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senalishia · 1 year

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Tolkien Secret Santa NSFW Avent Calendar Day 16: Fantasies and Masturbation

Rating: Explicit

Content Note: Female Masturbation

Characters: Idril

Pairings: Idril/Tuor

Word Count: 660

Summary: Idril only masturbates to help herself sleep, but this time she can't get a certain Man out of her head as she does so...

Idril Celebrindal, princess of Gondolin, did not often feel any need to indulge in self-pleasure. But she had so much to worry about lately, and she could think of nothing else that might relax her enough that she could get a few hours of sleep. Since anything worth doing was worth doing well, she retrieved a couple of long-neglected tools from the back of her bedside drawer: a vial of rose-scented oil and a rounded rod of lacquered mahogany.

She dabbed her fingers with oil and gently stroked her nipples first, to whet her desire. Ran a hand through her hair and let the touch travel down her cheek, her neck, her chest, her belly. Combed her fingers through the short curls between her legs and drew up the middle to check her slickness. When her hips wriggled involuntarily with wanting, she was ready to begin in earnest.

She thoroughly oiled her "little assistant", spread her legs, and slowly slid it inside herself. She was out of practice, and even its modest width nearly felt too big, but even so she moaned softly at the pleasant stretch. For now, she simply held it in place with one hand, and with the other began to lightly brush her clit.

The mental images she used to stoke her desire during such moments had never before amounted to more than a vague silhouette in her mind's eye of the masculine form she found most attractive. This time, however, she had barely gotten her heart beating faster before a particular face appeared unbidden in her thoughts. To her horror, it was none other than the holy messenger of Ulmo sent to warn them of the city's imminent destruction.

Her hands froze. Of course Tuor had been in her thoughts far too often lately. His message was vital to her people's survival. Besides, he was considerate, thoughtful, and well spoken, and had traveled through leagues of danger and hardship to fulfill his Vala-given duty. And from what she had seen, his body matched only too well the shapely form she had been imagining.

But he was a servant of the Valar! And a mortal! It was completely inappropriate for her to--she bit her lip in frustration as she discovered she had unconsciously begun rubbing at herself once more with him still in mind.

It wasn't fair! He was simply--she began rhythmically thrusting the rod in and out--simply so tall, with such well formed thighs and--and yes, buttocks as well (she had only looked the one time.) His arms were too nicely muscled to be allowed, and even--she increased the pressure and speed on her clit--even the scars tracing his forearms only spoke of his bravery. His shoulders had no right to be--she panted for breath as her heart raced with the exertion--nearly as broad as the branches of a young tree.

Varda help her, she couldn't even fault him for the ridiculous little hairs all over his face! She wanted to know what they would feel like against the palm of her hand--or better yet, the delicate skin of her thighs--she penetrated herself harder, deeper, angled the rod so that it hit her just there--yes-- What hidden truths might she learn if she were to let him kiss her over every inch of her body, uncover all her secret places, set her ablaze until she--she--

The force of her climax wrenched from her a cry so loud she feared the entire tower could hear. Well, she told herself as she abashedly cleaned her things afterward and put them away, they could think what they liked. She couldn't really be judged for what went on solely in the confines of her own head after all, could she?

At least she could not complain about the results. She felt wonderfully loose, almost floaty, as she snuggled back into bed. As soon as she closed her eyes, she dropped into a deep sleep that lasted well past dawn.

#tss2022advent #tss2022advent16 #tss2022adventnsft #silmarillion #idril #idril/tuor #fanfiction

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moony-isa · 1 year

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Welcome to my first headcanon, from my favorite fnaf sb character, sundrop, hope you like it. If I made it more like a whole chapter than a headcanon, I'm sorry, I like to make it big.

☀️ Sundrop Headcanon ☀️

For the first time you met him, it was after getting the job at the daycare, since the other slots were already occupied or were occupied by mindless bots.

You didn't like children that much, because some were easy to deal with but others could be the devil himself in skin.

There was already someone taking care of the daycare, but that person only took care of the night shift, that's why you never met them, so in your new job you would take care of the day shift, and look after the children and the jester, even if, in your mind, the roles were strangely reversed.

You arrived at the daycare big wooden doors, of course, if you were taking someone there, on your second day that person would ask: "How do you know which way to go?" and you would say: "I was given a tuor and a map on my first day", even if thinking about it, it's not relevant to anything, but it's always good to take your mind off the things you're so focused on for a bit.

You adjust the buttons on your blouse, thus, making a small effort to push the giant door, then entering and closing it afterwards, already listening to the silly song of daycare before entering, now entering there, the music gets louder, but still soft to the ears, since there were no children there yet. Strange isn't it?

Your entrance and footsteps on the soft ground seem to have caught someone's attention.

Then you hear someone or something say: "Woo, Woo Woo!".

Your eyes went straight to where the noise came from, seeing an animatronic of....you certainly didn't know how tall he was, since where you were he was very small.

Then with a jump, he dives into the pool of colored balls.

Thinking he hurt himself- broke himself, you approach the edge of the pool, big.....mistake?

With a fright, and being lifted in the air by metallic arms but with soft fabric, you would close your eyes for a moment but then, you open them again, looking at the animatronic's face, he had a cheek to cheek smile with white eyes, cheeks stained with red, orange rays around his head.

So he welcomes you with a loud voice.

"Heeeeello! New friend! Are you here to play with me? You are? You are?!"

"Ohh uhmm....y-yes? No! I'm here to take care of the children and...of...you?"

"Ooooh! Serious?! That's even better!"

Without letting you speak, he spins you around as he continues talking.

" We can paint, play hide and seek while we wait for the little ones! Oh! Oh! And we can drink fizzy until our heads EXPLODE! But what about the children? No no no, we can't let they alone! "

At that moment he was already talking nonsense, and then, you held his face holding him tight, that made him stop talking and pay his full attention to you, soon he noticed your face of dizziness, and finally realizes what happened, so you let go of him and he puts you on the ground, while putting his hands together, nervous but still happy.

" Oh! I didn't even introduce myself, how impolite of me! I'm sundrop, the daycare attendant, and you new friend? "

" Y/N, your helper, pleasure sundrop. "

Few words because of still dizziness and retching, but enough to be polite.

This was the first contact of both of you, on your second day, but the day was calmer after that that's a lie but okay, with several children arriving through the slide and through the giant doors, you helped sundrop with the kids, mainly helping with feeding, no complaints, as it was your second day, and at the end you also helped him clean the place, cleaner freak.

- now the headcanon, that was just how you guys met.

Sundrop it's bubbly and bouncy, his personality rubs off on others around him including you, in fact on the days you are working with him he tries his hardest to always make you smile or make you laugh since you are one of the very few adults who are kind and nice to him, and he appreciates that a lot, even if you don't know it.

He has his rule of leaving the lights on all the time, you were curious to find out why he wanted them always on but you didn't have the courage to break his little heart if he has one

Hugs, there will be many, whether they are surprise hugs or not. He loves to present you with paper flowers made by his and the children's hands.

He will give you several nicknames, sunflower, sunshine, starshine, starfire etc.

He will often try to imitate kisses on your head a few times, but as his smile is closed, then it's just putting his face on your head he saw a couple doing it

Despite all that, he has no programming to be romantic, so he acts out of pure momentary distraction, so kisses and flowers, he does it as a friend to you.

Oh and please pet his rays he LOVES it.

Remember that he is 3.5 tall

So guys, this is the end, if ya all want a 2nd part, I can do it!

#Sundrop #fnaf #securitybreach

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transsexualhamlet · 1 year

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🍽️🐉👑 for the ask game wooo

hiiii :))))))

silm ask game

🍽️ You are having a dinner party and you can invite five (5) characters from the Silm. Who do you invite?

Ok well there's two choices here. Either I create a dinner party which can FUNCTION and won't result in SOMEONE'S DECAPITATED HEAD LANDING IN THE MASHED POTATOES orrrr I could be silly :3

so here's the two.

If I want a functional and enjoyable dinner party I invite Beleg (Turin is outside on a leash so lightning doesn't strike the fucking house), Finrod, Fingon, Luthien (Beren is outside making sure Turin doesn't get hit by lightning), and Tuor. I think it would be lovely and everyone would have a great time and they would all decide to go hang out outside in old man parade lawnchairs and start beatboxing.

If I want an INTERESTING dinner party I invite Feanor, Maedhros, Aredhel, Melkor, and Fingolfin. Bets on the first bowl of pasta thrown for a silmaril!

Technically adding Thingol might make this arrangement even more volitile but I don't want to invite Thingol no one wants to invite Thingol

🐉 A lot of figures in the Silm have weird Eldritch powers or possibly biology. Tell us about your headcanons for one.

Oh so this is my place to ramble about my Melkor design agenda. Trust me WAY too much thought has gone into this.

First, the caveat: All of the Valar I believe originally manifested forms that range from 9-12 feet tall, with reasonably adjusted proportions. They can obviously decide to be like the size of a skyscraper or normal human sized any time they want but I would consider that to be their normal baseline. (Mandos is the tallest, but Melkor and Manwe are similarly close behind.) (Maiar are usually 6-8 feet tall, and can generally blend in with elves unless they're on the taller end)

So as Melkor is the most powerful of the Valar his design just has to be the most imposing, and I feel many don't do it justice either for focusing too hard one one element (he basically invented all of them except for water) or making him look too much just like. If a guy was a vampire. (Not to mention the old tolkien bros who decided he just looks like if an orc was big.) Obviously the Valar are mostly modeled on elves considering they're really the elvish gods men were just left to fend for themfuckingselves, but they all have sort of elemental/supernatural aspects of their biology depending on their power.

In my opinion, Melkor's form in his full glory (pre- chronic injuries) is extremely fluid. His mass is 90% robes and hair . Just a truly obscene amount of hair and it all behaves like writhing smoke. His main domain is Darkness so it's just like. It's like you're talking to a sentient shadow. He's I think the Vala who most often changes his size like Melkor is the kinda guy who will just grow to the size of a building because he doesn't wanna walk all the way from point A to point B. Either that or he will just fucking evaporate and skirt around like an ominous fog. But I feel when he is solid his physical form behaves like stone, in the fact that it is grey and will glow like magma in cracks across him if he's in hot enough fire. When he was first on Arda as it was being created, he looked much different- well, first off, like a naked ken doll, and secondly entirely a bright glowing orange gold. They kicked him off and everything isn't lava anymore so he doesn't look like that anymore but that was basically what I'd call an "adolescent" form of him which no one but him and the Valar remember anymore.

But yes while he was in the void he got goth and now he looks like a big shadow with a lot of tentacley hair. And horns and talons and teeth. Which is incredibly important to note. I am normal

I already answered the Noldor king allegiance thing on Seb's ask, which u can check out a few posts below but it was Finrod :)

#rowan gets yelled at #ask game #anon

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mittenyaare · 3 years

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Maeglin feels it the moment he lays eyes on the tall, dark-haired ellon who can only be his uncle, the brother of his mother, Turgon—the shift in his Fëa, the weight of a Doom yet unpronounced.

His eyes take in the gleaming brightness of the white-stone city—oh how it burns— and for just a moment, laid over top like a thin, transparent film, he sees the bright whiteness of Gondolin fouled by shadow and flame and hordes of grotesque monsters under a blackened sky from which even the distant starshine cannot penetrate.

The day is warm, the sun is bright enough to hurt his eyes, and yet Maeglin shivers.

He is introduced to his uncle and feels...nothing. Or, well not nothing, but nothing good, nothing warm. Certainly not kinship.

He tries not to read into it. He is yet young, he knows, his gifts even younger and less developed than he himself in body.

Still, it hurts.

He is introduced to his cousin, and oh! she is a wonder to behold. She gleams bright and golden, and her smile is like the sun rising after a long darkness. He could fall in love so easily, but—no.

In her blue, blue eyes, backlit with the Light of the Two Trees, shines not warmth and acceptance, but rather a distant, cold wariness.

He is her kin, her cousin, and she sees only his dark father.

Idril Celebrindal is not for him, and Maeglin might mourn the loss of her light, her warmth—he does, will, just a bit—but he has lived his whole life under the dim shadows of tall trees, has loved the night and starlight far too fondly to mourn the passing of day.

The weighted shift of Doom in his soul settles as his father, who has followed them all the way from Nan-Elmoth, curses Maeglin to die as he will. Maeglin feels his Fate settle in his bones and sink into the earth beneath his feet. He decides that if he is to be the harbinger, he will at least try to ensure as many as can are eventually saved.

...

When Idril commissions people of his House to help her build the escape tunnel, Maeglin is aware. He tells his people to gladly swear to the secrecy she demands. The wording of their oath allows them to speak, privately, with him of her project. He makes adjustments to plans that his people claim as their own, regigures numbers and approves supply lists that would be suspicious at best if he remained unaware.

All the while, he walks around Gondolin smiling and whistling, glad it is all almost over.

...

When he scoops up little Eärendil from the side of the cliff before he can stumble off it, he smiles sadly as Idril draws her sword on him. His expression causes her to pause just long enough for Tuor to find them both, standing face to face, swords drawn and locked, and then Tuor pushes.

Maeglin releases his Fëa from his Hröa before his body hits the ground.

#maeglin #gondolin #fall of gondolin #silmarillion #tolkien #foresight #maeglin was not evil #i refuse to believe it #turgon #eöl #idril

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galadhremmin · 3 years

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For the Silm asks, 19. You get to save one character from dying. What would they do instead?

So I received this ask yesterday night and I realised... I wasn’t actually awake enough to answer haha. It did help with the insomnia because I spent some time trying to figure out who I could save without the world becoming even worse. Tolkien really did build a story in which much seems inevitable. Pull one thread and the entire tapestry unravels!

When I read the Silm as a preteen I really, really wanted Finrod not to die. But you see, I think his knowingly going to his death is part of what makes him who he is. His attitude towards the Valar, the Doom, his own foresight and sense of duty... you can’t change his choices without fundamentally altering his character, or the fate of the world, I think. And while his story is tragic it feels like his, knowingly chosen, the bitter and the sweet.

In the end I think I would save Aredhel. Not because I like her better, but because her story feels so hostile to what little we see of who she is as a person. It’s like the narrative punishes her for who she is, for her longing for freedom and love of wandering-- and it really does feel different from Finrod or even Fingon’s death in that sense.

I’d like for Aredhel never to leave for Gondolin. I’d like for her to tell Turgon good luck, and if he thinks Idril might feel lonely he can just leave her with Aredhel and his own extended family. I want Aredhel to be able to explore the wild, free lands of Middle Earth as she clearly wanted to do. Maybe she stays with her father. Maybe she stays with Fingon. Or with her Feanorian cousins; maybe she doesn’t stay anywhere permanently at all, and spends her long life exploring the strange and dark corners of Beleriand without being ensnared by evil magic. Maybe Gondolin still falls; maybe it doesn’t. If there is no Maeglin maybe there is simply another Lord whose search for resources leads him away from safety. Or maybe Thuringwethil spots the city while the Eagles are away to pick Fingolfin’s body up.

My point is, I don’t think Aredhel’s death is necessary to lead to Earendil. Idril already exists. Tuor can still warn Turgon and fall in love with her; no one needs to fall from Caragdur while they’re at it. I want her story to feel like hers again.

I’d like for her to end up wandering and exploring further and further East, meeting new tribes and peoples, hunting many strange beasts. Maybe she dies in battle, like her brothers and her father. Or maybe one day when Galadriel has long thought herself the last of the Finweans to live on these shores a tall dark stranger asks to be admitted to the Golden Wood in a familiar deep alto, her accent grown almost unrecognisable over long ages.

#aipilosse #aredhel #irissë

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matchasparrow · 3 years

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Exploration of a Maglor AU - part 3 - On Doriath and the fate of the Silmarils

Part 1 Part 2

Now the important question - the first kinslaying - what happens?

Dior has a Silmaril, her brothers need the Silmaril.

Maedhros sends letters after letters, asking, explaining, apologising.

There is no reply, no other answer than Dorinthian pride.

Maglor goes. She travels through the dense forests and spell woven woods, through wildlands and settlements of Nandors alone. Her sole company being the memory of Aredhel speaking to her.

She stands before the proud lords and ladies or Doriath, before beautiful Dior, and sings as Luthien sang before Mandos. She pours her grief and guilt and the darkness that is the doom. Sings of a future, free of blood oaths and darkness and hateful fueds. There were few dry eyes in the audience. But Dior still sits, eyes sombre but unglistening on Thingol’s throne. Even her voice does not have the power to erase the sins of the Noldor in the eyes of Luthien’s son.

She kneels. Both knees on the ground. Scarlet dress stained with mud spread out on pristine white marble floor. Voice still carrying the lingering notes of the song.

“Please. Give me a chance to make this right. “ she pleaded, tears flowing unabashed.

A heavy pause. They look into each other’s eyes, hooked and searching.

Dior waveringly stood, and treaded towards her. He bent down and delicately took the starlit gem from around his neck and dropped it into her palms.

“Then make it right.”

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

Or at least, that’s one version of the events.

In this version, Maglor collects the Silmarils. So how did Eonwe and the host of the Valar come to middle earth without Earendil and Elwing and the Silmaril? How did Earendil even meet Elwing?

The Silmaril leaves Doriath, Morgoth attacks. Doriath’s been vulnerable for years, and he wants revenge. The slaughter was merciless. Reinforcements poured in from Himring and the Pass of Aglon on Maedhros’ orders, but they were too late. Dior and Nimloth were dead, along with a fifth of the people in Doriath. Elwing survives, carried by her nursemaid and a horde of guards, they fled to Sirion along with the rest of their people. Elurin and Elured were missing. Taken by the enemy, perhaps. They hoped that they were dead. Weeks passed, and there were no taunts, no mock ransom from the enemy. And thereafter nothing were heard from the sons of Dior ever again.

(Perhaps, in the chaos of the invasion, the boys ran and ran, directionless and fearful, till they reached the dark lands of Nan Elmoch. There the boys clung unto each other, cold and famished in the abandoned, drowsy woods. They curled up under tall, unfamiliar trees as they breathed in air laced with heavy magic. - except - it was not wholly unfamiliar. They were the scions of Luthien, of Melian. And the life of the forest responded to these part Maian creatures. They unfolded their secrets to them - the sweet honey and rich purple fruits offered themselves up for their tastes, the low humming plants sang them to sleep at night, moss and vine stitched themselves up to be their blankets and cloaks. Leaves sheltered their way and white luminescent flowers bloomed for them, lighting their way to each other whenever they became separated. They were enchanted, and the enchanter. They loved these woods and the woods loved them. And together, they sunk to the bottom of the ocean as tall waves rolled over Beleriand.

Perhaps the trees again wove themselves into a net, warding the forest from the water, sealing themselves off from the world, and forever hence Elured and Elurin wandered the woods as princes of an Atlantis. )

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

Back to Maglor.

So there is a greater force this time since they were on heavy guard against an attack and reinforcements, though late, did arrive.

And the survivors were stronger, Sirion was a refugee camp, but it was also powerful - and now all the forces of middle earth were united, martyred by evil.

Maglor was a Feanorian. Her brothers felt no urge to snatch the Silmaril from her hands, so in turn, Maglor used the light of the Silmaril to help Sirion grow whenever she visited Sirion, which was often. The Feanorian forces defeated much of Morgoth’s forces when they attacked at Doriath, so Maglor could worry less about retribution and attack on their own forces, at least for the next few years - so Maglor, guilty about the sacrifice of Doriath, spent a lot of time with Elwing in Sirion, and almost helped raised her along with the courtiers and Celeborn and Galadriel.

Being at Sirion was an advantage in other ways too. It was at the crossroads of many lands and peoples, and a perfect place to perfect strategies and alliances.

Elros and Elrond are born. They adored Maglor with her stories and songs. And always they want more, more, more. Their hands always tugging on her dress and getting her to play catch with them on the beach.

---

They are stronger, but it is not enough.

It was peaceful. Too peaceful. The calm before the storm, the silence of a predator before he pounces.

Sirion and Himring and Nargothrond are attacked. They win. They lose more than a quarter of their people. Celegorm and Caranthir die. They cannot hold on much longer.

Idril and Tuor left, and they have not returned. Earendil sits at the docks every day, sometimes with his family. Elwing lace her fingers through his, but there is a disquiet and restlessness in his heart that she cannot understand.

Earendil sails. He comes back more tired and defeated every time. He cannot reach Valinor.

“He thinks he needs the Silmaril.” Elwing said to Maglor.

Maglor stands with her on the edge of the cliff, looking at the far horizon for lands that she has not seen in centuries. She sees nothing. She closes her eyes and searches within her bond with Nerdanel, and she feels nothing. This is the long defeat, and she will lose her brothers one by one, with or without the one Silmaril she has by her side. “I think so too.” she replied.

She gives the Silmaril to Earendil, and says nothing of it to her brothers. For all they know, the Silmaril is still with her. She could tell them, she suppose, what could they do to Earendil, far out at sea. But she is caught between lying to them, and betraying their trust in the worst way. She feels sick to the bones, as she answers them with cheerful letters from afar, casual to ease suspicion. “I’ll come to visit soon” She lied.

Could she tell Maedhros? Who’s now aloof and half-mad with grief? Curufin was the one brother she has never quite been able to control. They loved each other, despite everything - every fight, every hair pulled, every disappointed look - but Curufin would be the last person she would confess to. She could not bear looking into the ghost of her father’s face to tell him that she has given away his most prized creation (prized above his children, she’s sure) to the Sindar, all for a chance of bribing the Valar to their aid. A bitterness grows in her heart, and she cannot swallow it down. The Ambarrusa are good secret keepers, but she will not burden them ...with what? She asks herself. With the task of forgiving you? So you can feel absolved of your guilt? And feed your fantasy? The days without a reply or sign grew longer, and she began to despair.

---

Her brothers grow uneasy, something burns in their chest. They think it’s the other 2 Silmarils calling to them. “We must attack.” Curufin seethed at every opportunity, eager for revenge.

The time is indeed coming, Galadriel has sensed as much.

---

A new star appears in the night sky. And that’s when they knew. Hope and despair and fear jugged for space in her heart. But in the end she will not be conquered, she gathered her troops, checked the defenses, and prepared for attacks.

No letter of accusation and rage came from any of her brothers. No letters came at all. She writes to them, letters of confession and apologies and firm reasons. Still, there is no reply.

Finally, Maedhros writes a letter telling her to return to the gap, for they sensed an attack was imminent. It was signed “Regards, Maedhros Feanorian”

She goes.

The Ambarrussa dies. She never got to apologise to them face to face, nor hear their forgiveness. She would hold their hands again, hear them laugh, and run through the woods, free and unburdened, she resolved. She would not let them fade in the void. Curufin's empty eyes stare into her, and it burns her promise into her fea the way the oath burns into theirs.

---

The host from Valinor arrives.

They finally got the other 2 gems together, this time, she did not have to steal them.

Earendil descended from the night sky. He could not touch the ground, but there was no rule about her going up. The last 2 Feanorians stood on Vilgront and held the 3 Silmarils together for the first time in an Age. She feels no different, but Maedhros slump in relief. “We’re free’ he said, and he gave the Silmaril back to Earendil. “May your hope shine on middle earth and bring aid to all those who need it” He gave his blessings and turned to Maglor.

“Thank you, for eveything” and clasped her so tight she couldn’t breathe. She held him, wrapped her arms round his tall, slender frame and tried to picture that she’s embracing Celegorm, Caranthir, Curufin, Amrod, Amras and...father.

She cries, tears flow unabashedly and she’s just so happy that they’re free - free from darkness, free to start anew, free to go home.

---

They readied the ships back to Aman. One Silmaril they gifted to Earendil, one they gifted to Gil-galad and Elrond, to give aid and light to whoever is in need in middle earth, one they brought with them back to middle earth, as a symbol of victory and remembrance.

When they go back, their brothers and mother are waiting for them on the shore. This time, the Valar were merciful.

#i realise that this probably should have just been an no oath Maglor!Au #but happy ending #there are other endings of course #maybe i'll post the other stuff later #maglor #Maglor AU #fem!Maglor #Silmarillion #Feanorians #Elurin #Elured #Elwing #Elrond #Valar #The Oath #Earendil #Doriath

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lemurious · 3 years

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Like starlight turned to flame

for @alkarinqque for @officialtolkiensecretsanta

Happy holidays and thank you so much for a wonderful prompt! Hope you enjoy what it turned to! <3

cw: death

They stand before Eönwë, huddled in cloaks that offer little protection against the rain pelting their bodies, and their hands seek each other.

Elrond can barely focus on the question and does not understand why Eönwë even considers their kindred to be a choice, when to him it has only ever been family. How could he think of himself as anyone other than an Elf, Noldor and Sindar mixed, as his grey eyes and black hair can attest, and secretly, while berating himself for excessive pride, he likes to tell himself that he got the better parts of both. The boundless curiosity and the compassion. The courage and the protectiveness. Everything he and his brother have managed to scrounge up from their two sets of parents lost to the iron law of the Valar, whose emissary is now looking down at them, waiting for their response.

Elrond tears his gaze from the figure in shining mail, seemingly immune to the downpour, back towards the disorienting sight of a sunken shore, their homes now lying under the wave. He wonders if their grief will ever fade. This year, it has kept returning like a tide, swallowing him in the heavy silence of their childhood being gone, forcing him to pace the hallway of their ramshackle house until he would give in and knock on Elros’s door, curl up in a chair next to his brother to watch the flames dance in their fireplace through the long winter night. Together.

At least they have each other, he thinks, for the last fleeting moment before Elros squeezes his fingers hard enough to hurt. Before Elros looks at the Herald of the Valar and says in a voice loud and firm: “I choose to belong to the kindred of Men, my lord.”

---

Idril has dragged her husband through the crumbling tunnels and foaming waves, from the only home they have ever known turned to ash and ruin, through the doom that has been hanging over her head since she was too young to remember, through the wrath of all the Seas encircling Valinor, and she will be damned if she has to lose him to something as simple as death.

She stands tall and straight, a circlet of diamonds on her head, the steel of her feet shining like silver, Curufin’s best work, her eyes ablaze with the light of the Trees that could never be quenched, not even by the darkness of Helcaraxë.

Idril Silverfoot, who has walked through ice and looked death in the face and then dared to be happily married anyway, stares right into the face of Mandos and demands that Tuor be allowed to join her as one of the Eldar.

After all, even the Valar have admitted that Tuor has brought hope to Arda, ignoring her part as usual, though now she is glad about it, because it helps her make her case to keep Tuor with her, immortal as he secretly believes himself to be anyway, having been raised among the Elves.

“Your plea has been accepted,” says Mandos, “but the balance shall be retained. One born from you will have to leave the Elvenkind and become a mortal Man instead.”

She attempts to argue some more, but Mandos is implacable, and in any case she cannot think far beyond the joy of having rescued her husband from what they both consider to be the Doom of Men – what cruel foolishness would it be to call it a Gift?

She already knows that they will not take her son, who has been cursed to ride the skies with a Silmaril in the front of his ship, a mortal body could never survive the slow, quiet destruction wrought by the fire imprisoned within the jewel.

Idril’s grandsons are all but lost to her, she has never met them, even their own mother barely knew them and could tell her little about them when questioned.

Idril has always been a survivor and she knows that it inevitably means making the kind of choices that could pull her apart if she is not careful enough. She only hopes that whoever will be born of her blood and destined for mortality will be strong enough to make their life a happy one in spite of all their losses.

---

Before the bleakness of the aftermath, there was the terror of the War, and just before that, a moment of respite, a time to set aside the fears, and learn to fight, and sing, and gather mussels on the shore.

A moment to hold the hands of the two Elves who have turned from captors into fathers in record time, to call their names to ward against the nightmares. A moment to feel like children again, like the sons of someone still within their reach.

Elros swears to treasure every one of these moments after the evening when, during one of his solitary strolls along the beach, a figure rises from the waves and introduces himself as Ulmo, the Lord of Waters.

Elros shivers in fear, frozen on the spot and unable to move even if the alternative is drowning. But Ulmo does not threaten to drown him, instead, he looks on as if with a great sorrow, and tells of yet another doom that the Valar have now hung above their heads.

“You will be asked to choose,” he says. “And if neither of you accepts the Doom of Men, Lord Mandos will choose for you.”

Elros has never considered himself of any kindred but Elven, but he knows that neither has Elrond, and more, that Elrond, if given a choice, would spend his entire life learning the Elven lore by night, healing the wounds left by the long sequence of wars by day.

Meanwhile Elros has to admit to himself that he does not have any passion save the vague but persistent wish to one day become a great lord and rule a kingdom, a prospect so dim, given his circumstances, that he keeps scolding himself for naivety.

He could become a Man, he thinks, but he feels so young when confronted by the enormity of the decision. So childlike. He just does not want to, which reminds him of his tears when he clutched his mother and watched her kiss him and his brother and walk away. The only clear memory he has of her.

He is too scared to accept this doom for himself. Could he do it for his brother?

---

“You have been deep in thought all day, and they do not seem to be pleasant thoughts,” says Maglor to Elros, who keeps lingering in the kitchen after dinner, long after Elrond ran off back to the library as always, and Maedhros went outside to try to repair the roof that has just started leaking again. “Would you care to share them with me?”

Elros shakes his head. He tells himself that he should not add to his father’s worries, though deep inside he is terrified that Maglor would make him choose. Or that Elrond would find out, and would then insist of taking the curse upon himself instead, and he would never, ever be able to forgive himself for dragging his brother into it. Yet he feels that if he had to face all of it alone he would crumble, and then the truth would come out anyway, with all its terrible consequences.

“Atya, have you ever regretted something you have not done? Especially, something that – that could have helped one of your brothers, though he would have never found out?”

Maglor looks shocked. He turns away and visibly struggles to compose his face before answering. “Too many times, kid. I should have… told my brothers not to follow our father. Should have stopped them at the gates of Doriath… Should have… should have stood in the place of the one my brother loved the most, on that muddy battlefield, for maybe then he would have lived and my brother would still be happy and carefree. Should have kept all my brothers from pursuing the Silmarils at any cost.”

“But you could have been killed!”

“I would not seek death, but it is not always a wrong choice to risk your own life to protect those you love.”

Elros suddenly lunges at Maglor, wrapping his arms around his waist, and hugs him tight.

“Thank you, Atya,” he sniffles. “Could you sing me a lullaby tonight, as I fall asleep?”

“Tonight and any other night, for as long as you wish,” Maglor replies, a little confused and worried about what has just happened. Well, it is a miracle those kids have managed to be as cheerful as they are, most of the time, given what they already had to live through.

---

Elrond lets go of Elros’s arm in disbelief. That is what Elros chooses to do? Has he ever really known his brother? And does it mean - does it mean that after such a brief lifespan of Men they will never again -- he turns to look at Elros, to yell at him, call him a traitor.

He sees that Elros has gone deadly quiet, teeth clenched, staring straight ahead, but Elrond knows his brother and can tell that he is shaking in fear.

Elrond’s anger evaporates in an instant, as he pulls Elros into a massive hug and whispers in his ear: “It will be alright. I understand. It may not be my choice, but you will always be my brother.” He feels Elros relax with every word.

---

Mandos is kind. He gives Elros many times the lifespan of Men and lets him build a home halfway between his mother and his brother, though he misses his fathers the most, all of them, and all of them are lost – in the fire, in the sky, on the shores. Like the Silmarils.

Elros raises children of his own, and tells them that their siblings will be the strongest bond they will ever have, so they would better cherish it. They listen, these kids with dark grey eyes, too large in their faces, too solemn for their age. They had to grow up quickly, as befits the children of Men and the heirs of the High King.

Uncle Elrond visits every year and tells them stories, and teaches them the arts of healing, and stands with Elros on the tallest tower watching the stars fade into the West, awaiting one of them, forbidden for the other.

They whisper their memories to be kept for as long as one of them lives, and swear an oath to find each other, and all their parents, again, however long it took them and even if it meant going beyond the circles of Arda.

---

When time comes for him to leave, Elros does not even feel cheated, just ready. His children have long grown up, he has become a grandfather and a great-grandfather so many times he finds it difficult to remember all the names.

He calls for Elrond, who has been at his side for days, and suddenly there is a shadow on the other side of his bed, and a familiar voice begins a lullaby Elros remembers from his childhood. “Thank you, Atya,” he murmurs as the colors begin to fade.

In the end, he did not even have to lie, Elros thinks. It was his choice, perhaps for a different reason than Elrond might have guessed, but it was, truly, his, and it brought him the kingdom he did not dare to dream of, and the family he could have never imagined, loved even fiercer because of their mortality, like a flame that has its own beauty compared to the starlight.

He would make his choice a thousand times over, Elros admits to himself as the walls fade into the mist, and he feels more than hears the voice of Mandos rumbling in his ears, assuring him with the sadness of one who is forced to deal in law, and not in love, that he will grant the brothers their own oath in recompense for the ones he has bestowed upon them, that it will not be their final farewell.

#tss2020 #lemur writes #my fic #elrond #elros #idril #mandos #cw: death #maglor #a bit of kidnap dads

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absynthe--minded · 5 years

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OH WAIT if you have already got one about Andreth, Aegnor and Finrod, what about perhaps Elros and Elrond? Or Elros and Eärendil?

(I am doing this in a particular order - I wasn’t going to, and then I got all these lovely prompts in more or less a sort of story? So.)

The end was nigh, and the dead were coming back.

He knew it before any other of his kindred did - not only did Eönwë tell him, he could see them, emerging newly-enfleshed from the Halls as true siblings to the Firstborn. He could see everything, more or less, and it was a blessing and a curse as ever it had been. But there was still time for joy before the end of all things and the beginning - there was always time for joy, his wife said, even in the midst of greatest sorrow - and he was joyful that so many of the people of his heart were returning to life.

“Things will be changing,” he told Elwing at breakfast that next morning, and she could not help but notice the nervous tremor in his voice.

“Why? What do you mean?”

“The Dagor Dagorath draws near, meleth-nîn,” he explained, and took another sip of tea. “Those who can fight are being called back.”

Elwing grew quiet, and there was an expression on her face that was at once ecstatic and frightened; he wondered if there was a similar look mirrored in his own eyes. They had been alone, more or less, for thousands of years - she had not sought to mingle with her own family, even when Thingol was returned to life and made his home in the great forests beyond Tirion, and his duties meant that he was indisposed for much of the time that his own relatives would have used to seek out his company. Idril wrote to him often, as did Tuor, and Elrond had come twice to visit them for incredibly awkward afternoon tea, but they were isolated as much by design as by chance.

Now, though…

The knock on the door took him by surprise, and startled Elwing out of her own deep thoughts, and the both of them nearly spilled their tea in their surprised flinching. The sight of his wife, normally so reserved and dignified, struggling valiantly to keep from sloshing asëa all over her pale pink gown was enough to make him laugh. And laugh he did, rising from the hand-carved wooden chair he always sat in and making his way to the door of their tower.

“We never have visitors,” Elwing said from her own seat. “Who is it?”

“I do not know,” he answered, and a prickle of anxiety stabbed up from his core, and he glanced out the window into the garden. He couldn’t see anyone from where he stood, but if it was just one person and they were directly before the door, that was to be expected. He wondered, for a moment, if he ought to pretend they weren’t at home - but that was ridiculous. What am I afraid of? he thought, frowning. What am I anticipating?

The same thing I am, Elwing replied, and she threaded herself through their marriage-bond and lent him resolve to quiet the fear that was bleeding out into both of them.

Eärendil took a deep breath and opened the door.

Standing in their garden, draped in an embroidered shirt and tight-fitting leggings cut in the Númenorean fashion, was a dark-haired mortal Man. He was tall - taller than Eärendil, certainly, though that was not hard - and silver-eyed, and broad-shouldered, with a neatly trimmed beard. He was built like a laborer, a shipbuilder.

“Hello, Atya,” he said quietly. Eärendil realized that there were tears in his eyes.

“Who is it?” Elwing asked again, and when he did not answer he could hear her rising from her chair.

“Me, Ammë,” Elros Tar-Minyatur answered, peering over his father’s shoulder to smile at his mother. “Hopefully I am not an entirely unwanted surprise.”

For a moment she frowned at him in confusion, but then something snapped into place behind her eyes, and Elwing gave a cry of shock and joy and sudden keen grief at might-have-beens. She tripped over her skirts in her mad dash for the door, and Eärendil barely had time to get out of her way before she had thrown herself at their son. Her arms went about his shoulders, and she was already sobbing, and Elros put one arm around her and reached the other out to his father. Eärendil stepped in close, letting his son drape his arm over him, and returned the embrace.

“I am - I am so glad - !” he began, but words failed him, and he found he, too, could only weep.

#alkarinqque #replies #tolkien #absynthe's fanfiction #elf human reunion ficlets

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anghraine · 5 years

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⭐ :)

Hmm, I’ll go with this from the last farewell (Tumblr | AO3)

“Whatever the chances of war,” said Denethor, still stern, “you will face grievous change from all you have known soon enough. You need not borrow grief. Go and prepare for your journey, and enjoy the light and clear air as long as they last.”

Lothíriel nodded, but only covered her mouth with a trembling hand. She did not feel at all the tall, strong daughter of the Dúnedain she knew herself to be. Despite herself, tears sprang to her eyes. Feeling very daring, she darted forward and embraced him as she used to as a child, ignoring the unforgiving mail beneath his robes. Before he could respond in any way—afterwards she wondered what he would have done—she all but ran down the hall, then halted, glancing over her shoulder. The flicker of astonishment had already left his face.

“May the sun shine on you, uncle,” she said.

I don’t know why I’ve almost always headcanoned that Lothíriel was close to Denethor, but I … um, have.

And I’ve also always headcanoned her as very firmly a Gondorian Dúnadan, in part because of what we see of Dol Amroth on the one hand and Minas Tirith (where I had her fostered with Finduilas’s older sister, for Headcanon #1) on the other. But it’s also in part because, as a baby fan (and now), I didn’t like the idea of her as intrinsically alienated from her culture just because she marries outside of it—esp given that IMO Tolkien treats Lothíriel’s marriage to Éomer as essentially a byproduct of his friendship with her father.

I only lightly touched on the headcanon in actual fic, though, until it just came into my head that my headcanon Lothíriel would have to be one of the women and children evacuated from MT, and consequently that whatever farewell she said to Denethor would have been the last time they saw each other. And as Dúnedain, they could very well have some knowledge or at least sense of the impending tragedy.

So that last meeting seemed a way to explore my Lothíriel as a character, and to give an idea of what a good relationship with Denethor would even look like—well, what he’d look like in that context, as a largely sympathetic figure, though I hope still recognizable.

And I particularly wanted all of that present in this particular passage, which is the actual moment of parting.

(Lothíriel’s farewell, incidentally, comes from the Elves’ farewell to Tuor, anar caluva tiëlyanna: the sun shall shine upon your path. It’s so suitable to the Edain and their association with the sun that I like to imagine it getting adopted in various forms by them, all the way down to Lothíriel’s time. I thought it would be too disruptive to the scene itself to use actual Quenya, but I imagine that most of the conversation is in Sindarin, but she uses a twist on the rote Quenya phrase at the end, which the scholarly Denethor appreciates.)

/end ramble

#untilwefindourplace #respuestas #meme prattle #fic talk #legendarium blogging #/#//#///#lothíriel #denethor #lord of the rings #anghraine's headcanons

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daywillcomeagain · 5 years

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elwing

i’ve started a series in which i do retellings of the events of a tolkien character’s life, from their perspective, framed to make them sympathetic and help the reader understand their choices. you can read the others here.

2K words under the cut!

elwing is three years old when it happens.

she grows like a human, already toddling around, and so when it happens her parents give her the silmaril and tell her go with Brithiel, do whatever she tells you to, alright? and she is too young to understand the situation at the time but old enough to hear the fear in her parents' voices and nod without argument.

she may grow like a human, but she has the memory of an elf. for years later she will remember that day. the screams, the clash of metal on metal. the gurgling sounds of those whose lungs are too full of blood to scream.

she didn't hear the screams of her big brothers, so she clung to the idea that they were out there as tightly as she clung to the silmaril in her hand. that they'd come save her just like they did when they told her bedtime stories.

when she hears her father scream, she realizes that her big brothers are not coming to save her. it is only years later, long after she arrives at the Havens, that she realizes they are dead. she wonders if they were gurgling, or if they were just too far away. she doesn't dare ask. she knows that, if they had screamed, she would have known.

she throws tantrums on the road to the Havens of Sirion, at first. it doesn't take long for her to get tired of the novelty of adventure. she can't keep up with the adults, so she is held the whole way. they get worse and more frequent as the food supply shrinks. mostly the tantrums aren't about that, though, or the food or the songs or not being allowed to run around and explore. they're the same. i miss ada, i miss emë, i miss eluréd and elurín, and she fights against whoever is carrying her, as though she plans to run all the way back to menegroth, as though if she does so they will be there again. they just hold her tighter.

eventually they arrive. the Havens of Sirion. they are less impressive than she imagined. she had been imagining--well, she had been imagining home.

home is a palace. home is walls and tall buildings and soft pillows and servants and poetry and song bouncing off the walls.

this is--a refugee camp, trying very hard to pretend it is not. the silmaril that hangs down from elwing's neck is easily the nicest thing to be seen for miles; heads swivel to look at it. flags and scarves are everywhere, colored with bright dyes, but it is clear when you look at them what plants they come from: berries that are just that shade of purple, pinks reminiscent of the flowers that grow on the banks of the river, a flag flying in the wind that perfectly matches the color of the grass. people here have what they have carried, and no more. there is song on top of the cries of a baby being rocked to sleep, but there is no poetry being recited.

she should be excited, that she can finally run around without supervision, that she can explore and hear new voices and run as far as she wants and sing as loud as she wants. and she is. but she's--not sure if she's three or four, really, she tried to count days on the journey but she lost track quickly--and she can't help but feel a little disappointed.

they find her a house, of course. people deliver her meals, for the first few years, until she's old enough that she can be trusted to get her own.

she holds on to the silmaril, always. it's her last memory of her parents, of her ada pressing it into her hand before--before she doesn't see him anymore--before she hears him screaming--

it is about this age that she learns that the silmaril is why they died. she wears it tighter around her neck, after that, tight enough to leave pink marks when she takes it off to sleep. some days, she doesn't even take it off to sleep, just loosen the necklace.

when she is eight, more people come, a stream of them. the havens are crowded. people remark about measures to help with that, at least for the humans, who can get sick. the food is stretched thinner and thinner at first, but as the new people settle in they have more hunters and farmers and it evens back out. the rulers of the newcomers--idril and tuor--take it upon themselves to organize the Havens, giving orders, making buildings of stone. (stone will not actually stand up better than cloth if morgoth or the kinslayers decide to come, but it's nice to pretend that it would, so they all let themselves believe.)

when elwing is a teenager as the Men reckon it, she becomes obsessed with Grandmother Lúthien.

lúthien, who won the silmaril. who killed orcs and vampires, who defeated sauron and even morgoth himself. lúthien, who was shot at by the kinslayers and was not hurt, who won their dog over to her simply by being a better person than them. flowers grew where she walked; she could sing down buildings; she could sing the dead back to life.

elwing sings as loud as she can. the dead do not come back to life.

she hears that idril and tuor have a son, only off in age by her by a few months. idril is eleven--tuor is human--

she goes to find their son.

months later, they whisper long into the night, looking up at the stars:

"i was seven."

"i was three."

"it's stupid, but--i still flinch from campfires, sometimes--"

"i hate the sound of coughing."

their hands brush. it was inevitable, really.

they get married when they are twenty-two. he has nobody to ask for her hand. she has nobody to walk her down the aisle. but sirion watches them, cheering, the people she has grown up with, and it is almost as good. her heart is light, and the silmaril around her neck shines.

later that year, idril and tuor announce that they are leaving. for valinor, they say. earendil is excited for them.

elwing--bites her lip. no ship that has gone to valinor has ever returned. there are two explanations for that, she does not say, because everyone knows it. instead, she says: and then we will rule the havens.

yes, eärendil says, i suppose we will.

they leave. elwing and eärendil rule, as best as they can. eärendil starts sailing, longer and longer, as though he hopes that if he sails far enough he will catch a glimpse of his parents.

the first messenger comes, from the kinslayers. give us the silmaril and we will leave you alone. she wonders if they sent that to her parents. she remembers the noises, of people choking on their own blood, of not knowing if those people were her brothers. they had seemed so old to her at the time, six whole years old, but now she thinks of them as the children they were.

she wonders if the messenger was the one that killed them before she sends him away.

they have two children. twins. elrond and elros. she sings, and recites poetry, long lays of sindarin, as she cradles them to her breast. when they are older, she teaches them the certhas, not the tengwar, first.

more messengers come. eärendil is gone more and more. he has finally admitted he is searching for valinor. they fight and reconcile and cry. she spends so much of her time crying now, before wiping her eyes and splashing her face with water and giving a speech to her people. everybody is too busy looking at the light that glows on her chest to notice. she stays up all night, watching the horizon for messengers or worse. her face is a mess of red skin and dark circles. she is thirty-five, though she looks younger, and she is unbearably tired. she would have given up long ago, were it not for her people, and then her sons came around, and she could no longer think of giving up.

she is the first one to see the banners. she runs first, not to the alarm bells, but to the room of her children. "hide," she hisses. "run. now."

they do, wide-eyed. they are older than she was. they are six: the exact age her older brothers had been. they were twins too. she knows the kinslayers will show no mercy. she has heard by now that her brothers starved to death in a forest, that they were not there that day. images flash through her mind: her sons, spluttering and aspirating blood. her sons, skewered like hogs. shot like deer. starving to death, slowly, so gaunt you can count their ribs--

--she does not do what her dad did and give them the silmaril. she keeps it herself, wears it bright. hopefully they will target her and pass them by. she does not wish to pass this life on to her children. the kinslayings over the silmaril will end with her, one way or another.

she is cornered on a cliff, swords cutting off any escape, and as her eyes flicker over them she wonders: which of you killed my mother? which of you killed my father? which of you drove my brothers in the forest to starve to death? which of you are going to kill my sons?

she knows that she is going to die. she knows that they will get exactly what they want, if she dies. she knows she will scream, on the point of their sword, and she does not know if her sons are far enough away not to hear. she knows that it has been many, many years since she cared about her own life here.

she jumps to her doom silently.

before she hits the water, she is flying, wings spread wide.

she flies and flies, west, west, as fast as she can, until she sees his ship.

she does not land; she falls in a tumble. she is so very, very tired. she sees his look of shock and recognition, and then she falls asleep.

she wakes up and she is herself again. it would seem a dream to her were she not aboard his ship. "here," she says weakly, unclasping the silmaril from around her neck, and putting it in his hand, "take it. i don't want it anymore."

they sail to valinor. she would be surprised when they dock in the sea leading to beaches scattered with gemstones, but stranger things have happened to her now. he tells her not to come--they are not supposed to be here, and nobody who leaves for valinor ever returns, and there are two explanations for that--and she jumps into the white foam beside him and takes his hand.

they go to valinor, and he begs. he begs pity for the noldor. he speaks of his mother, who walked for a decade as a child over icy wastes. he speaks of how gondolin fell around him when he was seven years old and how he still cannot look at fire without his stomach turning. he speaks of his grandfather's stories from the nirnaeth, of mountains of bodies. he says, if they could only have sent their children to be free of the ban and live safe here, you would have received boatfulls of babies, do not tell me now that this was a just punishment.

and, miraculously, they listen.

they give eärendil and elwing a choice: to be mortal or immortal, elf or man.

earendil says: i am weary of this world, but i never wish to be parted from you.

and elwing, who had such a short time ago been exhausted, thinks of luthien. she thinks of how the silmaril was said to have aged her, quickly even by mortal standards. she thinks of her exhaustion, her hopeless dive off a cliff, ready for death.

she imagines what it would be to spend an eternity unafraid next to the man that she loves, an eternity bathed in the radiant light of a silmaril, the entirety of forever stretching before them and the knowledge that they do not have to use a second of it watching for enemies. she has lost two homes now. she imagines what it would be like to live somewhere and know that it was permanent.

they call Valinor the Undying Lands. she realizes then that it is the proximity to death that she is weary of, not life. it was just that, before she stepped foot on valinor, those were the same thing.

she makes her choice.

eärendil’s ship flies through the sky at night. she watches it, and an ocean away, elrond and elros watch too.

#elwing #different names for the same thing #my writing

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carinavet · 6 years

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94: “We can’t go in there...”

Turin returned from his scouting mission, his face pale. “We can’t go in there,” he reported quietly to Cullen and Cassandra.

Cassandra nodded, a bead of sweat dripping down her cheek. “Is there a way around?” she asked.

Turin unconsciously tousled his hair. “I think there’s a servants’ entrance near the bedrooms,” he said. “It should lead to the kitchens. If I can remember where the panel is, before we know it we’ll be home free and away from–” with a jerk of his head, he indicated the cracked door he had just peered through.

“Don’t let your sisters hear you talking like that.” The three conspirators jumped and turned toward the new voice. Tuor, the eldest of the Trevelyan siblings, stood just behind them at the entrance of the hallway they were huddled in, a tall stack of fabric samples in his hand, his lips just slightly curled up at the corners. “They’re already angry enough that they only had two weeks’ warning to host your wedding.”

“This wasn’t exactly planned,” Turin mumbled, glancing guiltily off to the side.

“Which is exactly why they’re in there planning it,” Tuor said sternly. “As you should be.” He gave a slight bow to Cassandra and Cullen and passed between them, slipping through the door at the far end of the hall – despite his admonitions, without opening it wide enough to reveal those hiding just beyond.

Turin groaned. “He’s right: I should help. I hate it when he’s right. You two go on…. Save yourselves….”

Cullen steeled himself. “We’ll come with you,” he said bravely.

“There’s no need for that.”

“No, he’s right,” Cassandra said. She gave a wry grin. “If we could battle Corypheus together, this should be nothing. Right?”

Turin gave his friends a grateful smile, then took a deep breath. “All right. Let’s go.”

The moment Turin crossed the threshold, his sisters and Josephine pulled him into the centre of the room to drape fabrics of varying hues and styles across him, occasionally holding one near his face to compare it to the colour of his eyes. Lady Trevelyan and Vivienne supervised from the couch. Dorian, having already gone through most of this process, was off to one side being measured by a seamstress, a glass of wine in hand. Tuor dutifully acted as the women’s servant, bringing forward any fabric that was called for, and arranging those that had already been judged according to degrees of acceptability. In another corner, The Iron Bull sat sampling pastries, and occasionally calling out surprisingly astute suggestions. Bann Trevelyan and the other members of the former Inquisition were nowhere to be seen. Cullen and Cassandra awkwardly stood off to the side, unsure of how to be helpful, while Turin stood mute in the eye of the storm, a living doll.

“This one, do you think … ?”

“With his complexion? No, better something like this …”

“This would contrast nicely with Dorian’s …”

“Look at the bottom of that pile, darling. That’s the one …”

“Double-breasted?”

“His shoulders are too broad for that, but perhaps if we …”

“A sash, then?”

“Maker, no, but we could add a tinge of colour here …”

“Could you pass me that swatch?”

Cullen jumped to attention at the request of Turin’s youngest sister, Lalaith, grabbing at the nearest bit of cloth so quickly he knocked over the stack next to it.

“So sorry–” he said, hurrying to fix it.

“No, it’s fine, we can just–” Lalaith grabbed at the fabric with him, straightening the pile once more.

“Here, you wanted–” He held out the sample to her.

Was it Turin’s imagination, or were they both blushing a little bit? They each drew back quickly the moment their hands touched, Lalaith hastening back toward him and Cullen doing his best to melt into the wall once more. But Turin noted that Cullen’s eyes followed Lalaith’s every move, and Lalaith kept half glancing back and stopping herself.

Turin caught Dorian’s eye across the room. Dorian seemed to have noticed as well: he gave Turin a meaningful look before hiding a wry smile behind his wine glass.

Occupied as they both were by the show, neither noticed the frequent glances Tuor was throwing in Cassandra’s direction between fetching items for his sisters.

The Iron Bull leaned back in his chair, smiling as he chewed loudly on a little frilly cake. This was going to be quite the wedding.

masterpost

#dragon age #dai #post trespasser #warrior trevelyan #dorian #tuor trevelyan #lalaith trevelyan #cullen #cassandra #the iron bull #Josephine #Vivienne

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sindaqueen · 6 years

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My father rolled his eyes and sighed.

- Oh, Valar! These Iathrim may be the highest and noblest caste of the Sindar, but they are the most stubborn and hardhearted people in all Arda! - He looked at me with concern - This will still cause all kinds of tragedy, write what I say.

I shuddered. It was not necessary to write my father's words, they always contained the truth. I leaned my head against my father's chest, and he hugged me:

- What do I do? I can not contradict my husband and I can not disobey my father ...

- Do not worry, my little fish. I'm not going to tell you to go. is that I did not want to continue this ... this dispute of who offends whom. It's true that Ereinion did not come to your wedding, but ... Well, I guess it's no longer anyone's secret why. Do not get mad. Stay here with Thranduil, I could not bear to see a disagreement between you and your jealous husband. Write a nice letter, send a gift. It will have to be enough.

I sent a bracelet of gold and pearls to the King of the Noldor, which would look good on any Elvish king, and wrote a letter of formal greetings. And, of course, I warned my husband that he was sending these things from my father. Standing in front of me, Thranduil only raised an eyebrow, and stared at me for a long moment. Then he shrugged, and murmured,

- Politics ... boring but necessary.

I stared at him, discouraged:

- Can I get your name on the letter too?

He smiled, that predatory, sarcastic smile:

- Why not?

Well, it was something.

When Gil Galad returned to the island, because he did not want to live in Portos do Sírion, although he did not wear any of the many jewels he had won, I noticed that he wore the bracelet. Maybe just to irritate Thranduil. And though I did not hear a word about it, he did it.

At an eventual meeting at my father's council, the two stood facing each other with defiant looks, Thranduil's cold eyes, and his dominant male posture, pacing back and forth with his chest puffed up and making metal noise with the hard strides frightened and irritated. But I could not say anything to him since we had never discussed it. I resigned myself to disappear every time Ereinion was around.

I think it's been about 30 years since the fall of Gondolin, and learned from Eärendil that his parents, Tuor and Idril, had resolved to leave for the immortal lands. I was amazed, for Tuor, though descended from the three Edain houses, and very much like an elf, was still a man. My father said that I need not worry, for surely Tuor pleased the Valar very much, and they would premiate the entrance of that hero, friend of my cousin Voronwë.

Eärendil had become an adult, even more handsome than his father, with the same golden hair as Hador's house, and his mother's bright blue eyes. He was half-elf, but he looked like a Vanyar elf, because even the leaf-shaped ears he had inherited, and the height, because his father was tall to a man, but he was more, and no doubt had the height of his grandfather Turgon. Cheerful, simple and friendly, he always worked with my father on the docks, and building ships was his passion.

As Gil Galad had given Tuor the governance of the city, when he departed, he left his son as Lord of the Ports of Sirion. I think encouraged by his new position, he came to me:

- Noble Princess of the Falathrin, could I ask a favor?

I smiled:

- But of course you can, Eärendil, loved by elves and men.

He lowered his head a little and twisted his great sailor hands, and I noticed by the slight blush on his cheeks that was something personal.

He lowered his voice and asked again,

- My Lady is a friend of Princess Elwing, is not ? I've seen you drinking tea many times.

I realized at once the content of the conversation, but went ahead.

- Yeah, we're good friends.

He widened his big innocent eyes a little:

- Well ... she's a Princess Sinda, daughter of a king, but my mother is a princess too ... I mean, I have ... I've seen her often ... but ...

I saw that he had difficulty asking for my intervention, so I went ahead, to make it less painful for him:

- Do you want me to tell her about your feelings?

Eärendil's eyes flashed and he smiled broadly:

- Yes! You understood very well! Oh, Valar, I'm told you're the smartest elf in Middle Earth!

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anthropologyarda · 7 years

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Personal headcanon: When heroic Edain are described as elf-like, it’s not meant literally. Human heroes don’t really look similar to elves, and can’t generally be confused with elves, unless you have never met both an elf and a human before. They look different, and they move differently. Also, beards. The few cases this might actually be true are when the human has elf blood. Legolas knows at first sight that Imrahil has elvish blood in him, for example, despite the many generations between him and his elvish fore-mother.

The mundane explanation is that humans and elves are both bipedal and similarly formed, so confusing one race for the other occasionally is understandable. It could easily be caused by poor visibility, long distance, having the face obscured, having their back turned, having a particular hair color, dressing like an elf, speaking or responding in one of the elf-tongues, or being unusually tall.

For example, Nienor disguises herself as an elvish marchwarden by putting on a matching grey cloak and being tall enough to blend in (she is so tall that only one marchwarden is taller than her, which is pretty neat). Mîm confuses Turin for an elf “by your speech and your voice.” This makes perfect sense if his speech has the cadence or accent of the Sindarin he spoke during his fostering, or if he is in fact speaking Sindarin.

Turin must be considered separately thanks to this quote, “he was in truth the son of Morwen Eledhwen to look upon: tall, dark-haired and pale-skinned, with grey eyes, and his face more beautiful than any other among mortal men, in the Elder Days. His speech and bearing were those of the ancient kingdom of Doriath, and even among the Elves he might be taken at first meeting for one from the great houses of the Noldor...and many called him Adanedhel, the Elf-man.” Now, the text tells us that Turin could be confused with an elf, but it doesn’t actually show this. His coloring, and height would account for being confused as a Noldor elf as long as he’s clean-shaven, but none of the characters who meet him, like Gwindor or the Falathrim ambassadors, seem to have trouble doing it. Turin was fostered by elves, which would give him knowledge of elven customs and practices that would make it easier to confuse him with biological elves. Calling him elf-man might equally well refer to his elvish habits and upbringing, but I’ll classify Turin as a borderline case.

His cousin Tuor is even weirder, a special case where we have direct proof of a Man being frequently confused by elves as an elf, but Tuor is frequently spiritually grouped with the elves and kind of an outlier. Tuor is cloaked, wearing the armor prepared by Turgon, and standing on a high terrace when Voronwe at first takes Tuor to be an elf. Tuor is confused a second time for an elf while wearing Ulmo’s cloak, but I am explaining that as Ulmo’s magic being the cause, and that something relating to ‘magic’ or the Unseen can cause misidentification. So I’m putting Tuor in a third category labeled ‘who knows.’

Beleg is the only case I know of where an elf is confused for a Man, and again environmental conditions are the contributing factors, “In the dim dusk of a day in midwinter there appeared suddenly among them a Man, as it seemed, of great bulk and girth, cloaked and hooded in white. He had eluded their watchmen, and he walked up to their fire without a word. When men sprang up he laughed and threw back his hood, and they saw that it was Beleg Strongbow. Under his wide cloak he bore a great pack in which he had brought many things for the help of men.” So Beleg’s outline and size are distorted by his clothing and bag.

The other strong possibility is that the description of heroes as elf-like is more of a poetic epithet, and all of the ‘look like elves’ superlative bits are just unfamiliarity with elves or hyperbole and propaganda by the Dunedain. The Silmarillion in-universe has a textual history, and the version we’re reading has been passed down by the scribes of Gondor. Those scribes have a clear motivation for making their ancestors look heroic.

Stories shift and change as generations of storytellers repeat them, and exaggeration of a hero’s characteristics makes for a better story. Ancient epics in our world are full of heroes and villains described in superlatives (god-like Achilles etc.), and I find it reasonable that the same is true of Tolkien’s ancient Edain. Tuor, Turin, Morwen (called Elfsheen for the light of her glance and the beauty of her face) are all characters with high destinies and who are described as elf-like and whose traits could have been exaggerated for narrative effect.

Elvishness also has a thematic context as shorthand for goodness, beauty, and behaving according to tradition and natural law. Even if we know this isn’t an accurate shorthand, it is one that seems to hold weight to an in-universe acculturated reader. In the beginning of the story of Erendis and Aldarion, for example, Erendis is frequently noted to have qualities reminiscent of elves and is also described as looking like an elf. These descriptions disappear entirely in the text as the tale winds down it its unhappy conclusion, culminating in the dismissal of the elven birds when she and Aldarion reject each other permanently. Loss of elvishness correlates to a loss of virtue, alignment with morality and ‘right’.

The description of men-like-elves by their contemporary Edain can also be explained by the context. When elvishness has social capital, applying this label has power even if it isn’t strictly true or accurate. And being like the elves was a powerful concept among the Dunedain for a long time, both out of genuine admiration and for more pragmatic motives. It was deliberately invoked for political reasons by the three houses of the Edain, the Numenoreans and the Elendili, and their Dunedain descendants in the Third Age.

#Tolkien #Silmarillion #silmweek #Edain #Dunedain #meta #text post #Atani #Third Age #biology #my writing

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