#the silm fic

[searchingforserendipity25]

@finweanladiesweek | day one. miriel/indis

in the last year of miriel's life as she counted her life, the one before she grew heavy with child, the noldor had been the ones to host the competitions.

miriel remembered it only vaguely now, through a summer's haze - the bright clarions ringing, the pressing irritation of setting aside the project she had been working on in exchange for the hot light of laurelin and the duties of state - the deep satisfaction of seeing her own banners flying boldly, her husband clad by the work of her own hand.

after death, and in the time before death, she forgot about it all - the colour of the fabrics, the words spoken in praise and adoration to the valar upholding the celebration.

of the last days lived in shadowless felicity, miriel remembered best the minyar's youngest champion, the best and first of their begotten children born in aman.

tall and graceful and very swift, wrestling quendi twice her size in the games, distinguished among the rest of the golden-haired plenty of valmar only for how she laughed at the finishing line, when she won victory for her people or otherwise.

that was what miriel recalled: indis of the vanyar, dust-spotted and freckled, tall and dangerous and joyful, throwing the flowers of her success at the embroidered slippers of the queen of tirion.

finwë had been all for his friends then, turned towards ingwë's clasping hand and olwë's counsel, sitting away and above, so thickly wound together elu's absence was not an absence at all. other athletes had honoured the three kings already, offering their hard-won laurel crowns.

these flowers were for miriel alone, gathered beforehand, the sort of generosity that would become a gesture of friendship, a queenly offering, merely because indis was dust-spotted, tall and dangerous and kind.

osmantus, jasmine, the purple violets that grew upon taniquentil - miriel had had to bend down to pick them up. she remembered that, very clearly - the petals crinkling between her reaching fingers, the sweetness of indis' smile.

the robes she bore were among the best she had produced so far, as fair as the gauzy guise vána donned for the occasion, a glory of the noldor wore about her body in much the same way as tirion was dressed in its banners. the violets had stained them irreversibly.

she might have loathed someone for that, once.

enclosed in the halls of mandos, weary even as a shade and wearied of nothing so much as herself, miriel sought back their sweetness instead. there was little else to do. the perfumes of lórien and the proud, blooming lilies finwë had brought for her rooms during her weakness had grown to be so much ugliness to her.

miriel shed them all, along with her flesh. the smell of joy had become the laughing solemnity of indis vanyarin, to whom she had never spoken; and that much she wished to have as a memory.

finwë's choice never did surprise her; serindë would have chosen so herself, if life had been something she were willing to carry.

#finwean ladies week #miriel #indis #finwe #miriel/indis #míriel serinde #the silm fic #the silmarillion #tolkien fanfiction

[ofmiceandwomen]

Steampunk Silmarillion: Daeron

The Sindar managed to break into Sauron’s secret research facility. They have found their kidnapped fellows in miserable conditions and managed to free them from their cells. Aeglos and Daeron were almost captured. Who knows how would they end up, if Daeron hasn’t grabbed his flute.

The music filled the cold room. The air feels…different. Dense, as if dozens of men were here, fighting for life and fighting for their right to breathe. As if all the elves who died in the room returned for their revenge. The lights are getting brighter and brighter as the light is getting almost unbearable. The effect it had on both the doctor and the nurse is beyond shocking. They stare at the musician, eyes wide and full of utter fear. (Narrator, played by me)

And this is how the elves rediscovered the power of music.

#silmarillion #tolkien #my art #the silm fandom #silmart #steampunk silmarillion #the silmarillion #sindar #the slim au #the slim rp #the silmarillion discord server #the silm fic #jrrtolkien #the silm #aeglos #oc art

[urwendii]

Pairing: Eönwë x Mairon

Wordcount: 4k

Rating: E

Summary:

Mairon has always outshone most of them, always aimed higher, always surpassed. Eönwë can’t help himself to feel curious about the fire Maia, can’t help the attraction, can’t keep away. As Mairon attracts the attention of another one, Eönwë sets himself to keep his friend by their sides. What he does not know yet is that to prevent the corruption of another soul, he might pay a heavy price for his own. 

Written for @myslashyvalentine for @cilil 💝 in which this year's matching was ICONIC 😂

#eonwe #mairon #eönwë #mairon x eonwe #eonwe x mairon #the silm fic

[ylieke]

"And Melkor entered his realm. And the Dark bowed before its Lord, and came apart in the light of Silmarilli. The creatures of the night prostrated themselves on the ground in hopes that they would be spared and his heavy gaze wouldn’t fall on them. Sauron bowed low, pinned down by the terror that like a cape was draped over the Fallen Vala. He relinquished all the power he held in his absence and laid it for him, as a servant must." An illistraion for the "Play with fire" fanfic by @eternal-fear

#my art #silm art #silmarillion #the silm fandom #the silmarillion #melkor #sauron #play with fire #fireplay #the silm #silmarils #silm fic #silmart #fantasy art #fantasy character #silmarillion fanfiction #fanfic #fanfiction

[azaisya]

@just-another-linguist and @melestasflight both requested Fingon which was v exciting. Fingon is one of the characters that really stuck with me the first time I read the Silm, but I’ve never actually drawn him. In my mind this is like a Valinor-era Fingon!

#fingon #silmarillion #silm art #silmarillion fanart #tolkien fanart #candlesart #here down in the valley #I’d started reading the silm after I’d just finished reading this v extensive aragorn&legolas series #that mostly just involved one of them getting whumped and the other having to rescue him #it was a fantastic time. ‘mellon’ was possibly in the title #anyway it was pure h/c w a side of road trips and so when fingon went on his road trip to rescue maedhros #my brain immediately supplemented the like paragraph of description w the tens of thousands of words of a&l fic I’d just read #which. given that my first read of the silm was mostly just a blur of names and locations #made fingon and his rescue incredibly memorable

[gwaedhannen]

Avari cities whose entire populace all faded thousands of years ago.

The gates are open, yet you know you are watched as you walk in.

Surely that is the sound of a bustling marketplace around the bend? But no, you reach the square and its empty of life. The stalls are open, but none sell food.

You take a wooden knickknack from one stall. As you walk away you feel— thiefthiefshameguiltyguiltyTHIEF

You double back and leave a coin. The pressure fades.

On the counter of the inn is a mug of fresh beer, waiting for you. You leave a coin. No, two coins. This was generous.

You sit at an empty table and do not feel alone. You can almost hear the bawdy singing and smell the roasting pork.

The ale tastes like the farm in the dells where you danced with your husband in the wheat fields and kissed him below the endless stars and the bedroom where you promised your eternal soul to his and the floorboards he cut himself that you buried his empty shell under and the green door you closed behind you for the last time as you set out for something new and the eastward breeze that sometimes carries his voice out of the Uttermost West and the answers you’ll never give him

You were never married. You’re not thirsty anymore.

As you lie down in an empty room, nothing wishes you peaceful dreams.

You wake up. The bed is a mound of dirt. The inn is dust. The marketplace is stones and overgrowth. The gate is closed. The walls about it are gone.

In what might have been the rot of the stall you visited, no copper gleams. You take the toy you purchased from your pocket. The paint is still unchipped.

You leave through what might have been a watchtower, once. Remember, you do not hear it say.

#silmarillion #the silmarillion #lord of the rings #lotr #tolkien #worldbuilding #avari #stormwritten #silm fic

[istaricelebelasse]

There is a horn. It is nothing special, made from the tusk of some beast that Aredhel barely even recalls felling.

There had been many such beasts on The Ice after all.

The horn had found its way into her luggage and over so many restless nights watching over little Idril she had made it.

It does not compare to those that The Hunt had used in Aman, bound as it is with scant strips of leather and metalwork repurposed from a necklace that she could not wear on The Ice.

But it is hers. And it is precious, in a strange way.

She does not take it when she leaves her brother’s city. It remains, untouched, in her rooms.

It watches as she slowly fades from a poison bestowed by her husband.

The horn is given to her son, yet he has no use for it. A love of hunting and the great outdoors was not anything she passed on to her only child.

It is gifted to another, to a child borne of his cousin, a more precious gift than perhaps his cousin realises.

(One of the few pieces he has of his mother. A wish and a warning and an apology all at once.)

Somehow it survives the Fall. Somehow it ends up in Sirion.

It does not burn in the destruction. Nor is it taken by the Sons of Feanor as they take their hostages.

It lies, abandoned on the floor, until the King comes (too late) to the aid of the city.

There are too few survivors, but they can ill afford to leave any supplies behind. And besides, Gil-Galad can recall his cousin placing a strange solemn honour upon the hunting horn.

It sits, unused, until the Sons of Earendil are returned to their king, whereupon it, aged and yet bearing a presence is returned to them.

There is little argument over which of them gets that piece of their father when it is time for them to separate. The elder twin takes it, as he took their foster father’s sword. The younger is content with a silver harp and the book of their mother’s herblore.

Elros takes it with him. A symbol of his House, and honour for his heir to bear.

Down it goes, down down down the generations until there is little but a drop of Numenorian blood left in its bearer.

It crosses oceans and continents and Ages of the World, survives battles and sieges and the falls of Great Cities and Great Kings until all that is left is a Steward upon his throne sending a son to find answers for a dream.

Finally, on the shores of a river, overlooked by statues of the Kings of Old, the horn is blown for the last time.

It is blown to summon aid, to draw attention, to allow those it’s bearer would protect the chance to escape.

It takes three arrows to take down the horn’s bearer, and the Falls of Rauros to finally grant the horn rest.

The Horn of Aredhel Maeglin Earendil Elros Numenor Gondor is no more.

#horn of Gondor #silmarillion #lotr #aredhel #maeglin #earendil #elros #boromir #silm fic

[haleth]

The Bachelor: Nargothrond coming soon! (The Bachelor is Túrin. Everyone dies.) Flower meanings under the cut!

Aeglos (I based its appearance off of gorse flowers)- A fictional flower that grows near her grave and has the same name as Gil-Galad's spear (cause who doesn't love a Fin-Galad hc)

Carolina Roses- Love is dangerous (this one feels self evident)

Hemlock- You will be my death (...)

#finduilas #finduilas faelivrin #silmarillion #the silmarillion #silm #silm art #the children of húrin #tolkein #my art <3 #my posts <3 #once upon a time #I was peacefully working on my finduilas time travel fic #and then I woke up 5 days later with this drawing and a little less of my soul

[leucisticpuffin]

It is not yet dawn when they break camp – so much as "dawn" means these days, when the northern skies are ever black with smoke and orcs roam freely in the wilds of broken Beleriand. There are few places left free of the Enemy's taint. Yet the smoke cannot cover all light; the rim of the sky is blushed pink, and the new star rises in the West.

Maglor looks to the light, as the children do: all three fall quiet. But Maedhros walks ahead, his hand on his sword-hilt, and sees nothing but the dark and treacherous path ahead.

For @maedhrosmaglorweek, Day 5: New Horizons

#elrond and elros snuck in again because i love them #maedhros #maglor #elrond #elros #maedhrosmaglorweek #silm art #silmarillion art #silmarillion fanart #tolkien art #silm fic #drabble

[general-illyrin]

Crack fic idea inspired by this post:

At his death, Boromir gets transported to First Age Beleriand, and upon finding out Sauron -what do you mean, "Mairon"? why does everyone have so many names?!- is around, he promptly joins the Feanorians in attacking Morgoth. His reasons?

No one, especially not some god who doesn't even have the courage to show his face is going to stop him from killing Sauron himself and saving his friends. He'll march in there alone if he has to.

The Feanorians have an eight-pointed star just like Gondor, so they are definitely trustworthy (also to him it seems like they're the only ones doing anything)

Someone responsible needs to take care of this disaster of a family, and he will adopt them if that's what it takes (what do you mean, of course it is absolutely not because he's missing his brother)

#boromir #sauron #mairon #morgoth #feanorians #silm fic #crack fic #boromir lives au

[melestasflight]

Now rumour came to the camp in Hithlum of the march of Fingolfin and those that followed him, who had crossed the Grinding Ice; and all the world lay then in wonder at the coming of the Moon. But as the host of Fingolfin marched into Mithrim the Sun rose flaming in the West; and Fingolfin unfurled his blue and silver banners, and blew his horns, and flowers sprang beneath his marching feet, and the ages of the stars were ended. ~ "Of the Return of the Noldor", The Silmarillion

a little art throwback for the first day of @march-of-the-noldor

Two beautiful writings were created for this art: Flowers sprang beneath his marching feet by @that-angry-noldo Longed-for a poem by @searchingforserendipity25

#fingolfin #helcaraxe #arrival to beleriand #silm art #silm fic #march of the noldor #silmarillion #tolkien #nolofinweans

[searchingforserendipity25]

AU-gust fic prompt:

Locked in a room + There was only one bed, in combination with

"I'll take care of it, don't worry!"

"How long has it been since you've slept?"

Thank you @ymfingsteadilyon! <3

Prompt from this list of AUs, my ask box is always open!

-

There were not many formal inns left to Minas Tirith after the battle at its gates, and the coming of the Rohirrim. Most operated informally, and some families, moved by need and by sympathy, opened the spaces of their vacated houses, the empty rooms of sons made swiftly useful in the grim certainty of their never-return.

"Do not expect food to go with the board. I can find you a place, but the window is boarded, and there is but one bed," the matron said briskly.

Maglor's mouth tightened, as did the hand with which he carried their light satchel, empty of even the last of their bread.

Daeron had grown used to his quick speech, and made a point to speak more quickly still. They had walked the long way from the Bay of Belfalas, making swift time with little rest, and Daeron wished dearly for a lightless place to rest his aching head.

He bowed, in a fashion older than the wrecked city of Minas Tirith, or the first ancient fortress to ever bear that name. "That is well, and better than well. We are most grateful for your hospitality."

"Repair my old loom and mend the hinges as you promised, and be gone by noon of the third day," Mother Morwen said, and sent them off.

The lady of the house looked at them not quite trustingly as they climbed the steps of the crooked staircase, not turning eyes eyes away. She was keen, as some Gondorians were, to sense a working of power when in its presence; though Daeron thought she would not have welcomed them at all, if she found anything to fear or disdain in their bearing.

A light enchantment concealed the strangeness of their appearance among Men. It could not hide the marks of battle on them - Daeron's still healing scratch, stark and ugly on his temple, the slow,  stiff way Maglor moved his knee. They had sought to appear to have the look of straggling soldiers, delayed from the host returning from the Gates of Mordor, and the guise was easy to chant and easy to hold, being very close to the truth.

The room itself was a narrow, slanting garret: a narrow, slanting window lit the caulked walls, cast changeful blue light upon the floating dust in the air.

Daeron rubbed at his cheek, avoiding the wound to his face, and thought wearily of rising once more, and filling the empty ewer, and washing his face as it needed to be washed.

In the end, they made the way northwards and westwards for the coronation. 

It had been a long debate. Maglor, self-wise with long reflection by the waters, avoided yielding lightly on any appeal to heart or loyalty or despair; and Daeron disliked the cities of Men greatly, for their sounds and smell, the cacophony of voices and all the mingled impression of many thousand mortal, splendid, forceful lives bound together in the Music.

Their songs had done grave damage to Sauron in the lands to the East of Ithilien for many years. A slow and gruelling and silent campaign, of enchanted groves and illusions raised up to trick passing bands of Gorthaur’s emissaries, to thwart chariots. To give time, and cover, and safety to the fleeing refugees that were at times forced to flee from their homes, for defying Sauron’s influence and rule and enslaving dominion. 

And now, to hesitate to undertake this journey, after so many others through torment and danger!

All things considered, it would have been rather remiss of them not to make the journey. For one thing, the songs to mark the end of one Age and the start of another must perforce be as excellent as they could be; and neither of them could offer a better wedding gift than their music.

They had laid out arguments for days before deciding, each taking one position one day, and another the next; convinced and unconvinced each other and themselves. Because both of them wished to go, and neither wished to admit it, they had gone on in silence.

It filled the small room, the quiet, followed their shadows against the wall. Already Maglor turned the room's single narrow stool. Before Daeron had sat himself down on the edge of the mattress, he had already turned the stool to face the door, and laid down his lute and long knife ready on his lap where he sat.

"There is no need to worry," he said at last, sensing Daeron's hesitation. "I will keep watch."

“Assuredly not,” Daeron said at once. “And let you keep us both awake with your nerves?"

“I am not beset by anything, much less the nerves,” Maglor said, very dignified, as if he had not spent all the resting hours of their few pauses on the way pacing by the fire, turning a flute between his fingers ceaselessly, eyes distant, set upon a distant past, and a near future. 

Daeron had not generally kept watch at all, for many years; he slept where he would in the wild, and heard the murmurs of the land’s movement as he slept. Danger did not touch him but lightly, for centuries.

That had been before Sauron grew in power, and sent his servants after him, seeking to claim him and use him. Daeron had not slept many nights since without Maglor keeping wary vigil - the palm of his cursed hand raised up, a threat and warning to the world that something foul was awake and listening.

 They had joined their journeys together, they two travelers, both very aware of the danger they courted in evading capture and the danger they might be if captured.

It had been a difficult choice to make, and a difficult life to lead; but it had been easy, very easy, in the end, to let the closeness of a hundred nights under the stars and days spent in quiet turn to shared song, and to a shared life. 

These were not his safe wandering places of years long lost. And yet - and yet, it was the end of an Age. Another one was starting. They had felt it, rising as the sun over cold mist in the days after Sauron’s defeat; a new Age, with very little of ancient lore and ancient power in it. 

“There is no danger,” Daeron said more softly, and knew it was true as he spoke. “How long has it been since last thou hast slept? This is the king’s city, and this the king’s peace. I find it very unlikely we should be beset by wraiths and assassins and robbers tonight, in this place, with how long we have spent guarding the king’s lands already. For one thing, it would lack any poetic beauty at all.” 

“Some poetic justice, perhaps,” said Maglor, who was always a little sore about his own guilt. But the stained line of mouth did ease, a little; and he set aside blade and instrument, and sat beside him him instead.

Daeron sighed. The feelings of the body beside him, familiar and ever-warm, eased the strain on his muscles. He could feel Maglor settling close, slowly, in a rare easing of tension.

There was peace, then, in the small room facing one of the seven broken city walls.

It was a strange notion, and a strange estrangement. Even now, scarred and weary to the bone, Daeron did not think of himself as a warrior. His king was dead, his lady, his teacher, his city; his part in the Music diminished, turned to small, unknown deeds, feats remembered by none, except in short-lived legends, and the memory of his companion.

He was but a wanderer, and not much given to wandering among the company of mortals at that. He had avoided war for many years, and fought in the shadows only. Had avoided the speech of speaking creatures altogether, and spoken to birds only, and then only to Maglor, and to what few people they met. He had not sought glory; he had not sought joy, though he had chosen it, when it grew into a thing that could be had.

Maglor sighed from deep in his chest, with a weariness Daeron felt as his own. His hand, when it held Daeron's, felt as heavy and graceful and terrible as the first time Daeron had taken it, and the closeness just as sweet when his eyes creased for him.

"How long hast it been since thou hast slept? Aye, very well. Let us have some rest, and put aside poetry for a time."

They slept wrapped close together, that night; and in the morning they washed themselves well, and went into the wrecked galleries where there were already markets of fruit and bread operating once more, and sellers offered salted fish from Dol Amroth in honour of the day's celebration; and the grey dawn opened over the splintered and shattered colonnades of the market square.

In the evening, there was the wedding of Elessar, the King returned; and of Arwen, called Undómiel, as fair and noble as Lúthien who danced in the meadows and glades of Menegroth. 

There was a wedding to be had; and the singing, all agreed, was surpassingly beautiful.

#daeron #maglor #daemags #my fic #a ficlet supposedly lol #thank you!! #the silm fic

[camille-lachenille]

A flickering flame

She looks at the babe in her arms, blissfully asleep and unaware of the world he just entered. This little boy who shouldn’t be, her miracle and her curse.

Drained, she leans back against the pillows as the midwife cleans the room. It’s a sad place, to bring a child to life in, this rickety little cabin in the woods. And yet, it is the only way to keep her secret, to keep her son safe.

“Do you have a name for him?” the midwife asks quietly. It is not the first time she asks, and not the first time silence is her only answer.

No, she doesn’t have a name for her son, because she did not mean to have a son. Because, by any mean, he should not even exist.

Yet, exist he does, and his warm weight against her breast chases some of the pain and melancholy away. She presses a light kiss to his soft dark hair. His eyes are blue, for now, and she wonders if they will change to her own brown or stay as blue as his sire’s. She considered calling him his father, even if just in her heart, but the wound is still too fresh and the word stings at this gaping absence. He left her, alone with this tiny, flickering life; he does not desserves any other title than sire of her son. And yet…

And yet this is not her son, she muses, not entirely, for the life in him is brighter and stronger than it ought to be. This babe a mere hours old already has a keen gaze, his large eyes reflecting the light. She wonders if they will reflect the stars, if she brings him outside.

She does not have foresight, for this is a gift of the Eldar, but she knows her time with her son is limited. That she has to secret him away and rip yet another piece of her heart if she wants him to live. He does not belong to the green forests of Ladros and the villages scattered there. He is not destined to the simple life of the men of this land.

With a heavy sigh, she carefully lays her son next to her on the bed and asks the midwife for the paper and ink she packed with her own supplies. The letter is short and to the point, just cryptic enough that anyone unaware of her identity can’t understand the message. There is precious little wax in the cabin, but she sacrifices a bit of her candle to seal the letter before handing it to the midwife.

“Give this to the closest courrier you can find,” she says, an order despite her tired voice. The midwife nods and tucks the letter in her bag. She won’t speak, she knows.

***

The answer comes swifter than she expected, in the form of a tall, cloaked figure entering the cabin at night. She almost screams in fear, reaching for the knife on the bedside, before recognising the face half hidden by the hood. The bright eyes shine in the dim light of the lone candle.

“You called for me?” the figure asks, his voice melodious and fair. If she did not know the identity of her visitor, she could have mistaken his voice for another, beloved one, just for the faintest moment. But he is not him. She will never see him again and she thinks ‘good riddance’ even as her heart bleeds.

Mutely, she signals to the visitor to sit on the side of the bed, and places her son in his arms. “Take him to safety, my Lord,” she says. “Tell whatever lies you want about his origins but keep him safe with his kin.”

“But you are his kin, my friend,” he replies calmly, even as he rocks the babe in his arms. And what a picture it would be, to see this great Lord playing nursemaid, if the situation wasn’t so painful.

She shakes her head. “He may share my blood but not my soul; I can see it in his eyes. He belongs with you. Please, take him and tell no one the truth!” and she hates how her voice shakes, how she is reduced to beg to have her son taken away from her. But she cannot keep him, she knew that from the very moment she felt this little life growing within her.

Her visitor sighs softly in defeat, and even this sound is music. “Very well, my nephew has a young daughter and his wife is still nursing. They will be happy to call him their son.” And his words sound like a promise.

A knot loosens in her chest at the knowledge her son will be well cared for. “Thank you, my friend,” she whispers quietly. “But go now, before dawn comes. There is a basket with supplies for the babe on the table.”

The visitor raises, towering over the bed she has spent the last few weeks in, close to her son, and secures the still sleeping babe in a sling against his heart with the uttermost care. Yes, her son will be safe in these hands.

He is about to leave, basket in hand, when he pauses by the door and turns to look at her. “You never told me his name.” His voice is serious and his gaze piercing.

She looks back at him, calm and sure of herself for the first time since he entered the cabin. “Artanáro,” she says with a tight little thing of a smile. “For his life is bright as a flame.”

Her friend smiles faintly as he looks back and forth between her and the babe. “Artanáro. Yes, it suits him.”

#tolkien #the silmarillion #athrabeth finrod ah andreth #gil galad #gil galad son of plothole #finrod #andreth saelind #implied aegnor x andreth #silm fic #tolkien fic #my writing

[urwendii]

Chapter 4: Whirling Winds

Wordcount: 3.7k

Summary:

Ungoliant emitted what could have been a snort.  “Sides? Which side are you talking about, little Ainu? I have no side for I exist not for your purpose nor your Music. I was before and I shall be after. But I shall be magnanimous and allow you to go free.” “Not without Arien.” Eönwë angrily cut

Chapter where Eönwë Goes Through Things

#eonwe #eönwë #arien #eönwë x arien #eonrien #the silm fic #the silmarillion #otp: he of the sun #so late on schedule but the writer block horror was too real #story: lost tale of the qorinomi

[massivewonderlandtragedy]

Some of the many thoughts I had whilst reading the Silmarillion:

"What the fuck?!", "you can't be serious", "DON'T DON'T!", "oh dear lord", "hear we go", "you absolute idiot", "Why? Just Why?", "Well I'm now depressed", "Oh I like him (dies) OH F*CKING COME ON", "(another character dies) another bites the dust", "does no one here have a brain cell?", "well maybe it can't get any wor- JESUS WEPT HOLY SH*T!!!"

#my art #my blog #my thoughts #silmarillion #manwe #ainur #melkor #middle earth #the silmarillion #valar #silmarillion fandom #silm fic #silm #maglor #maedhros #feanor #tolkien elves #the silm fandom #silm au #oromë #varda #silm art #maiar #aule #ulmo #turin #mairon #tolkein #jrr tolkien #lord of the rings

[an-eldritch-peredhel]

You are the daughter of an angelic faerie and an elven king. You have grown up inside the only magical safe-haven of an increasingly apocalyptic land outside. You have wanted for nothing, essentially leading the perfect life, suffering and death playing little role beyond the abstract. Your father will never die, and your mother will never leave, but for tradition you are still crown princess and are educated as such. You love to dance and to sing.

You meet some kind of monster inside your mother's borders, a monster not of her or your making. It stumbled across you, dancing in the forest, bloody and travel-worn and weary and wide-eyed as it stares. You are stronger than it, but you run rather than lunge for the kill. You feel pity, more than fear. And something about him makes the part of you that you inherited from your mother sing.

He tries to follow you, for a year and a day. You are stronger, and faster, and stealthier, and you let him see you sometimes anyways. You are not convinced that he is not a monster, but nor are you convinced that he is.

Spring blooms again to the tune of your song, and you let him get closer than before until you run.

But you hear him speak for the first time. He is a speaker, and perhaps to him you are the monster. You do not run, and you do not kill.

He calls you "Tinuviel"

He calls you nightingale- a little songbird, plain and brown, with a lovely voice. They are your mother's creation, but he does not know this.

He calls you daughter of twilight- perhaps for your skin and eyes and hair, but perhaps because that is when he has seen you most.

He calls you singer- creator of the very fabric of the universe, skilled enough to deserve the title.

You are the most beautiful creature the world will ever see, the daughter of an angel and a king. He does not call you beautiful, or angelic, or princess. He calls you a singer, plain and brown, dark and distant as the approaching night.

He is bloody and travel-worn and weary and wide-eyed as you dare to step closer.

He called you nightingale.

You don't know what to call him, but you hope to find out.

#my writing #my headcanons #headcanon #silm fic #lay of leithian #beren and luthien #luthien #luthien tinuviel #beren #eldritch peredhil #second person pov #sorry but the vibes demanded it #big kudos to that one post that went #'luthien probably stopped for beren bc he called her nightingale acknowledging her skill instead of her beauty' #bc that was a big inspiration here #luthien gets a lot of my love but THE RELATIONSHIP IS TWO SIDED #BEREN MAKES HER FEEL LIKE HERSELF AND I WILL NOT STAND FOR SLANDER #also incredible vibes that luthien canonically worries beren is an orc at first afaik #like maybe problematic but. an eldritch demigoddess going 'you look like you're on my parents kill list of monsters. oh well' speaks to me #not pictured is beren trying to pull himself together w/ internal screaming bc 1) that *should not have worked* #he is as smooth as sandpaper. he is a vegan hobo bogman who talks to animals and is traumatized and hasn't showered in months #2) the Creature that is Looking At Him with its head tilted and eyes pinning and stalking closer with fangs and talons out #should be doing much more for his survival instincts and much less for his libido than it is #beren is certifiably Doing His Best and i love him #banged this out in 10 minutes in a daze of blorbo squeezing lets see if people like it lol