but Sarah will write what she writes. We will either be on the same page and continue with the series or we won’t like it and let it go. It's all a guessing game at this point!!

It’s really really really weird to me how much Elucien as a ship gets disregarded lol. They have a soul bond. Everyone loves mates until it gets to them. People want mating bonds for their ships until it gets to them. You can dislike it all you want but don’t be nasty about it because in the end, they’re mates in a series written by an author who loves the mating bond. Who talked about them as a couple as early on as she talked about Nessian and Feysand. No one ever doubted Nessian so I don’t understand the Elucien doubt? All for who, Azriel? Who in every book we see him in still longs for Mor? Elain is as much of a distraction for him as he is for her. But I don’t go into people’s askbox hollering what I think. I don’t fill their tags with my opinion of that ship and what I think of other people’s takes. And trust me, I could. Because some of things I see 🙄 But do you know why I don’t? Because I’m an adult who remembers these characters are fake but the people behind the accounts are real and I know what it’s like to be on the receiving end of shitty asks. It’s not nice or fun or called for.

Eluciens have been getting the shitty end of the stick for years. I admire the Gwynriels who actually bother to reply to the crappy takes/posts and stuff but as I’ve learned over the years, it’s not worth it. I personally don't bother because I truly don't give a single shit and I encourage others to go about it the same way lol. I’m just happy to see more people who ship Elucien and all that they have to offer! They’re my comfort ship and it makes me so happy to see the love. I miss the pleasantness that I had at the beginning of my fandom experience but I have also learned to cater my feed to what I enjoy so I can keep having a good time. It sucks but hey, at the end of the day, it's May 2022 and Elucien are still mates so 🤷🏻‍♀️

#elucien #elain archeron #lucien vanserra #OG Elucien experience was really nice until it wasn't #is the summary of this lol #I'm sorry it's long! but I have a lot of feelings #I miss the times where things were just fun #where everything wasn't taken so damn seriously #It's not that deep I promise #Block and be at peace is what I recommend tbh #asks #'nonnie #the bullying was always there #pretend it wasn't all you want but it was always there.

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nikethestatue · 1 year

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Regarding your post about fandom duplicity: I don't know anyone in this fandom who would write a crackship like the bat boys x Feyre or Azriel/Nesta/Cassian and also take shots at Elriel. Most crackship (and self-insert) writers and readers in this fandom are the most open-minded and lovely people here because they are explicitly and knowingly playing with these characters outside of canon and don't tie themselves down to any one ship. I thought you might appreciate that, as someone writing a poly Elain fic with love interests from all three SJM series.

It's the people who choose one side or another and refuse to ship Azriel with anyone who isn't a "canon" love interest who are usually the ones taking shots. They get so entrenched in their side of the war that anything that threatens their ship is fair game for nonsensical thinkpieces.

I mean, yes and no. I can name at least 4 big writers *3 Nessians and 2 Eluciens* who are viciously against Elriel, yet have no problem with writing Nessian x Az 3somes, and even Moriel and Cassian ones. And probably half a dozen one offs.

The thing is--no matter how anyone twists anything, Elriel IS CANON. It's canon in the books, it's canon in the bonus. It's offer and permission, mutual pining and attraction. Everything else is just HCs and willful refusal to acknowledge facts.

To me--write ALL the threesomes! Write ALL the orgies! The more the merrier. Just dont turn around and then say 'but this one is gross' because you don't like the ship.

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mystical-blaise · 2 years

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C, D, N, Z please!

C - A pairing you have never liked and probably never will?

E/riel, but it was never a real pairing in the first place. If we're talking about one that had the potential to exist? Moriel. D - A pairing you wish you liked but just can’t

Rowaelin. 🤷

N - Your favorite fanfiction or fanauthor

I have too many fav stories and too many authors to list, but I'll highlight @daevastanner, @hlizr50, @houseofhurricane, @mercurianbisous, @headcanonheadcase, and @khajoors as some of my absolute faves.

Z- Just ramble about something fan-related, go go go

Oh, geez. Me? Ramble? Okay, so I've been knee-deep in re-reading ACOSF to make sure I had something correct in my fic about the Valkyrie. I found a part yesterday that was interesting. The Valkyrie were from outside of Prythian. They were controlled by a king. Cassian was knocked out and assumed they died during their last stand. But, now I'm sus. Also, the things in the Middle were created. ALSO, Rhys said that the Fae were CREATED by the Daglan. Now I'm truly rambling and my mind is gonna explode. @hlizr50 knows how I get when I spiral.

#my asks #ask game

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separatist-apologist · 2 years

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Do you ever think you'll write any more fics with Mor in them? Specifically smut. I loved your feyre x mor and i feel like she doesnt get enough love. I remember when there was tons of content for her when moriel was a possibility but its kind of died since the acowar and then acosf open up some new possibilities but that didn't last long.

I am doing dragon Emorie- idk if you read the last chapter of A Mythical Thing, but Cassian brought Mor back to Windhaven with them, so she and Emerie are getting a 4 chapter spin off (probably between Cassian and Rhysand).

I also put the Mor x Feyre fic out as like, a test to see what would happen if I wrote Morlain. They're my favorite wlw pairing but I saw how vicious people were about Gwynlain and at least to me, the Feysands have always been very nice/chill/laid-back, so it felt safer to do Feyre (plus idk why but Feyre just radiates bi girl energy to me).

I'd like to write Morlain- a lot of Morlain. It also makes me nervous because this fandom is deeply heteronormative that they'll attack you for having wlw headcanons you KNOW aren't going to happen, you just like the aesthetic, and people have called me slurs in my askbox before.

#anyway yeah id write more mor #and if you have a little think youre interested in seeing #you can always send it to me #if i can make it work ill write it #and if i cant it doesnt offend me

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theserpentsadvocate · 7 months

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Five Women Who Never Loved Brandir Son of Handir

Uhhh... so I've been sitting on this one forever, I don't know why. Enjoy my original author's note:

Five things fic, because I wanted to. This is the third five things fic I’ve started, but the first one I’ve finished. (Besides, the Handir one has sort of mushroomed into this weird 5+2 format and I don’t know if it even qualifies anymore.) So, until I finish Five Things That Never Happened To Nienor Daughter Of Hurin and Five Ways Handir Son Of Haldir Could Have Survived The Nirnaeth Arnoediad (And What Would Have Happened If He Hadn’t), have Five Women Who Never Loved Brandir Son Of Handir. Unapologetic shippy fluff, OCs, and odd pairings ahead. Well, odd pairing.

Niniel

It’s spring when she comes to him and takes his hand and at first he doesn’t think anything of it because that’s what she does.

Then there’s a movement of her thumb against the back of his hand and when he looks up she blushes, though her eyes don’t skitter away, and he’s never seen her blush before, and everything changes.

There’s a nervousness in the way she bites softly at one side of her lip, and Niniel isn’t nervous – she gets along well enough normally, but she doesn’t have that sense of embarrassment other people do. She doesn’t fidget. She doesn’t blush.

But her face is flushed, and he wants to raise a hand and brush it against her cheek. He doesn’t.

Her smile is hesitant, and he’s never seen that before either. There are a lot of things he’s never seen.

“I think,” she says, and the smile still edges around the corners of her lips, “that maybe you love me.”

“Maybe,” he says blankly, and although his lips feel numb his voice comes hoarse from his throat.

“I think,” she says, “that maybe I love you.”

Maybe? he means to say, but there’s no sound. The smile dances back and forth across her face, barely there but clear enough.

“I don’t know a lot about love.” It’s half apology. “I can’t remember ever loving anyone.”

And maybe she doesn’t know enough, not to choose. He doesn’t think it really, wouldn’t think it if she’d chosen elsewhere, but he’s used to cutting back, turning away, making endless small sacrifices because that’s what he does, that’s what’s necessary, because his happiness is always second. That’s what it is to be chieftain, to be healer, to be –

To choose happiness is selfish, surely. It’s always felt that way.

“That’s all right,” he says, voice rough as if he’s swallowed a roomful of smoke. “We’ll learn together.”

Moriel

Brandir knows Hariel a little, though she and her family live outside of the Ephel. She’s a trapper and her son’s a woodsman who knows his game so they come to trade. Her daughter’s never come.

“We brought her,” Moriel’s brother says, blunt but apologetic. “I would have come ahead to tell you but Onda wanted me with her. I’m better for calming her down.”

“They’re not fits of emotion,” the girl says clearly. It surprises Brandir; she’s kept her eyes down this whole time, shy or nervous. He can see now she’s a bit older than he thought, maybe only a few years shy of his own age of twenty-five. The shyness, combined with her delicate looks, had thrown him off by six or eight years.

“Getting upset never gets you breathing better,” Aradir points out.

That doesn’t help much. “Hariel mentioned you didn’t travel because of this ailment,” Brandir says, voice friendly and neutral.

“The dust makes the fits come on,” she tells him straightforwardly. “The dogs can’t come inside the house anymore or it happens. I can’t run at all. Sometimes if I get very upset,” she allows, although she quite pointedly doesn’t look at her brother.

She doesn’t look at Brandir either, eyes fixed on her lap, though her voice is far too firm to put it down to shyness. He’s had people avoid his gaze before, but never avoid looking at him entirely. Is it so disturbing –

No. He has a patient.

“Flowers in spring?” he asks.

“Eh, sometimes,” she says. “It used to be fine. I didn’t start sneezing like Aradir. But now it seems like I move and I start wheezing.”

“It wasn’t always like this,” her brother says, more matter-of-fact than worried. “But she started getting ‘em when she was near ten year, they just weren’t so bad then.”

“Sometimes I think I’m going to die,” Moriel says. “The air just won’t go in. It’s worrisome.”

If she’d looked at him even once since they’d come through his door, he would like her for that. It’s worrisome.

“I can examine you,” he tells her. “But I think I know already. I can’t cure it, but I can give you medicine for when it happens. You’ll have to put it in boiling water and breathe in the smoke.”

“Good thing there’s always water on the boil,” Aradir comments. Brandir pushes up from his chair, trying not to notice that Moriel turns her head away while he arranges his crutch.

“I’ll fetch you some,” he says. “But I’ll have to prepare more.”

He left the door open as he puts together a packet and after a few moments hears Moriel whisper harshly to her brother, “That’s the chieftain’s son?” He swallows hard.

“What about him?”

There’s a soft thwack. “You never warned me he was handsome.”

Brandir almost drops his entire bundle of dried herbs on the floor. He swallows hard and fixes the crumpled leaves properly inside the cloth packet and then makes himself walk back through the door before he loses his nerve. It feels a little like the world’s turned sideways.

He’s never been handsome before.

“You’d better keep these with you,” he says. His voice is too brisk, but he forces himself to look at her. “About half what’s in the packet in a pot of hot water, to ease your breathing. I can make up something that will make the attacks less likely, but they’ll still happen.”

“But we don’t really know for certain if this works yet,” Moriel says diffidently. She meets his eyes, briefly, and then her gaze skitters around the room before she focusses somewhere just above his left shoulder. Her entire manner seems very different. “On me, I mean. I probably shouldn’t risk an attack somewhere with no hot water anyway, until I’m a bit better.”

“That’s probably wise.” His voice sounds even, which is a marvel considering all he can really think about is that Moriel herself is very pretty and surely she’s had practice speaking to all sorts of men?

“Then I guess I shouldn’t leave just yet.” She forces her eyes back to his and smiles a little awkwardly, but her voice is more confident. “I suppose I’ll have to stay a while.”

“Ah,” Brandir says articulately.

Moriel’s brother grumbles something under his breath, and she kicks him.

Lalaith

The dog doesn’t really look like a dog, but it’s clearly an animal of some kind. That doesn’t feel like much of an achievement, when his father’s birds are so detailed that you can identify the species even when they’re not the same size as real ones, but it’s… something.

Nienor plops down beside him, all carefree eight years of her. “What’s that?”

“It’s just a… thing,” Brandir says, setting it down.

“Lemme see.” She picks it up.

“It’s supposed to be a dog. It’s not very good…”

“I like it,” Nienor says decisively, putting it down again. “You should give it to my sister. She has all kinds of animals Labadal made her, but she doesn’t have a dog. Only wild animals.” She frowns. “Maybe there’s a wolf.”

“I’m sure your sister would be nice enough to accept it,” Brandir says, cringing at the thought of his rough effort next to that of a lifelong carpenter, “but it’s really not good. My father does much better.”

“I bet she’d like it,” Nienor says. “She likes you.”

“I know.” Urwen likes everyone. And everyone likes her, but she isn’t conceited about it.

“Don’t you like her?”

Brandir frowns. “Of course I like her. She’s very nice.”

“Then why haven’t you given her flowers or something? Girls like flowers from boys they like.” She frowns back at him in consideration. “You’re kind of a boy. You’re younger than Turin. Maybe you’re too old to give her flowers. You should give her a necklace or something. Or the dog.” She brightened. “Can you make a necklace out of wood? Or a bracelet? Do you think you’ll get married? Naneth wasn’t that much older than Lalaith when she got married. If you get married, can I be – ?”

Finally Brandir manages to drag his internal organs back into his chest from wherever they’ve disappeared to and stop her by waving his hands in the air in front of her face. It’s not very polite, but he’s having difficulty with words.

“That is not what I meant,” he says finally, as calmly as he can manage. “I like your sister. And I like you, and I like your father, and I like…” He hesitates. Morwen always makes him feel deficient, like he’s broken, not just damaged.

“Oh.” Nienor stares at the ground. “She’ll be sad.”

Brandir wants to argue with her – clearly she misunderstood her sister the same way she misunderstood him – but he can’t think what he should say first.

“Maybe you could like her?” Nienor suggests hopefully. “She’s really pretty, you know. And nice. And she knows lots of funny stories –”

“Why don’t you keep the dog?” Brandir says loudly. “Go on, I don’t mind.”

Nienor looks hurt – she hates being talked down to – but she takes the thing sullenly and sulks off, pouting, without saying anything else. Brandir slides down off his hillock and leans back against it, rubbing his hands over his face. Urwen is pretty and nice, and he likes her stories. And he really, really doesn’t want her to feel sorry for him, which she would if she heard about this conversation.

“I guess…”

He jerks upright. Lalaith is standing there, smiling a little sadly. “I guess things are different in Brethil.”

“A little,” Brandir says, feeling his heart shrivel up inside his chest. “Were you looking for Nienor?”

“She ran off towards the house,” she says. “I guess Mother doesn’t need me to fetch her anymore.”

“She said you had a whole bunch of little animals,” he offers lamely.

Urwen nods. “From Sador.”

Sador. Not Labadal.

“I guess… when Haladin girls want to be sweethearts with a boy, they just…” She makes a vague motion signifying action.

“I… yes, I think so…” He wouldn’t really know how it goes. He ought to stand up, while she’s standing, but his walking stick is too far to reach and he doesn’t want her to see the kind of hobbling he’s reduced to when he doesn’t have it.

“Turin told me about… um, I think it was Bariel…?”

“They don’t usually punch anyone in the face!” Brandir exclaims, humiliation momentarily forgotten. “That’s very unusual!”

Urwen smiles. “I don’t want to punch you in the face,” she says.

“I don’t want to punch anyone in the face,” he responds without thinking. Her expression shifts a bit, but she smiles again with effort.

“Right. I just thought maybe it was… Nienor was embarrassing you, but… well, I guess I was being silly. I’ll just…” She turns to leave.

“Wait, wait,” Brandir says, reaching out for her arm. It’s too far up and he gets a handful of the skirt of her pretty yellow dress instead. It’s soft. She’s a little bit like the dress, and that sounds stupid even in his head. “I can’t… um, I can’t…” He can feel himself going red. “Get up.” Just when he was thinking he hadn’t been humiliated after all. He can’t look at her.

“Oh…” She turns and fetches his crutch for him. His face is still burning when she hands it to him but instead of making some excuse and hurrying away she sits down next to him. After a little while he gets up the courage to look at her again. She smiles.

“I do still like flowers better than wooden bracelets,” she says.

Daerwen

His first duty, after burying his father, had been to bear his condolences to the families of the other fallen warriors. There had been a great many.

It shamed him to think that he couldn’t remember most of those meetings clearly, but it was true. Even those who had been angry, insulting, reaching out for someone to blame and striking close to the places that would truly cause pain – ‘And where we you, safe at home?’ ‘How could you understand, you’re no warrior!’ ‘Do you think to purchase my support, thus?’ – blurred together enough that they, and their suffering, were no individual, distinct entities in his mind.

He should have done better by them than that.

“You probably don’t remember me,” the woman by the fireside said. She smiled, but sadly.

“I do,” Brandir told her. “Daerwen.” He refrained from listing her husband’s name, although they both knew that must be how he thought of her. He’d meant to hold the bereaved in his mind as people, to remember their sorrow, their anger or guilt or acceptance – instead, he’d only managed to catalogue them by their dead. Daerwen’s husband had been Harlas, a spearman, and he’d bled out during the retreat, but all he remembered of her was that she hadn’t screamed or thrown him out of her house.

“You are kin to Aradis, I think,” he said to break the silence. They could have been merely friends, of course, but there was a strong resemblance in Daerwen to Aradis’s grandson.

“She was married to a cousin of my father’s,” Daerwen said, faultlessly polite. There was something in her quiet manner that put him in mind of his mother, so he imagined there was steel underneath. “Though not a close one.”

That meant that Aradis’s dead daughter was Daerwen’s kinswoman and agemate. If she’d ever had children with Harlas, they likely would have played with Mireth’s orphaned son.

“How unfortunate,” he said, meeting her eyes steadily so she would know him sincere. “I am afraid such losses are common.”

“Certainly.” She peered into the soup-pot, and, apparently satisfied, rose and came to sit nearer him. “I stifle, the way no one ever mentions it. But I suppose it is different for you.”

He looked at her cautiously. The last time he’d been in this house, Aradis had tried to throw him out, but ended by weeping so hard he’d had to hold her bodily from the floor. She seemed to hold no animosity or embarrassment, only worry over her grandson’s injury, but he could never be quite sure of his reception in such places.

“Having no time to grieve, I mean,” Daerwen said. She gave him that smile again, sad and half-yearning but not melancholic.

“And yet I did anyway,” Brandir said, “somehow. It was greatly against my judgement but I fear I could not do otherwise.”

Her smile spread a little, deepening, and lost some of its bittersweet quality. He only got a brief glance before she turned her face towards her lap. “It must have lost its hold on you, if you can say such things.”

“I –” It was necessary he be able to speak without tears or the suggestion they might be coming. “I still miss my father very much, and very frequently. But certainly I am no longer prevented from… going onwards in my life.” Was she unable to do so? At least she wished to, which was a good sign.

“I wonder if… you could put it that way to Aradis? Going onwards. It sounds much… friendlier than the words she uses when I mention hovering less over her grandson.” Her jaw clenched. “Or that I would like to marry again.”

“I think,” he told her seriously, “that you are admirable. And I shall do my best, although I cannot meddle if she has no wish for my help.”

“Of course not,” Daerwen told him. “And I want to thank you. Just hearing someone say it’s not wrong to want to move past him… it’s a comfort. I knew that –” She stopped.

“If you need help – not just interference, but advice or conversation – I am not so far away.” He’d made the offer many times in the last year, although it wasn’t frequently accepted. “You are always welcome, as long as you can find me.”

“Thank you.” There was a pause. He could hear Aradis descending the steps in the other room. Daerwen smiled a little. “I knew that you were the right choice.”

Nienor

The envoy leaves in two days.

It shouldn’t matter quite so much – things have been as productive as they can be, when Dor-lomin’s new leader has somewhat unreasonable expectations – but it does.

Brandir silently and emphatically calls himself a fool.

“Why the stormclouds?”

He laughs despite himself, although he’s startled Nienor managed to approach without his knowing. “The storm clouds?”

She shrugs, leaning against the side of his house. “Aerin used to say that when I was small. I fought with my mother… well, often. ‘Stormclouds’ was kinder than ‘royal sulk’, I suppose.”

“Are you accusing me of sulking?” He takes care to smile, both to dispel the impression and to avoid giving offense.

“No. I only wondered.”

“’An acorn for your thoughts’, we say here.” He gestures to the step. “You’re welcome to sit.”

Instead, she straddles end of the log he’s sitting on. Brandir turns to face her. She’s wearing a split skirt, and he can see she has leggings beneath it.

“An acorn for your thoughts.”

He shrugs. “Just wool-gathering.”

“They seem like unhappy sheep.”

That makes him smile. “Just heavy ones.”

Nienor frowns. “Wouldn’t that be a good thing? More wool? Or warmer?”

“I have a great number of responsibilities,” he offers, half-amused and half-exasperated.

“I suppose.” She sounds thoughtful. “When I first came, I thought you were a strange man by way of a leader.”

Brandir keeps his voice carefully neutral. He’s not sure what to think. “Did you?”

“I haven’t known many,” she acknowledges. “Just my brother, I suppose, and Brodda.” The thunderhead that crosses her face at that name is formidable. “But people still talk about my father. And there’s the Elf-king, I suppose.”

“The king of Doriath.”

“He as well.” He should have known she’d meant Fingon. The People of Hador were married to the Noldor. “Living, dead, good, bad… they all loved war, or their own authority, or both.”

Cautiously, Brandir ventures, “I never heard that Hurin son of Galdor loved either.”

“Didn’t you?” She sounds surprised. “No one ever speaks of him but the words ‘mighty warrior’ follow.”

“I grant you that,” he says, “easily! But a man may fight like the whirlwind and still bear no love for war. My father always spoke of his kinsman as a young man more in love with a jest and a song than with battle.”

She startles. “I suppose I knew they would have known each other – but I never think of it.” There’s silence for a moment. “When we first met, I thought you weak,” she says slowly. “Now, I think of going back to being surrounded by men who think strength is a sword-arm or the ability to command by force and I cannot think well of it.”

“I have always heard your brother a good man,” he says, although that isn’t entirely true. He’s heard nothing of Turin son of Hurin’s character – only his fighting prowess.

“He is,” Nienor says, almost sadly. “And he is an able leader, although I cannot say if he is a good one.”

That she makes a difference between the two strikes him forcibly, and both her discernment and the hint of praise hiding in the shadow of her words cause his heart to beat distractingly.

“But he’s what he was made,” she says simply. “I don’t know what kind of life it was, hunting orcs through the woods – but I sat in the Easterlings’ hall, and I have no love left for masterful men.”

The sadness of that – a reunion that is but a continuance of the separation – moves Brandir profoundly. He reaches for her hand, to offer what comfort he can, but as their fingers touch she raises her gaze to his, and it takes all his will not to freeze and thus betray himself.

“I have performed my duty to my brother well here, I think,” she says, forcing a ghost of a smile. “I will bear it out and bring back word – and then, I think, it will be done. And then perhaps – ” she glances so quickly at his hand over hers that he almost doesn’t see it, “then perhaps I may return.”

A/N: I wrote parts 1-4 Way Too Long Ago, and then finally finished it, I don’t know, two years back and immediately forgot that I’d finished it. So… Here it is now? Requisite notes:

1. Turin doesn’t exist. He never existed. The story still happened the same way up to this point because, well, it did. Or, Niniel blew him off because he was being really horrible to her friend. Or, he’s off living in a cave somewhere. Or similar. Whatever you like to imagine. :)

2. Handir is still alive and in charge here, obviously. He won’t die for about five more years per canon. Moriel has asthma (as you may have guessed). I described her in my notes once as being a ‘delicate princess with the soul of a drill sergeant’ which essentially means that not only will she fight you, but if you argue back you will look like an asshole. I like to think that when Turin arrives in Brethil she’s also pregnant, and Dorlas’s attempt to use him to unseat Brandir completely dies under the strength of Heavily Pregnant Woman Having An Asthma Attack Because Of You.

3. Some happy (or happier) AU or other where Brethil/Dor-lomin kids are fostered back and forth. Brandir’s staying with Hurin’s family. He and Lalaith are both sixteen. (I put in a backwards-math hint with Nienor’s age and then remembered that not everyone in the entire world has gone and memorized their age differences.)

4. Obviously the shippy part comes later. (Whoops, I guess it’s not all fluff.) But there’s a nice grounding of respect and friendliness and understanding and with a relationship that grows slowly out of that and out of shared grief and especially when accompanied by a dead spouse and requisite baggage (on one side) and political responsibility – and baggage! – (on the other) is going to, well, grow slowly, so the point that I don’t think a snippet from anywhere but much later would even look that much like a romantic relationship, even after it was one. Anyway. I may come back and poke this idea later and I may not.

5. Turin retook Dor-lomin, obviously. Nienor is the head of his envoy to Brethil. (His ‘unreasonable expectations’ are military support that would leave the Haladin with very precarious defenses; Brandir is sending supplies to rebuild and offers of trading instead.) A line I wanted to use but in the end couldn’t fit in: “Aerin, my mother… they all lived in Dor-lomin before the Easterlings came. They call it home, but for me, there’s nothing there but bad memories.”

#tolkien #brandir #brandir son of handir #nienor #my own work #fanfic #lalaith #misc men #silmarillion #unfinished tales #children of hurin #'onda' is my made-up casual term for 'mother' in the haladin's language #since moriel and her brother live farther away from the ephel and haven't been sindarized as much

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justtuesdays · 1 year

Text

it’s the little things: meet the vipers

5’7” | Los Ángeles, California

She’s tattooed herself once or twice.

5’7” | New York, New York

The only one successfully triple majoring at Camden.

5’9” | Brooklyn, New York

Loves Starbucks, hates coffee.

5’8” | Cambridge, England

Still doesn’t have her driver’s license.

5’8” | London, England

She’s made every dress she owns.

5’10” | New York, New York

They speak five languages. No they won’t say which.

5’5” | Bridgehampton, Long Island

Starts her mornings with a 5-mile run.

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highfaelucien · 3 years

Text

Babysitting the Heir - An Inner Circle Fic

Repost from 2016 (god I’m old) that I redrafted bc it’s cute and wholesome af. And after all the salt and angst I have provided, I felt it was only fair to bring some fluff to the table.

Title: Babysitting the Heir

Summary: Azriel and Mor babysit Feyre and Rhys’ young son, Nyx, so the two of them can have a little time to themselves. He ends up taking quite a strong liking to Az... Fluff, pure fluff.

Teaser: ‘The moment he slips into Azriel’s arms again he pillows his head calmly against his chest and settles completely, gazing up at him with big, innocent eyes.

Mor grins.’

Notes: No content warnings to speak of. Originally posted in 2016. Rewritten to update with (some) current canon, but also with some of my own additions, like happily queerplatonic Moriel. Because I can. And because this shit is adorable.

AO3: Link

“Be good for Aunt Mor, okay?” Feyre says, dipping forwards to kiss her son's forehead. “Does he understand the concept of ‘good’ yet?” Mor chirps conversationally.

Tilting her body she shifts in place and adjusts Nyx in her arms to allow Rhys to kiss him goodbye as well. “Why don’t you debate that with him this evening over some fine wine, Mor?” Rhys drawls.

The soft smile on his lips is very patently for his son; the words dripping with sarcasm very obviously for his cousin. Irritated by the baby balanced in her arms and her resulting lack of free hands with which to offer her cousin some obscene gesture, she makes do with snapping at him. “Why don’t you take a long walk off a very short balcony. Without wings. You sardonic pri-“ “We,” Feyre interrupts pointedly as Rhys starts smirking in a way that would have forced Mor to hand Nyx back to his mother so she could do something about it, “Are leaving,” she announces.

Grabbing her still obnoxiously smiling mate by his upper arm she begins to firmly drag him away from Mor before serious damage is done to his pretty face.

“Now,” Feyre adds in a slightly threatening growl as Rhys looks more than ready to continue bickering. “Thank you for this, Mor!” Feyre calls over her shoulder as she frog-marches Rhys to the door at the other end of the corridor.

“And you Az,” she adds with a smile and a wave, both hello and goodbye, tossed in the shadowsinger’s direction as he drifts serenely down the stairs to see what all the fuss is about in the hall. Mor lifts Nyx’s little hand with her first two fingers and has him wave goodbye to her parents while Az presses quiet kiss to her temple. His eyes fix on the baby in her arms with an air that suggests he’s seriously considering the possibility he might suddenly explode at any moment. “I’m going to the roof to train for a little while,” he murmurs quietly into her hair, his voice smooth and cool as ever. She nods, softly kissing the top of Nyx’s head, “We’ll be fine,” she says, shooing her partner upstairs, suppressing her eye roll with difficulty as she does so. “I’ll give you a shout if we need anything.”

Az nods his agreement then retreats silently back the way he had come leaving Mor to take Nyx into the living room alone. It’s not surprising. He does this every time they babysit for anyone. She knows that he’s more uncomfortable than the rest of them around any of the children, even if he secretly dotes on them, and she’s never pushed him into keeping her company unless she’s overwhelmed on her own. Which doesn’t happen often; usually only when Elain and Lucien’s twins are staying with them. Two years older than Nyx and already holy terrors in their own right. She chuckles to herself at the thought. She and Nyx have a nice afternoon that involves nothing more strenuous for Mor than setting him on her knee, holding his hands and bouncing him up and down until he giggles.

“Your parents are going to have so much fun when you start flying,” she teases as his small wings furl and unfurl excitedly. After an hour or so a servant interrupts politely to ask Mor if she could deal with something that’s arisen from some Court of Nightmares emissaries staying with them.

Nodding, Mor apologises to Nyx before gently popping him into the cot in front of the large floor to ceiling windows. Then she turns and hollers up the stairs for Azriel. He appears in moments and she stands on her toes to press a soft kiss to his cheek and give him her most winning smile, which immediately makes him look nervous. As it should.

“Would you keep an eye on Nyx for me?” she asks him, nuzzling affectionately against his taut chest. “I have to deal with the idiots from the Court of Nightmares. It shouldn’t take more than fifteen minutes or so.” Azriel frowns at this.

Mor sighs. “He’s a baby not a bogge, Az,” she reminds him, thinking that he’d probably rather tackle the latter on his own. She keeps that to herself however, looking beseechingly up at him. “Are you sure?” he deadpans, looking down at her, hazel eyes glittering. Mor beams and presses a hasty kiss to his lips that catches more cheek than mouth in her hurry as she darts for the door. “I won’t be long, thanks!” she’s calling over her shoulder at him, without him ever having quite agreed to this plan of hers. Then she winnows from the house and Az sighs; though he’s unable to entirely banish the small, affectionate smile that tugs at the corner of his lips in response to her. Padding into the room he gathers up the toys strewn around the room from earlier, wondering both how they ended up with so many and also how Mor had managed to scatter them so widely around the room in such a short space of time. He shakes his head slightly as he fishes one out from underneath the breakfast table, eyes twinkling at the whirlwind that is his Morrigan as he does so. He’s just setting everything back into the box in the corner when Nyx starts crying. Wincing at the sound he pads tentatively towards his cot, his wails increasing in volume with every moment.

Crouching down he gently rubs his tummy with his hand to soothe him. Trying not to cringe at the sight of the twisted, burned flesh touching the young child. Gentle hushing has no effect on him whatsoever and when his cries could more accurately be described as howling Azriel finally decides there’s nothing else for it.

Standing he tentatively reaches down into the crib and scoops him up into his arms. He’s held him before, naturally – neither Mor nor Feyre gave him any choice in the matter when he was born and continued to coax him into it afterwards – but it still feels...wrong somehow. His rough, scarred hands, hard with the calluses from his training are stained with more blood than he cares to remember. They were shaped to hold blades and handle the violent killing power that burns in his blue siphons, not children. He’s never been entirely comfortable with something so small and precious and fragile entrusted to his battered arms. Morrigan was one thing, but the little one... Slowly, he starts bouncing Nyx in his arms, the way Mor does to get him to quiet down. This plus the fact that he’s holding the child close to him seems to help.

He still sniffles faintly but he’s stopped screaming as though he’s trying to bring the place down at least. After a few minutes of gentle rocking and soothing murmuring he settles against his broad chest. “You were just being dramatic because you wanted some attention, weren’t you, little one?” Azriel muses quietly to him.

Mor, he’s noted, seems to talk away to him. all the time. Regardless of whether he understands, it's something he appears to like, so Azriel continues.

“That’s your father’s fault,” he informs him placidly. A broad smile spreads across his face as though he’s understood what he’s said and Az can’t help his own smile at the sight of it.

Nyx bats happily at his cheek, searching and grabbing at every bit of him he can reach from his arms.

Then the little fingers start to grab at his wings and he tenses, blinking down at him. “No, no,” he says in alarm as one small hand grips tightly onto the hooked, pointed talon at the crest of his wing and the other just grabs at whatever other part of it he can reach. “That’s not- No! Nyx, please-“ he tries hopelessly.

Prising his surprisingly strong grip off of him gently while still keeping one arm locked tightly around him proves to be near impossible.

He wonders vaguely if all children his age have such stubborn, iron grips or if this is a trait he can thank his mother for.

“Nyx-“ he pleads hopelessly as his small, nails dig into a sensitive spot of the membrane of his wing. A low, throaty chuckle interrupts his helpless floundering and he looks up to see Mor leaning artfully against one of the broad wooden pillars in the room. He’s rarely seen her looking so amused. “He’s one, Az,” she smirks at him, seeming to find his current predicament immensely amusing. “You can’t reason with him.” “Would you please-“ He gestures mutely for her to take Nyx back and somehow have him release his hold on him. Still laughing, her warm eyes dancing with merriment, Mor steps forwards at last and obliges him.

She scoops Nyx smoothly into her arms, detaching him from Azriel’s wing with ease.

Azriel shakes out his wings with relief and tucks them very firmly against his back. More so than he usually would. Something that's not missed by Mor, who gives him a wicked grin that has him groaning.

"Poor baby," she croons, voice playful and teasing.

Az gives her a half-hearted scowl in answer, starting to tidy the room again.

Mor's voice returns to normal as she kisses Nyx’s head and chuckles, “Wait ‘til we tell Uncle Cassian that all he has to do to bring the fearsome shadowsinger to his knees is not let go of his wing.”

Az shoots her a playful growl at the remark and Mor laughs again. Nyx, who had taken fairly well to being handed from one to the other of them like a solstice gift, had merely reached behind Mor to find something else to occupy himself.

While being obviously displeased by her lack of wings, he soon seems to decide that grabbing fistfuls of Mor’s beautiful golden hair will do just as well.

As Mor begins to carry him away from Azriel, however, he starts fussing again, his large, striking violet eyes fixed firmly on the retreating form of Az. Arching an eyebrow Mor wanders experimentally back to him and Nyx immediately reaches out for Az again, little fists grabbing the air insistently.

He blinks in surprise as he continues to squirm and fuss in Mor’s arms until she hands him over and coaxes him to take him again.

The moment she slips into Azriel’s arms again he pillows his head calmly against his chest and settles completely, gazing up at him with big, innocent eyes. Mor grins. “No,” he protests feebly, looking from one to the other of them and knowing he’s beaten long before he gets out, “No, Mor, I don’t want-“ She pats his shoulder consolingly, ruining the effect by laughing through it. “You can’t say no to your future High Lord, Az,” she trills, grinning broadly at him as Az blinks down at the baby nestled peacefully in his arms. “Mor, I,” he stumbles, looking down at her again, fear gripping him as he says, “What if I drop him? What if I hurt him?” He’s being as gentle and as careful with him as he can but... “You won’t,” Mor says, the laughter instantly easing from her voice as it drops, becoming even and soothing. “Come on,” she says, tenderly hooking her fingers between his forearm and Nyx’s soft, warm body and leading him over towards the comfortable couches by the fire. Patiently, Mor shows him different ways of holding Nyx to help him become more comfortable with the babe and stop him worrying about dropping or hurting him somehow.

To his credit, the little one is incredibly patient with being pushed and pulled into various different positions and doesn’t seem to mind as long as Azriel is doing most of the holding.

He snorts when Mor mentions he’s lucky he decided to discover this new side to himself with the very placid Nyx rather than the twins. Neither would have been nearly as accommodating of all this poking and prodding. When Nyx finally does seem to tire of training Azriel in how to deal with him and starts to become fussy again, Mor heads to the kitchen and brings back a bottle for him to feed him.

She watches the two of them fondly as Nyx sucks contentedly at the warm milk, his big violet eyes blinking serenely up at them both.

Az smiles down at her the whole while, his scarred hands cradling him gently. When he looks up and catches the faint gleam in Mor’s eye he carefully slides an arm around her shoulders and gathers her in against him. With a faint, contented hum he presses a soft kiss to the top of her head. Nyx successfully keeps Az in thrall all night. Each time he tries to leave him for more than a few minutes he makes his displeasure about his departure known to most of Velaris. “

You’re a devious little one,” he murmurs softly to him, after the third or fourth instance of this, tickling his tummy as Mor did, and watching him giggle happily in his lap. “That’s Rhys’s fault too.” Mor smirks. “What else was Rhys’s fault?” she enquires playfully, arching a golden eyebrow and plastering a wicked grin across her lips. Azriel smiles faintly.

“His flare for drama and need for constant attention,” he responds simply. Mor tips back her head and howls with laughter at that, so loudly that Nyx blinks at her and nuzzles in against his chest, alarmed by this outburst. Azriel gives her a gentle nudge to coax her to stop for the babe’s sake and she desists. “Well he’s clearly fond of you.” Mor observes, looking down at the small, placid bundle in his arms. “That level of sense can only come from his mother.” Az chuckles at that and the shadows that flit around him gather around his chest at the sound. “Do that again,” Mor says suddenly, her head tilted slightly to the side as she peers down at Nyx. “What?” Az asks, confused, not aware that he’d been doing anything more than absently rocking Nyx back and forth in his arms, something that seemed to soothe him “With the shadows,” Mor says and he tightens at the mention but she shakes her head, “Make them gather around your chest again,” she instructs and he obliges her uncertainly. At once, one of Nyx’s little hands shoots out, trying to grab them. Blinking in pleasant surprise, Az coaxes the shadows a little closer. He had deliberately kept them light, something that was never hard with Mor around, and away from Nyx in case he scared him. But he seems oddly transfixed by them. Again he reaches out, trying to grab at them, his little fists closing over air. Azriel starts to make them dart around him in little bursts and he keeps swiping for them, like a cat chasing a mouse, until he’s giggling wildly and Mor is laughing beside him at the sight.

Cautiously, Azriel reaches down and brushes Nyx’s soft pale skin with his shadows. His eyes go wide and his whole body stills. He repeats the gesture and he begins to laugh again as he tickles her with them.

Mor beams with delight, the unreserved joy on her face more intoxicating to him than a bottle of faerie wine at the Solstice. As the evening begins to draw to a close, both Mor and Nyx fall asleep on top of Azriel. Nyx sprawls flat against his chest. Meanwhile Mor presses in against his side, her head tucked into the crook of his neck, her legs curled up under her as she presses in against him.

Azriel smiles quietly at the sight of both of them, one hand underneath Nyx to keep him supported, the other trailing absently through Morrigan’s golden curls, absently stroking them and soothing her in her sleep. That’s the position that Feyre and Rhys find them in when they knock on the door and Azriel calls for them to come in several hours later.

Feyre smiles at the sight of them and hurries over to Azriel. She leans down and trails her fingers through Nyx’s soft, downy black hair. Mor stirs at the arrival of Feyre and Rhys and stretches away from Azriel like a cat, rubbing the sleep from her eyes and smiling dozily around at the scene. Azriel gets carefully to his feet and very gently hands Nyx to Rhys who soothes him almost instantly with a few quiet words when he wakes in response to all of the movement around him.

“That’s typical of Aunt Morrigan, isn’t it?” Rhys murmurs to Nyx, grinning at Mor over his son’s head. “Falling asleep and leaving poor Uncle Az to do all the work and cover for her.” Mor looses a rough growl at him and Az hastily snakes a hand around her waist, tugging her gently to his side and pressing a calming kiss to the top of her head while she glowers good naturedly at her smirking cousin.

“Well if that’s how you feel, cousin,” she says loftily, all anger suddenly smoothed away by a thought, which should only ever be read as concerning, “You won’t need to ask me to babysit when you want a date night again. You can just ask Az to do it all by himself, since he’s done ‘all the work’.”

Az felt himself pale at that, in spite of himself. Something his brother must note, because he quickly cuffs Mor on the back and says, “I don’t know what I’d ever do without you, cousin.”

“That’s what I thought,” Mor mutters under her breath, and Az gives her another small squeeze and a smile. “Was everything all right?” Feyre asks, looking between them, fondly stroking Nyx’s cheek as she moves to stand beside Rhys. “Everything was fine,” Azriel says smoothy, giving her a soft smile that instantly seems to reassure her. “Thank you again for having him,” she says, leaning forwards and embracing Mor then kissing Az’s cheek. They both assure them it was no problem and they’d be happy to do it again. Once Feyre and Rhys have left the two of them tidy up then flop down onto the couch. Mor immediately settles herself in Azriel’s lap, sprawling across him as though he’s a cushion. Az waits patiently for her to make herself comfortable and then settle down against him. Her smaller, more delicate form melts easily against his as she drapes her arms lazily around his chest. “So,” she says, a clear smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth, “You’ll be happy to help me the next time we babysit for Feyre and Rhys?” He smiles faintly “Feyre and Rhys?” He says, arching an eyebrow and lightly tapping her nose, “Yes,” he agrees, “Not Elain and Lucien.” He clarifies with a shudder at the thought of facing the twins alone. Mor laughs again and burrows affectionately in against him. “It’s okay,” she promises him, arching up to press a soft kiss to the tip of his nose, “We’ll tackle the two of them together.”

Azriel just wraps his arms around her, lightly kissing the top of her head and humming contentedly, closing his eyes. He’s asleep with his arms around her in minutes.

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theladyofbloodshed · 2 years

Note

I went into acotar knowing f/eysand is endgame so I hated Rhys’ actions utm but thought we’d get a better explanation? Also as soon as they get out he literally vanishes mid sentence and I was like wtf but in the next book he says the mate bond snapped so he left so I assumed they were endgame from the get go. Are people saying that f/eylin was originally endgame though?

I’m the same as I joined the party late. I didn’t have much of an attachment to Feyre/the first book as I knew they wouldn’t last. I do find beauty and the beast retellings awkward because how do you fall in love when you know you have to? (Eg a curse so dark and lonely).

I continued reading because I wanted to know why Rhys stumbled (I didn’t like Feyre). But yeah what I believe is Feylin was supposed to happen and it was only supposed to be one book but got picked up for more (just three?) hence the massive retcons. Moriel was also supposed to happen and there’s lots of artwork and fics of them but sjm received criticism for lack of diversity. Lucien resembles Beron in the first book then he’s Helion’s son. Elain and Nesta were wicked stepsister caricatures to make Feyre’s life that more tragic and fairytale like. Because sjm wrote Rhys as a proper villain she then had to wiggle him out of it by saying it wasn’t him like the winter court children and then had to take down Tamlin’s character to make Rhys shine.

#feel free to jump in if you know more #anon asks

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brandyovereager · 4 years

Text

Moriel Angst

I never specifically said her fiancee was Azriel but that’s who I had in mind when I wrote it. You can imagine someone else if you’d like. That being said: Major angst. You have been warned. Read at your own risk.

On ao3:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/22308301

Summary: A heavy dose of angst featuring Mor leaving Az at the altar.

It hadn’t taken more than one afternoon to find her perfect dress. The very first store her and Feyre walked into had racks upon racks full of lace, gossamer, and taffeta so thick they could hardly tell the mermaids from the A-lines. The shop worker seemed to know exactly where she was going though, and within ten minutes she had six dresses pulled for Mor to try on.

She’d chosen the third gown she tried on. It was light and airy with a double layered chiffon skirt—perfect for her May wedding. The seamstress had made a few alterations to fit it to her and it now hung perfectly on her full hips.

Now, the morning of, the dress felt neither light nor perfectly fitted. It was heavy—so rutting heavy—and suffocatingly tight. It was all wrong. Everything was wrong.

The flowers in her hands were gardenias—who in their right mind let her pick gardenias—and the stems were tied together in a silky yellow ribbon—disgusting. Feyre and Amren were each dressed in simple, camisole-strapped, midnight blue gowns. They looked beautiful, but it was sickening.

While the other two women were occupied placing extra pins in their fancy up-dos, Mor quietly slipped down the hall to the closest door. As soon as she turned its handle she breathed the un-tampered air deep into her soul.

She was The Morrigan. She was meant to be free.

But she wasn’t quite free yet. In her jitter-clouded mind she hadn’t looked at what lay outside the door, and now found herself face to face with about ten of her wedding guests. This certainly didn’t look good.

She knew exactly what they were thinking, could see the conclusion drawn in their minds as they registered what was in front of them. Here was the bride, dressed in her full finery, slipping out an exit that most definitely did not lead to the aisle where her fiancee waited.

She would have been more ashamed, would have tried to explain herself, had the situation not been exactly what it looked like.

She’d thought she could do it, thought she’d be happy with this as her future, but now she was only guilty and ashamed. He was a wonderful man, had been nothing but perfect in how he treated her. She loved him so much, she really did, but it was time to face the fact that she could never love him the way he did her—the way he deserved to have his wife love him.

She had tried her hardest to make this work, had wanted it to so bad, but all she’d done was dig herself too deep. She hadn’t wanted to hurt him before. She was going to ruin him now.

And that was what broke her, made her want to vanish into thin air. There was even a self-sacrificing part of her that willed her to turn around, to walk right back into that hall full of people and go through with it. She couldn’t do this to him. It was pulling her apart to leave, but it would be an absolute lie to stay.

He deserved better than that. Deserved better than her and her lies.

The side-exit door opening drew her attention. Soft, grey eyes found her own. Feyre. Feyre had found her.

For a moment Mor was ashamed all over again—afraid to face Feyre knowing what she was doing—but her best friend’s gaze held no judgement. Feyre was concerned—concerned for Mor.

It was then she remembered her friend’s own story. How she had left someone she loved on a day just like this—though in a far more hideous gown. Even with how terrible Tamlin had treated her, she still loved him. She still knew she would bring him pain by leaving. Feyre understood.

Mor threw her arms around Feyre and pulled them tight together. She realized her limbs were shaking only as she observed them next to Feyre’s steady ones. When Mor had calmed slightly Feyre pulled herself back to look in Mor’s eyes.

“Do you want me to talk you down, or am I about to be your getaway driver?” She was the perfect friend, simply willing to be whatever Mor needed, no questions asked.

“Do you have your car keys?”

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elesianne · 4 years

Text

A Silmarillion fanfic for @finweanladiesweek day 6 – original characters

Summary: Moriel, daughter of Caranthir, practises archery, gets advice from her father and receives a new name from her mother.

Wordcount: ~3,700 words; Rating: General audiences

Some keywords: family, father-daughter relationship, insecurity, names, Years of the Trees

A/N: This is a sequel to several fics in my Fëanorian marriages series but I don't think you don't need to have read them to read this.

This fic is dedicated to @alkarinqque, as I promised many months ago, because you have inspired me with yourenthusiasm and support to write more about Moriel. I hope that you like this.

Warning: There is discussion about looks, a sense of belonging, and beauty standards in the first chapter. There is no heavy angst or dysmorphia but I thought I'd warn anyway.

Moriel is the elven equivalent of about nine or ten years here.

Daughter of arrows and stars

On most days Carnistir enjoys teaching his older daughter mathematics and the other subjects that he is more equipped to handle than Tuilindien. On days like this, though, when Moriel cannot keep still for five seconds at a time, he has to breathe deep to keep his fragile patience from fraying too far.

'Do you have ants in your socks and sleeves?' he snaps when her slate falls to the floor from her tapping her chalk on it too forcefully. 'As it seems you cannot keep your hands or feet still at all.'

For a reply, his daughter scowls. She is good at it, with her expressive black brows and her hair falling to her face as a curly dark curtain.

Carnistir stands up. 'Let's go outside.' Something physical to do will be easier for them both.

Moriel looks confused. 'We always do mathematics in the morning and outdoor and workshop lessons in the afternoons.'

'Today we're going to have archery practice in the morning and return to tackling arithmetic after lunch.'

He is not going to interrogate Moriel about why she is so restless. She will tell him when he is ready, he knows. He was the same as a child.

He picks up Vaniel from the sturdy wicker basket where she has been babbling quietly to herself. Her chubby cheeks spread to a wide answering smile when he smiles down at her. She is such a happy baby, content to wait in her basket during Moriel's morning lessons, easily soothed by warm thoughts from Carnistir if she becomes bored or disgruntled.

'Let us go see if your mother can look after you, sweetheart', Carnistir says to Vaniel, smoothing down her wrinkled tunic. She says something in reply but for now, her words are all her own, incomprehensible to others. She will speak soon, though, Tuilindien says, and her intuitions about their children tend to be right.

Moriel grabs the empty basket and the three of them make their way to Tuilindien's study a few doors down.

Moriel throws open the door and declares loudly to her mother, swinging the basket in her hands, 'I cannot keep still and arithmetic is boring today so papa and I are going to shoot some arrows.'

Carnistir wonders how his child inherited Makalaurë and Curufinwë's flair for drama. Well, it is Fëanáro's flair for drama, originally, so his father is to blame for this too.

Tuilindien puts down her quill. Carnistir is sorry to have interrupted her writing.

'Is that so?' she asks and comes to them, wide yellow skirt swishing quietly. 'Vaniel will be staying with me, then.' She takes the baby from Carnistir and kisses her cheek. 'Yes, my little darling, you are far too young for archery.'

'I am sorry for the intrusion on your work', Carnistir says while Moriel puts down the basket on Tuilindien's long desk and then sets to making faces for Vaniel to laugh at.

'It is all right. I would probably have had to come to feed her soon anyway. Well, Moriel dear, I wish you the best of luck. Any day now you'll outshoot your father.'

Moriel preens. 'He's not very good.'

Carnistir gives in to the childish temptation to roll his eyes while Tuilindien tries to hide her grin. 'I'm better with a hunting spear', he says.

'You should teach me to use it, then', says Moriel, snake-quick to take the opportunity.

'I'm not giving you a spear yet.'

'You could', Moriel argues, and they argue about it all the while they go change for archery and gather the things they need and make their way to the little practice area that is partially in the garden and partially in the orchard behind it.

It is a years-long argument already. Carnistir knows he will give in soon.

They practise for a while, starting by stretching and then Moriel shoots at the different targets while Carnistir corrects her stance and grip and other small things that he still knows a little better than she does. If Moriel's interest and improvement in archery endures, Carnistir will soon have to ask Tyelkormo to take over teaching her.

Suddenly, in the middle of attempting to hit the farthest target, Moriel lowers her bow and says, 'I don't like the way I look. I don't look like anyone.'

Carnistir's confusion must show because Moriel clarifies, 'Not like anyone in the family.'

Carnistir takes her bow and his and puts them down on the bench, sitting down next to them and drawing Moriel with him to sit beside him.

'I could list all your body parts and who they look like', he offers lamely. Her mother's skin tone, his freckles and eyes, the same texture as hair as Tuilindien has but the colour from him…

'No.' Moriel scoffs. 'As a whole I don't look like anyone in the family and I don't like it.'

Carnistir's first instinct is to protest, to deny that it matters at all who or what she looks like. But he knows from painful personal experience that it does – it took him until the moment of Moriel's birth to make his peace with his own looks – and he knows that Moriel often finds more value in logic and method than simple declarations of what is important in the speaker's opinion.

He begins at her very expanded family. 'I think that when you have more cousins – more great-grandchildren of grandfather Finwë, I mean – there will be more people in the family who look like you. Itarillë does, though she is still small.'

'Very small.' Moriel scrunches up her nose. 'She is never going to be tall, even when she grows up.'

'Well, her Vanya mother is short unlike yours. Let's see.' He leans against the back of the bench, warm in the light, Moriel a light, warm weight against his side. 'Cousin Findekáno –'

'Half-cousin', Moriel corrects, parroting her grandfather. This once Carnistir wishes she didn't. It is not conducive to what he is trying to say.

'Findekáno looks a lot like you', Carnistir plods on. 'With curly black hair and grey eyes and brown skin –'

'Darker than mine', Moriel interrupts again.

Carnistir ruffles her hair. 'Let me make my point, pipsqueak. He looks a lot like you. Perhaps, if you want to give your grandfather conniptions, you should wear your hair braided with gold one day.'

Moriel snorts. 'Only if I'm very angry with him some day.'

'There's a plan. To my next point: yes, you don't look very much like any of your cousins or aunts or uncles. Well, no one looks like Tyelkormo either, do they? Or me. My face is so different from Curvo and Cáno's.'

Moriel nods, grudgingly admitting the point.

'I still wish', she says. 'All of my Vanyarin cousins look so different from me, too.'

'They do', Carnistir admits. 'Because unfortunately none of your aunts had the good sense to marry a Noldo.'

That doesn't inspire laughter. Carnistir thought it rather funny.

Detaching Moriel from his side and turning to face her, he says, drawing gentleness from within himself and resorting to the approach he originally abandoned, 'It does not matter if you don't look much like anyone in the family. In our closest little family – you, me, your mama and Vaniel – no one looks much like anyone else but we belong together anyway.'

'We do.' Moriel sighs, and Carnistir can practically see her shoulders lose some of their tension.

He draws her in for a long hug, and she comes willingly now. Blowing frizzy curls out of his mouth and carding his fingers through them, Carnistir says, 'You will likely have more little sisters or brothers someday and they may well look like you.'

Without lifting her head, Moriel mumbles, 'It is not just that I don't look much like anyone I'm related to but also that… sometimes I feel that I am too tall and too strong. I have big hands and I'm as broad and tall as Tyelpë. It isn't… no maiden of song ever looks like that. I don't think I'm very pretty.'

What rot, Carnistir thinks, and considers saying so. Then he realises that he should not pause to think for too long lest she think that he agrees with her.

'I don't agree', he says, to make it as clear as possible.

'Of course you think I'm pretty. I am your daughter so you are biased.' She pulls away from him.

And she is sullen again. Carnistir sighs.

His father said something once about temperamental children usually growing into parents of temperamental children. Carnistir hates it when he is proven right.

'I think that songs and poems are often utter rot when it comes to people', he says, picking words one by one like flowers, careful. 'Too many of them only describe some stereotypical ideals. Only maidens with dark hair and white skin and maidens with golden hair and dark skin, isn't that so? Only the extremes, somehow that is poetic or romantic or something. But it is not true at all that only women who look like that are beautiful.

'The truth is', he says, growing rather heated now, 'that people think all sorts of people are pretty or handsome and like all sorts of people. And just as true is that when one day you start thinking of… marrying sort of things...'

He realises that he has raised his voice. Perhaps that is good? Perhaps it will help Moriel believe him.

He carries on doggedly even though, as he utters each word, he fears failing her. 'When you meet someone you love, even then it doesn't matter what those over-decorated peacocks at court think a beautiful person looks like, or the over-romantic souls who write the popular songs.

'When it matters – when it is someone that matters to you, and you matter to them – that is the only time that your looks will matter –'

Too many matters, he thinks, yet carries on.

'Then they – that person – will not be measuring you up in their mind or summing up your flaws. They'll be looking at you and they'll see you and if they find your – your strong will and your keen eye and your vigilant care of your sister beautiful, then they'll find you beautiful.'

Moriel listens quietly, dark eyes intent on his, clutching a bent arrow in her hand still.

Carnistir ends, words still sticky on his tongue, with, 'What is to you beauty unseen will be blindingly bright for someone who loves you. As it already is to your mother and me.'

'Is that from a poem?' Moriel asks. 'From beauty unseen to blindingly bright.'

Carnistir can feel colour rise to his cheeks. 'No, it is just… the words that I arrived at when I thought about this.'

'You're always saying that you're not a poet. But you might be, secretly', Moriel says in the same tone as she might say an insult. It is hypocritical of her since she enjoys almost all music and much of poetry, too.

'I'm not a poet', Carnistir says. 'Only your father. And – and I'm not handsome', he adds. Tuilindien is always telling him not to say so but he has always believed in being honest to himself and about himself. 'But your mother loves me', he says to Moriel. 'The reason she did not marry me as soon as I'd have liked had nothing to do with what I look like, or it did in that way that only she can see.'

Moriel still looks dubious but she says, 'You are very happy. You and mama.'

'Yes, we are. Moriel, my darling, there is – I do not have good words for it but as I said there is a connection of spirits between friends and family that has little to do with looks and everything with, with what sort of a spirit you have.' The words are pouring out of him. 'If you like what a person's fëa is like you will like their hröa too. I never thought the Vanyar so beautiful before I met your mother.'

'I am brave', Moriel says, and she is, too foolhardy for even Carnistir's taste. 'I'm loyal like grandpapa Fëanáro is always saying we should be to our family and friends. I learn many things fast and I am a good sister to Vaniel and a good cousin to Tyelpë.'

'You are', Carnistir agrees, his chest tight at his brave girl's summary of herself. His lesson to her has become all muddled, but she seems to be taking some solace in it, and that is the important thing. 'You are smart and strong. Strength is beautiful, and skill.' Thinking of Moriel's patience and care with her baby sister, he adds, 'And kindness. A deeper beauty.'

'I also get grumpy too easily like you.' And she is honest like him, straight-spoken. 'But I know how to ask for forgiveness.'

'You have learned to do it much faster than I did.'

'You're a good teacher, papa.' Moriel pulls a grimy handkerchief out of her pocket and blows her nose on it. Carnistir makes a mental note to get her a clean one when they go inside.

She drops the bent arrow on the ground and picks up her bow. 'Let's shoot again.'

'Alright', Carnistir concedes. If Moriel doesn't have more to say, he doesn't know what to say either. 'Let us start by fetching the arrows you have shot so far.'

He goes to pull out the arrows Moriel managed to shoot into the targets while she searches around for the ones that fell short.

She sees that two embedded themselves into trees, and grimaces as she pulls them out.

'We will hear about this from the gardener and your mother both', Carnistir notes, grimacing as well.

He watches Moriel use all her strength to pull a stubbornly embedded arrow from a yavannamírë tree, the muscles in her bare forearms tensing.

'I know who you look like', he says. He doesn't know how he did not see it before.

With a hoop of victory and a few stumbling steps backwards, Moriel manages to pull out the arrow.

'Who?' she asks, bringing the arrows to their shooting line.

'My mother.' Even as Moriel begins protesting, Carnistir begins listing. 'You are tall and broad-shouldered, and nimble-fingered and strong-armed, and you have freckles you inherited from me and her. The different hair and skin is a small thing compared to all that. I believe that when you are grown and stand side by side with her, the resemblance will be remarkable.'

Moriel is quiet, the bunch of arrows still in her hand. 'I think I would like that. Especially if I will be as skilled as she is.'

'You will be. You have the same passion, and learning will be easier when you are naturally strong.'

As long as Moriel has known how to say it, she has been saying that she wants to be a smith. What kind of smith she intends to become changes every week, but the passion burns steady.

'Thank you, papa', Moriel says abruptly. 'I know you don't like talking about things like this and you think that mama is better at it. But sometimes I need… she is so nice; you know how she is. Sometimes it is too much for me.'

Carnistir clears his throat. 'Let's shoot twenty arrows, then we go inside for lunch. And then you need to talk with your mother, too, about whatever it is she wanted to talk to you about.'

Moriel stares at the targets, then turns to Carnistir with a grin, almost herself again. 'If I hit the farthest target on more than half of my tries, can I get two portions of dessert?'

He is too soft with her, he knows he is, yet he says, 'If you promise to eat enough actual lunch too.'

'I promise.'

She hits that target on all but one of her tries.

Part II

At dinner that evening, Moriel can see her mother stealing glances at her, probably to see if what was causing her restlessness earlier in the day has passed. Her mother is not much good at subtlety, and it doesn't take long for Moriel to grow tired of her concerned looks.

She puts down her spoon with too much of a clatter. 'Mama, I am all right', she says.

'Blurgh', says Vaniel who is getting acquainted with soup for the first time. She does not seem very impressed.

'I am glad if you are', mother says. 'Did the archery help, then?'

'Mm.' Moriel picks up her spoon and starts eating her soup again. It is good even if Vaniel doesn't think so. 'And papa and I talked.'

'You did?' Mother glances at father in that way they have. Moriel knows they are talking about her without saying anything.

'Don't do that', she grumbles. 'Please', she remembers to add though not before her mother's chastising look.

'Very well, I will ask you directly, then', mother acquiesces. 'Did talking with your papa help with whatever was on your mind?'

'It did.' Vaniel splashes at her soup, poking at it with a finger before father can stop her. Moriel gives her her dessert spoon to play with instead.

'I am glad', mother says again. 'There is something I have been meaning to talk to you about as well, Moriel dear.'

In her excitement, Moriel drops her spoon again. 'My name?'

She does not have a mother-name. She is unusually old for that but she hasn't minded it much so far, not really.

Many years ago mother asked her if it would be all right with her to wait a bit longer to see if she gets some special insight for a name, like mothers sometimes do, and Moriel said that it was. Then, a year ago, when she hadn't received any foresight or anything like that, mother had told Moriel of a name she'd thought of for her, a bird's name. Mother has a bird name – from tuilindo, swallow – and so do her sisters and many of their children.

She had asked, 'Do you like the name?' and Moriel had said no, because she didn't. It didn't feel like hers.

Mother had looked sad but said, 'Then it is not your name.'

'Maybe – maybe not a bird name', Moriel had said. She couldn't say why not, though; she didn't know. She does like birds.

Mother had accepted it. 'I will think of another kind of name, then. It will likely take some time. It turns out that I am very slow at naming children.'

Now mother says, with a smile at Moriel's enthusiasm, 'Yes, your name.'

'Tell me! Please', Moriel adds at a disapproving grunt from her father's direction.

Mother laughs and asks, 'Do you want to know right here and now, or wait until after dinner when we can talk, just you and I? Either way', she continues despite Moriel beginning to ask for her name now, 'please, mama'.

'Either way', mother says, 'you can refuse it if it doesn't feel like yours, and I will keep trying.'

'Now', says Moriel. She tries to keep from falling off her chair in her excitement.

(She is very old not to have a mother-name. Even Tyelpë, who is almost always nice and incidentally received his mother-name at one day old, has remarked on it.)

'Elerrína', says mother, her smile the same nervous one now that it is when she talks with grandpapa Fëanáro. 'I hope that perhaps you do not mind being named after a mountain?'

Elerrína is one of the names of Taniquetil, the holy mountain where mother grew up. Moriel thinks that it might be the least used one. She knows it only from songs, but she knows that it means 'crowned with stars'. Taniquetil is very high but not so high as to reach the stars, so it is a sort of poetic near-sensible name.

'Elerrína', Moriel says, testing the weight and shape of it on her tongue. It is longer and prettier than Moriel. It is similar in meaning if not form to aunt Tinweriel's name.

'For your freckles, my darling', mother says.

'Oh', says Moriel. She likes that. The name makes her freckles sound beautiful.

'I don't mind being named after a mountain', she says to her mother decisively. 'I want to be Elerrína. It's a mountain where Vanyar live and it's my Vanyarin name. Moriel is my Noldorin name.'

'You can take some time to decide which you prefer to be called.'

'I don't need time. I want to be called Moriel in Tirion and Elerrína on the plains and in Valmar and on Taniquetil. But you can always call me Moriel', she nods at her father, 'and mama, I like the way you say Elerrína, you can call me by it anywhere.'

'Being called by a different name in a different place is unconventional but it sounds like something that will fit you well', her mother. She gets up and comes to hug Moriel, pressing a kiss on her head. 'I am glad that you like the name', she whispers in her ear. 'I am sorry it took me so long to think of it.'

Moriel hugs her back. 'I didn't mind. I like being Moriel, too. Moriel Elerrína', she says, feeling out the combination. 'My name has rather a lot of r's.'

'Suits you', says father.

Moriel squints at him dubiously. She decides that she is too happy to get vexed.

Mother goes back to her own chair. 'I am already considering mother-names for Vaniel so that she might not have to wait as long', she says. 'I have learned, now, that I should not wait for any sort of foresight to inspire a name. It seems that that gift has passed me by though my father sometimes has inklings of things yet to happen.'

And from there mother and father launch into a long discussion about knowing things in advance of them happening. Moriel is not interested in it so she goes back to eating, tasting and savouring her new name along with every spoonful of soup.

'Elerrína, Elerrína', she whispers to herself. 'Star-crowned.'

'Sarrrb', says Vaniel.

'Quite so', Moriel agrees. 'Star-crowned.' She wipes mushed pea from Vaniel's cheek. Father is distracted with mother and not keeping much of an eye on Vaniel. It's alright; Moriel likes helping her during meals.

'I hope that mother will think of as pretty a name for you', Moriel says to her little sister.

A/N: In Names of insight, foresight, love I had Nerdanel asking her children whether they liked their mother-names before making the final choice of naming them thus. Tuilindien has the kind of nature where she would happily follow Nerdanel's example so I wrote her doing so.

Thank you for reading, I would love to hear what you guys thought about this!

#finweanladiesweek #I should have edited this one more round perhaps but I wanted to post it today #moriel #caranthir #tuilindien #my ocs #caranthir's daughters #daughter of arrows and stars #my fics #elesianne's fics

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