#valinorian years

[valinorianyears]

For @nolofinweanweek day 3: Aredhel, The long peace

Aredhel out on an orc hunt, stretching as the wind carries a piece of faded string.

In VY the last time Aredhel wore color was when Argon was buried, body bound with the last of colorful cloth their people had to offer. And grief comes, as always, whenever its least expected

#nolofinweanweek2023 #nolofinweanweek #valinorian years #silmarillion #silm art #silm headcanons #silm #silmarillion fanart #fanart #aredhel #itarisse #silmarillion headcanon #silm fanart #the silmarillion #silm tag

[lymira]

Glorfindel and Idril in Chapter 42 of Valinorian Years: Passed Chances

https://archiveofourown.org/works/37112755/chapters/107826072

#glorfindel #idril #silmarillion #valinorian years #helcaraxe #laurefindele

[tanoraqui]

[BuzzFeed]’s Top 5 Maglor Fëanorion Songs and, as always, heroes and villains of river city?

Heroes and Villains...: [sobs] I'll get back to it some day, I swear!!

Honor Guard: Origins — Iron Thorn

The office of Caldane Caineron, President and CEO of Caineron Inustries, was about what Brier might’ve expected, if she’d bothered to spend time imagining it. The desk was edged in gilt, awards and news clippings from Caineron’s superhero days decorated the walls, and an indiscreet gold bust graced one corner.

(this one would then be Caineron offering Brier a job, while unwantedly and unwarrentedly hitting on her, and Brier being like, "Fascinating how you wouldn't shell out worker's comp for my lab accident and you gave me about 2 cents when my mother died on your superhero team, and now that my discoveries might be useful or interesting you come crawling back with...3 pennies and name exposure? Wow. FUCK you. I might join the Honor Guard out of SPITE. [leaves])

-

[BuzzFeed]’s Top 5 Maglor Fëanorion Songs would probably be one for Stray Scraps of Melody, or maybe stand on its own? It's basically what it sounds like on the tin. Premise: Fourth Age Valinorian BuzzFeed did a poll on top songs by Maglor son of Fëanor, now sometimes called Gildil, and now provides the results with quotes on each from the composer and other musical experts (or friends and family who butted their heads in on the interview.)

5. [I haven't decided if this is some sort of pre-Darkening operetta or "so many people wrote in different Songs of Warding and Warning that we've decided to credit him with the genre Northern Beleriandic Warding Songs"]

4. Noldolantë, Extended Edition - the FULL story, from Finwë to the fading Third Age (but mostly the disasters of the First); composed over nearly 6,500 years of depressed wandering on mortal shores, which is also sung of toward the end. Takes at least a week to sing in full with no breaks. Evokes tears at least once in even the hardest hearts.

3. Noldolantë, original version - Alqualondë: what happened, why, and what we're going to do about it (move forward and fight Morgoth, mostly). Full length takes a couple hours to sing. "Surprisingly factual and earnestly apologetic, for all its spin." –Eärwen Olwiel. "I still hum it sometimes. I hate how good at this he is." –Finrod.

2. The Song That Never Ends - composed pre-Darkening. "This is SECOND PLACE? I should've killed you when I had the chance." –Maedhros. "I genuinely regret this one." –Maglor. "I should've killed him when I had the chance. I had so many chances... I really thought about it, when I visited Celebrian when the twins had just discovered this monstrosity." –Galadriel. "Oh you think YOU had problems with twins and this 'song.'" –Maedhros. "What? We thought it was annoying, too!" –Amrod. "Not you. You never had genuine, justified reason to despise us." –Maedhros. "[innocent whistling while walking by]" –Elrond

1. Ardamirë (subtitle: It's Not Only Ours Anymore, Father) - elements composed and gathered over nearly 6,500 years of depressed wandering on mortal shores; arranged into a proper song a few decades after return to Valinor. Full length takes about four hours to sing. Reduces most listeners to mostly-joyful tears. "Good choice, people - this one is my favorite." –Maglor.  "...I'm thinking about it." –Fëanor.

#kencyrath #the silmarillion #my fic #ask meme #smallblueandloud

[dialux]

Ciryapandië Taryasartë - Safe seas, stubborn loyalty

Women of the elves - 3/?

[Written for @finweanladiesweek, Day 5 (Ladies who married in)]

...

Ciryapandië Taryasartë was the second daughter of a farming family in Aman. A renowned horsemaster and songstress, she wedded Maglor, the second son of Fëanor, in the Noontide of Valinor. They spent many years singing and performing together; Ciryapandië’s affection for elaborate and lovely decorations showed itself in her clothes, a habit for which she eventually became notorious in Tirion’s fashion quarter.

Their marriage deteriorated as the divide between Maglor’s father, Fëanor, and Fingolfin deepened. When Maglor chose to follow his father to Formenos, Ciryapandië told him that such an action could never be undone, and burned their house to the ground, erecting a gravestone over it and proclaiming it his grave. Maglor and his kin saw this as a crass allusion to his grandmother, Míriel, who was the first to die in Aman—they never spoke again, though Ciryapandië remained in contact with her mother-in-law, Nerdanel, who had separated from her own husband as well.

When Morgoth and Ungoliant destroyed the Trees, Ciryapandië did not follow the Noldor that chose to flee. But after she heard of the Kinslaying at Alqualondë, Ciryapandië was struck with a great fear of her own husband and wished to demand answers from him of how he could commit such an atrocity. She followed Fingolfin’s host across the Grinding Ice, disguising herself and avoiding anyone that knew her face; she was successful at it right up until the Host arrived in Beleriand and were attacked by Morgoth’s forces. Ciryapandië was severely wounded in the same battle in which Argon, Fingolfin’s youngest son, died.

Where she should have died, Ciryapandië was found by Finrod, who healed her and offered her succor in his own tent. In gratitude, Ciryapandië swore her sword and life to Finrod; Finrod, in turn, gave her the title of Taryasartë for her stubborn and unyielding loyalty, a sword hewn from his father’s mother’s kin in golden Valimar, and named her one of his scout captains. Ciryapandië never saw her husband or his family—though they were separated by less distance than they had been in many years and she’d crossed the Ice to speak to Maglor, Ciryapandië had seen the Fëanorian camp and her pity outweighed her anger. Instead, she took on the name of Alphnaeth in Beleriand and followed Finrod to Nargothrond as one of his closest advisors.

Ciryapandië was out on scouting duty and not in Nargothrond when Celegorm and Curufin’s followers arrived during the Dagor Bragollach. Desperate to keep herself away from their attention, Ciryapandië stationed herself out of Nargothrond as a scout; her hard work led to her rising high in the Nargothrond army, and after Celegorm and Curufin were expelled from the city, she returned to offer advice—still in disguise—to Orodreth. Her high rank meant that Ciryapandië was charged with leading one of the largest parties away from Nargothrond when the city finally fell.

Though Ciryapandië and the refugees accompanying her arrived first to Sirion, most of them eventually chose to shift to Balar, where Gil-galad was crowned as the eighth High King of the Noldor. Ciryapandië further distinguished herself in the War of Wrath after the Valinorian Host arrived as a talented scout and leader.

Eventually, when the Host left Beleriand, Ciryapandië chose to accompany them back to Valinor. She swore her vows anew to Finrod in Aman, finally releasing the sword that he gifted to her at Mithrim after nearly five centuries of use. Ciryapandië never loved after Maglor and took no apprentices after arriving in Aman again; indeed, she did not sing for joy until many centuries after the end of the First Age. Eventually, however, Ciryapandië returned to her songs and to her sister’s farm, where she spent many months in a year raising horses and matching her voice to the high winds.

#maglor #maglor's wife #tolkien ladies #women of the elves #silmarillion #my writing #my edits #constantly thinking about who would have married maglor and just.... #best idea ever is the woman with the most backbone in the world wedded to someone with the moral backbone of a jelly. it's great. #yes we're ALL ignoring the rounded ears i did not have time to dive into gimp :/

[edensrose]

Do you think Tilion howls back at dogs/wolves that bark or howl at him? Does he have a signal that sets them all off? Were some of the Valinorian hounds his friends back in the day?

OMG!! Wait that's actually so cute. I imagine that he was a bit confused at first and most likely howled back at them because he didn't know what else to do — and then it kinda became routine

He doesn't do it as much anymore, but sometimes if you listen really really closely you can hear a distant howling, he's had time to perfect it over the years so hey you may not even notice the difference between the hounds and Tilion

#— ꒰🌺꒱ 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐬 ៸៸ weezlbot ❜‧₊ #tilion #the silmarillion #silm #tolkien #dog dad

[maka1aure]

The Numenorian variety of Quenya does end up being more similar to archaic Valinorian Quenya in some ways because in later years they were trying to reconstruct and mimic a pre-exilic version of the language, but in the beginning they absolutely used the Feanorian variety of Exilic Quenya.

so of course some exilic phrases were still retained in the later years of Numenor, and some were brought back into use as people began to rile against the Valar’s rules for them

#my worldbuilding #Numenor

[cat-the-dragon]

Snapshot of the extra fic I'm fitting in this year's NanoWriMO!

Harry Potter and the long road to Valinor

“If there are any to see I at least am revealed to them. I have written Gandalf is here in signs that all can read from Rivendell to the mouths of Anduin.”

They crossed the invisible boundary of Imladris’ protective enchantment, and at once, Asfaloth’s gait became spirited and bouncy. The Valinorian horse delighting in making the small jeweled bells of his harness chime loudly with each of his strides. Glorfindel smiled gamelly and adjusted his stance so he wouldn’t bounce against his horse’s back too heavily, he too was happy to finally be home, and had long since learned to enjoy Asfaloth enthusiasm.

Behind him he heard the gentle chuckle from Elladan and Elrohir, whose horses liked nothing more than to follow Asfaloth lead, especially as they too knew they were almost back home and could expect to be pampered and luxuriously fed once they reached the last homely house.

They were still in the woods when Asfaloth abruptly stopped and perked his ears upright. Glorfindel came to attention at once, searching around for what had alerted his horse.

Light began to shine from underneath the eaves, and it took the twin’s gasp of “Glorfindel!” to understand that the light came from him.

Glorfindel watched uncomprehending as his hands shone brighter and brighter with the remembered light of the two trees. He normally could call upon this light at need, but it was the first time this happened without him willing it, and it was fast outshining what he could manifest on his own.

As he thought this, Glorfindel flung his fea about, looking for the source, and immediately recognised the cool, kind hand of Mandos upon his brow. He panicked for a moment, thinking himself on the brink of death, but Mandos soothed his fear gently. Calmed by the reassurance that the anomaly was born from a Vala, even if he didn’t know why, Glorfindel opened his eyes again.

He was just in time to see his light leave his skin and coalesce in a silhouette just in front of him.

He stared, dumbfounded, as the form of light pulsed thrice, then the light was abruptly yanked inside the silhouette, leaving it’s surrounding to it’s natural and suddenly overwhelming darkness.

Glorfindel blinked, fast, to adjust his vision again, and looked again. Nothing. He then looked down, on a hunch, and there, almost under Asfaloth’s hooves laid a prone body.

#cat writes #writing #fanfic #lotr #harry potter

[ao3feed-tolkien]

What could have Been, yet Never was

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/gIPWkae

by ButtercupsMagician, Loptr_GodOfFire

There are countless times Glorfindel and Ecthelion could have taken things further but didn't, at least in the main story. These scenes are here to explore what would have happened if they had.

Basically smut that can also be read without knowing all the context.

 Of course there is a wonderful companion piece from Glorfindel's POV too.

Words: 5466, Chapters: 1/?, Language: English

Series: Part 11 of Valinorian Years Series

Fandoms: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: M/M

Characters: Ecthelion of the Fountain, Glorfindel (Tolkien)

Relationships: Ecthelion of the Fountain/Glorfindel, Glorfindel/Original Male Character(s)

Additional Tags: Power Bottom, Service Top, Topping from the Bottom, Threesome - M/M/M, Dominant Bottom, Masks

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/gIPWkae

#IFTTT #ao3feed #fanfic #Tolkien #JRR Tolkien #Tolkien works #ao3 #fan fiction

[searchingforserendipity25]

Some wips from Finwëan Ladies Week I will probably not finish in time but like to imagine might finish all the same:

- Daeron's once-in-a-century beaurocratic service obligations take him to Nan Elmoth, where he's tasked with figuring out what happened to Eöl, Thingol's most mysantropic and most recently dead vassal. The Lady of Nan Elmoth (very Noldor, very willful, extremely buff) claims, in no particular order, that the husband that may or may not have kidnapped her fell on her sword (thrice), caught fire from standing too long in the sun (?), was eaten by the forest (!!), etc. Daeron, who only took this shift so he could visit the forests where his lord and lafymet and write a great song about it, is fascinated and appalled in turns by how - creative and incoherent this approach to blatantly guilty widiwhood. Lómion is there. Tied to 'As a cage turns to a breeze ' but as humour (?)

- Something else about Idril and Gondolin's Propaganda Machine (It's her, she's the machine.  Also tied to 'As a candle turns to a breeze ' and the Witch of Nan Elmoth Verse, on account of the sudden line that I wrote and immediately posted at 1 am yesterday. (Office comedy kind of thing? But again, writing comedy is hard).

- Tiny drabble about Maglor's wife. She sold her name to the Song, and is purely interested in the Narrative as an engineered device. They're both mortally bankrupt and in love with the power of stories (also each other). She becomes a priest to Manwë. He's only a footnote in her plot to becoming the best expert on the Song as a Science, a discipline something between the study of metaphysics and the Narrative as a gravitational force. I suspect this will not be so tiny a drabble after all, if I ever, you know, write more than a sentence of it.

- Findis Invents Agricultural Cycles Based on Sunlight, and Also Socialism, Maybe. This could become long and decent, if I were able to plot for longer than 20k and have opinions about Valinorian food trade relationships post Darkening and Kinslaying!! Findis punts the crown so far away from herself she ends up killing hereditary monarchism. Nerdanel is there for sure. I need to get into very specific Wikipedia holes tho.

- Lalwen Gil-Galad and High Queen Findis, correspondence across the sea, the epistolary fic. No plots, only bad jokes and a deluded refusal of nostalgia for an objectively dysfunctional family. Arafinwë is there but he'd so much rather not.

Ideas I haven't started yet but am invested it:

- Findis/Eonwë, either romantic or intensely queerplatonic. Religious guilt, in that the Religion feels as guilty as the sinners for not being perfect? Devotion and relentless dignity and cute birbs, service to the people as a spiritually fulfilling vocation? Findis the joyful priestess turned High Queen, and the Herald of Manwë, who was once only as kestrel, but they are bffs. Interspecies friendship with political implications in people that place the common good very very much above their wishes and preferences, and respect each other for it! I don't even know. I need to listen to choral groups and the LoTR soundtracks. Spotify come through.

- Weird Manic Out of Touch Girl Aredhel. Don't ask her what this whole bloody business is about, she has no clue and gives no shits! As far as she's concerned, she was on a field trip studying dinossaur digs for years, so far away from the Mingling of the Trees that their fall barely registed. The day she got home was the one Fingolfin took off after Alqualondë. Good thing she was already wearing thick fur-lined traveling clothes!

- Celebrían thinks Valinor is so so boring. So is the life-affirming recovery process. This, as it happens, becomes very much Valinor's problem.

#fic writing #the silm

[diversetolkien]

On one hand I can understand why the Valar were so perplexed by Feanor refusing to give them the Silmarils. Valinor was a ‘communal society’. Groups of elves exchanged things without really expecting much pushback. 

The Valar provided freely and expected nothing in return but order. And their idea of order wasn’t necessarily wrong given that there was nothing to raise alarm about. 

There was just an expectation that because everyone gave, Feanor should have given the Silmarils to them because that was the norm. 

This is no way saying that Feanor is in the wrong--because from his perspective, he isn’t. And putting into terms the trauma he’s lived through that was so unique to others in Valinor, and what he had been expected to give up his entire life, Feanor’s reaction to being asked to give more was not surprising at all. 

But understanding just what Valinorian society was and how it’s operated for years really puts the Valar’s reaction towards Feanor refusing to give them the Silmaril into perspective--especially when the Valar themselves have given a lot (especially Yavana). 

#feanor #valar #valinor #the silmarillion

[valinorianyears]

Fingolfin|Nolofinwe and Anaire dancing on their first meeting on a terrace in front of Tirion.

(He's already so in love).

For @nolofinweanweek day 1

#nolofinweanweek #nolofinweanweek2023 #valinorian years #silmarillion #silm art #silm headcanons #silmarillion fanart #silm #fingolfin #anaire #nolofinwe

[lymira]

Chapter “Holding on to one another” in Valinorian Years

https://archiveofourown.org/works/37112755/chapters/107367171

Ecthelions malnourishment on the Helcaraxe causes him to have an accident, luckily Elemmakil is able to get Glorfindel quickly to help him

#glorthelion #glorfindel #ecthelion #valinorian years #silmarillion

[that-lieutenant]

Of the relationship between Mairon and the orcs

An assortment of various of my HCs in one shot format i guess

[This is my first time writing fanfic (whaaat) and i sadly don‘t have an ao3 account yet (but i‘ll get to it once my personal life isn‘t hell anymore) so please consider giving this some love :) ]

Also: this is heavily influenced by @lemurious writing (because all my silm interpretations nowadays are, i just love their content ahh)

His people.

His headstrong, steadfast, steel hard, loyal, ingenious, beautiful people.

When he first came upon them, their bodies had already adapted perfectly to the cold northern tundra of their homeland. Thick grey skin, heavy hair, stocky build.

The wars would add countless scars and burns and limbs of metal.

But that was later.

When he first met his people what was war to them? To him? Who knew then about the horrors they would be forced to face at the hands of the other species of Arda? At a time when they did not even know there were other species.

When he first came upon his people he thought they were the firstborn children Eru had shown the Ainur in their vision. He thought he had been successful in discovering them first, before the other Valar could. He had been so relieved that they would be spared a life in the stifling superficial horror that was Valinor.

And they really are the firstborn. These other, warm skinned, bright eyed, spindly thin creatures that came pouring back from west a couple centuries later, who were they but Valarin lackeys, transformed beyond recognition? And then they demanded land and loyalty and called their primogenitors disfigured and corrupted.

He knows now that he should not have been so surprised back then that these usurpers had shown themselves to have come with the blessing of Illuvatar. After all what were firstborn to Eru? Truly, what had been He Who Arises In Might, the firstborn of the Ainur, what had been his people, the firstborn of his children, to Eru?

The actions of this absentee god would speak clear words in the following millennia, they would come to learn.

When he first came to meet the true firstborn, when he lived among them, when he learned their customs, their language, their love and he found connections so deep they would fuel him for ages to come, that was when he knew he had found his people. And together with their leaders and his own brethren they were able to lay the foundations for a culture that would thrive in spite of its creator and the eternal war this creator perpetuated.

In merely a few centuries, together they were able to develop technologies that would not be seen again the following age.

And then?

The wrath and unquestioned self-righteousness of their enemies erupts over Beleriand and the years of intense warfare lead to brutal massacres. On both sides – he is nowhere close to being without fault; that fierce love of his people has lead him to commit some of the most heinous acts of violence over and over again – but even now he remembers climbing down into the ruins of their underground cities after their defeat. He remembers the protective bunkers filled with civilian bodies and standing in their spilled blood.

The ones that got out in time were mostly soldiers because they had been evacuatable once the defeat was imminent. But the workers, the engineers, the caretakers, the children, those who they had wanted to keep safe in the bunkers? It was too late for them by the time they realises that nothing they could do would stop the fortress from being taken. And then the Valar went on and slaughtered them all.

It is his fault. And at the time it seemed like the worst one he would ever make.

As a nuclear firestorm destroys Beleriand, as the remnants of an entire continent drown in the sea behind them, and he and what is left of his people loose everything, the only thing he can do is lead them away, further and further east. Until he can‘t even do that anymore.

Because at that point everything just collapses in on him. His work has been shattered to pieces, all his brethren and most of his trusted generals killed, his lord, his partner, his lover, his pillar was taken and with that he just stops functioning.

In their hour of greatest need he abandons his people. After all, the only thing he ever seems to bring to them is war and death.

For a millennium he just… There is no purpose, no responsibility. Distantly he hears of the hardships his people are facing now in the East. How slow civilisations develop without the energy of a Vala or three radiating stones to power them. But he shuts it all out. He becomes numb to it.

And strangely, when he stumbles upon the new settlements of the second firstborn he isn‘t filled with unadulterated unstoppable rage. He is just tired. After all, what, truly, are these creatures but the Valar‘s playball in their game of who-is-the-most-despicable-without-realising? And strangely, these Eldar do not recognise who he is.

So why not, he thinks. Why not live in easy expedients for once, why not push away the past and continue to abdicate any responsibility he has to his that people? He crafts a name and a lie to start his new life of ignorance is bliss.

Oh, sweet Tyelpe. How easy it is to share the discoveries they had made in the first age with this ellon when the reward is all eyes big of wonder and desperation to discover more of this „Valinorian“ technology. It is so much like in the old days when he and his brethren and the best scientist of his people would find new methods and formulas to describe the world around them that he can‘t help but loose himself in the intelligent conversations of their workshop, the peaceful thriving of their city, the warm tenderness of their embrace.

They work to create better methods of gaining and storing energy then until they eventually develop the rings that can provide enough power to sustain entire cities.

They plan to make rings for the strongholds of dwarves and men and Eldar. But what about his people, he finds himself thinking. These technologies that are now used in the elvish kingdoms, they are only a small part of what was developed by and for him and his people in the first place. So what about his people?

He feels restless now. Old anger at injustice and blind self-righteousness arise in him again. In secret he starts travelling to the settlements his people have made in a country they call Mordor. The conditions there are rough and the technology now primitive compared to their glorious past but he sees a lot of recent progress.

All of the generals and leaders of old are long dead now and it takes a lot of time and effort to convince his people to trust him again, that he can and will help and that he won‘t abandon them again. They start building an underground city and a fortress once more, Barad-dûr, where the energy will be harvested. He creates a ring more powerful than any of the ones before. It has to supply the entire population after all.

When he returns to Eregion something has changed.

He can feel a strange charge in the air. Are the Eldar suspecting something? They all seem very worried at the sudden surge of activity in Mordor and he is starkly reminded that these Eldar, at the end of the day they still view his people as an ultimate but also undignified threat.

He knows something is wrong when Tyelpe suggests that their rings might also be used as a weapon. One of mass destruction. Mass destruction of his people that is. Tyelpe leaves that unsaid but it is clear as day what he means.

He doesn‘t need to worry about the rings for the elven cities anymore, Tyelpe tells him then and smiles.

A primordial fear settles into his bones. The horror at what is to come turns his stomach. What has he done? How could he have given all this help, all this power to the Eldar when they would only turn around and use it against his people?

He remembers sitting outside on some steps, pulling at his hair, his entire body shaking, growing increasingly mad at all the options that seem to slip out his hands one by one. And when Tyelpe comes to meet him there the only thing left for him to do is to push the ellon against a pillar, knife to his eye and demand the elvish rings he devised in secret. But Tyelpe laughs bitterly and spits in his face.

So it is truly you, the abhorred one, the dark foe‘s torturer, his whore.

This time it is his own wrath that razes cities to the ground. His people are ready for war. They have to be. And the next centuries are dictated by mindless destruction and production lines of battle machinery being the first thing that is re-introduced into the city of his people.

But still the population grows again, the conditions improve, their underground civilisation expands and he finds that he can make alliances with some of the human tribes and kingdoms that they had given rings of power to.

He and his people once again find ways to live in perfect symbiosis with the harsh climate of their land. Volcanic soil is fertile, air and water can be filtered and the ring offers them enough power to sustain artificial lights for growing crops underground and more.

It‘s progress but one that they keep secret. Because just like he is fuelled by the fear of elvish development, the Eldar would surely bring about another war of wrath if they knew about the advancements of his people.

The whole Numenorean ordeal that followed some centuries later was a mess. When that conquerer-king and his armies march upon Mordor he has no choice but to give in quickly. They cannot risk being invaded. Luckily these men are self-complacent enough to take their smugness and their ‚victory‘ and leave again. Though they also feel the need to drag him to that forsaken island of theirs.

Ar-Pharazon truly was a conquerer. He stretched his hands further and further for more colonies on the continent while his nation corroded away with by civil war. The golden king took and took from everyone around him and the displays of subjugation he was continually forced to perform to this king were manifold and in all kinds of ways.

Of course the wrath of the Valar that they unleashed upon the island as soon as they felt slightly threatened in their superiority was in the end blamed on him. He only ever indulged the Numenoreans‘ fantasies. When they brought him to their island it was already on the brink of collapse with conflict and misanthropic ideologies. Sure he, too, lost himself a bit in that collective insanity; he was complicit, so was everyone else. And then Eru felt they could cast judgement upon all these individuals and drowned yet another continent.

He laughs in the face of such insolence. It‘s hysterical, maybe more so a scream.

Then the water hits his body. It presses all the air out, breaks his ribs, crushes his lungs.

When he awakes again he is floating on a piece of driftwood, endless blue stretches around him. His body is raw and for some reason he finds himself unable to shift form anymore. He starts to panic, tries to force his particles to regroup in a way that forms a bird, a fish, something, he needs to get out of this blue emptiness now, he needs to – what is happening??

There is another war at the end of that age, but by that time his memory has turned into an indecipherable blur. It leads to yet more massacre. But worst of all, they take the ring.

For him it is as if all the tissue that holds him together suddenly loosens. He falls to his knees, sacks into himself. He can feel his spirit oozing out of the leaks that now penetrate his form. He stumbles back.

In the underground city the lights go dark, the industrial production comes to a standstill, the water and air filters turn off. His people pour out of their homes once they start to starve, once they realise that their military has lost the war and that their government has no way of dealing with the catastrophe.

They are in need but once again he is abandoning them. He is just so tired.

In the tower there is a large tank with cooling liquid for the energy production of the ring that he now lies in. In the pitch-black darkness his bones have started to shine with a dim fluorescent green. His body has started to disintegrate.

Outside he can feel the remnants of his peoples civilisation fall to ruin a second time. It takes only a few decades for them to return to the primitive conditions of their life without a secure energy supply.

And then suddenly it‘s not only his body that disintegrates anymore but the heavy elements in him too. At a faster rate than is normally used to power an Ainu‘s body that is. The heat of the nuclear fission that has set in brings the coolant to the boil and he had just barely enough mind and willpower left to set off the steam turbine. With a thudding noise the whole energy plant slowly comes to life again.

And for the next millennia Mairon lies submerged in the coolant tank, his body glowing and radiating and falling apart, his atoms splitting and powering a city that has been abandoned and he can only hope that his people will come back and reclaim what is theirs by right and rebuild their lives, their culture, their technology with the last energy that he has to give.

#How Mairon turns himself into an atomic reactor: a powerpoint with pictures #sci fi tolkien #silmarillion #tolkien #mairon #orcs #lotr #silmarillion fanfiction #fanfic #technology #science in tolkien #sauron

[tanoraqui]

Tanoraqui’s Coherent Theory of Finwëan Relative Ages (Years of the Trees Only)

Click Here to see the complete timeline of birth years and other notable events, including reasoning for various non-canon dates, and be sure to visit the second tab for a breakdown of Elf vs. Man aging rates and foundational headcanons about how time works and a few key familial relationships! Also below the cut.

Note on graph: ”as Men would Reckon” meaning, if you looked at that elf’s face and watched them behave for a bit, how old would you say they are if they were a human.

MORE CHARTS!:

Time Headcanon:

Tolkien's calculation of roughly 10 Sun Years to 1 Tree Year is correct, but time passes more slowly [closer to the Trees/in Valinor in general/close to the Valar themselves] [take your pick], or at least it seems to; same difference because time is fake, especially for immortals. This is called "Valinorian Temporal Reduction" (VTR) and it shakes out to about 1/5 the speed of Sun Years, or 1 Tree Year in Valinor = 2 Sun Years. NB: this did NOT effect Elves left in Middle Earth, which is why the Moriquendi population has swelled greatly in proportion to the Calaquendi by the time the Noldor Exiles arrive.

Aging Headcanon:

Somewhere around looking 30-35ish, Elves really hit that "ageless beauty" where they look young and ancient at once, and stay there. Some get there faster, or seem to age into 40s or even 50s, due to greater stress in life (common in those who stay longer in Middle Earth) This may or may not alleviate with rest; Elves, too, can be "old souls." Presenting as older is also common in elves with children, grandchildren, etc (due to personal sense of maturity/responsibility).

In fact, in Middle Earth, certainly in First Age Middle Earth, a 600-year-old Elf probably looks and acts/feels solidly 35, if not 40, though it's still plateauing there. The increased aging rate is almost entirely from age 100 onward - childhood aging (to mortal "18") is still about the same no matter what stressors are about. That is, emotional maturity can be affected, but the hröa's aging isn't any more than a Man's would be.

Note that by all this logic of year counts and aging, Finwë - who I think wasn't one of the original 144 Elves but was probably the quickly coming 2nd or 3rd gen - was about 800-860 (sun) years old (700-800 ME years + 72 VTR), putting him in Mannish mid to late 30s at Fëanor's birth. He probably picked up the equivalent of a year or two from then until his death.

Key Finwëan Familial Headcanons the Shaped the Birth Years Headcanons (no particular order): 

Finarfin and Earwen also married young, even younger than Fëanor and Nerdanel (ELOPED, in fact)

Fëanor and Nerdanel have kids whenever they get particularly horny over creation, with no regard for anything or anyone else

Maedhros is slightly older than Finarfin, but this is the only Finwean grandchild/child mix

No children were conceived out of competition or spite, except maybe great-grandchildren

Orodreth is a great-grandchild, son of Angrod and Eldalote

Orodreth was a mature enough adult in FA 102 that leaving him in charge of Tol Sirion was reasonable

It's traditional in Middle Earth to have elf kids at the same time as other elf kids. Slightly less common in Valinor, but still common.

Apprenticeship standardly starts at E!15-16, Curufinwës all started at E!14. (I know in my heart that the Noldor have guilds, though I don't think "journeyman" is what they'd call that rank - journeying prob. wouldn't have been as much of a thing?)

Again, check out the full timeline here! Yes, it was significantly faster (and more fun) to make a chart myself with colored pencils than to enter a billion values into Excel, especially given that there’s no actual formula for this Man/Elf age conversion. I think it got lost with everyone mixed together, but Fëanorians are in red shades, Fingolfinians in blues, and Finarfinians in yellows (more or less).

#the silmarillion #hm maybe i'll just tag the hot ticket characters? nah i'd feel bad #house of finwe #noldor #this fandom #my fic #math

[lendmyboyfriendahand]

Celebrian’s Champion

They were all gathered in Imlardis, discussing how to help Celebrian. It had become clear that no one could heal her in Middle Earth, and it was highly unlikely they could even keep her from fading.

So she had to sail. None of them particularly trusted the Valar, or the Valinorian elves, but the land had peace and strength in abundance.

If she survived the journey, which would be difficult as weak as she was. Celebrian did not wish to go alone and vulnerable to somewhere she knew no one, and none of those who cared for her liked the idea either. But they couldn't be spared. Thranduil and Elrond both had realms to watch over. Her parents had Lothlorien. Children should not have to care for their mother, and she would not Doom them to immortality for her sake. Glorfindel was suggested - the two of them were not close, but he was strong in spirit and would know his way around Valinor, and was deeply loyal to Elrond's house. But he had been sent by the Valar with a  mission, and no one was sure if this counted as fighting Sauron, or what the Valar might do to him for an early return.

On and on the argument went, with no conclusion being reached.

Thranduil spoke in a weary but clear voice, "Maglor."’

"I didn't say anything!" Maglor defended. Thranduil still held a grudge over Doriath, and Maglor generally tried to avoid being in the room with him. When it was unavoidable, he kept quiet to avoid causing political problems for Elrond.

"Maglor could go with Celebrian. He's strong enough and knows Valinor, and he has no particular purpose keeping him here."

Maglor blurted out his first reaction, "You'd trust me that much?"

"To keep your daughter-in-law safe, and you on an entirely different continent from the Greenwood? Yes."

Elrond asked, "Will the Valar even let him back?"

Galadriel said, "As a 'ringleader', I am allowed back if I repent. I see no reason why Maglor shouldn't be the same. He’s done worse than I have, but didn’t convince anyone else to leave."

Maglor protested, "I can't heal! I haven't been able to in millennia!"

"You wouldn't have to,” Elrond said. “I can start the healing with you as a sort of well, and Celebrian only needs to maintain enough strength to draw out buckets on her own, as it were."

"What about the entire population of Valinor? I think they all hate me for one reason or another."

Galadriel said, "Oh, surely not all, some of your father's sycophants must be alive by now." "We can declare him Celebrian's Champion,” Celeborn said. “That would keep him legally protected until Celebrian is recovered, and as a Sindarin and Telerin princess she is well entitled to one."

“That sounds like a reason for him to never let her properly heal, if doing so would mean his death.” Thranduil rebutted.

Galadriel replied, "A woman who is fading and may never see her children again if she loses life? A Feanorian will fight for her to the point of stupidity."

"It does grieve me that she will miss Legolas growing into an adult. Could we not use him as a well and have him remain here?"

"No,” Elrond said. “Firstly, it would cause significant pain to be a well for more than a few years, and I will not put my father through that. Secondly, I am not so skilled in healing as to know the hour at which he would fall; I may not know accurately the depths of Maglor's reserves until he has exhausted them. He needs strength to bring them both across the journey and some months in Valinor."

Thranduil replied, "Fine. If it will save Celebrian, the golodh kinslayer can steal another sacred Nelyarin tradition."

“Do I get any say in this at all?” Maglor asked plaintively.

“You do. I will not heal any who refuse treatment, nor will I bind you to a cause you do not choose. I would not command you to this even if I could. But I am asking, as I can see no other way for her to survive - or for you to survive your return to Tirion.”

Maglor sighed. “Alright, I will do it. But I would like a day or so to put my affairs in order, and send letters to those friends I will not see again.”

“Of course. Celebrian is not fading quickly, and it matters little whether you sail this week or next.”

#maglor #silm #silmarillion #my fic #tehhumi october #celebrian's champion #i write third age fic only for as long as it takes to shove everyone back to Valinor or other First Age politics #Celeborn and Thranduil are both passive aggressive around maglor but in different ways #Celeborn has not said a word directly to Maglor in several thousand years; instead he talks about Maglor like he's not here #but if Maglor brings up a good point Celeborn will pursue the line of reasoning as if someone else made it and then left the room #Thranduil insists on all royal titles and for all lesser issues refuses to admit he heard Maglor speak at all #if Maglor answers a question Thrdauil asked Thranduil will wait for someone else to repeat the answer #Celebrian at Redhorn pass #thranduil #celeborn #galadriel #elrond #yes this includes that persephone headcanon #Thranduil was 100% in favor of a plan where Celebrian is transferred to Finarfin or Finrod's care the moment she reaches the dock #and Maglor is thrown overboard at the last minute #fair warning that I expect this fic to be more focused on Maglor's interactions with Valinorian society than on Celebrian's recovery

[crowgremlin]

Another Xianxia Snippet

(So, this is another piece from the Xianxia AU. It’s much, much further ahead than where I am now, so a lot of details are very vague. Basically, this is after Melkor’s Sect looses the war with the Valinorian Sect. Melkor is imprisoned in Mandos for three ages, after which Mairon returns to the Valinorian Sect because he needs resources for cultivation that he can’t access alone. Melkor is released, Mairon ends up under Melkor. CW for depression.)

His return to the Valinorian Sect was strange. It had been easier to get in than he thought it would be, although perhaps donning a face that was his but wasn’t his had aided that. It was a simple trick, to make himself retain his own appearance without being recognized as himself. It was part of the demonic path to seem as one was not, so most righteous cultivators could neither discern its effect nor use it.

It was odd, being assigned to Melkor. While fortuitous, it had not been his plan. He was hoping to join Yavanna’s branch and hone his skills in alchemy, but that hadn’t quite happened.

The section of the sect’s lands assigned to Melkor was remote, dismal, and in disrepair. They clearly had been abandoned long ago. What was left creaked and groaned with age, and leaked every time it rained. Melkor himself laid in bed, staring blankly at something only his eyes could see on the ripped and almost unusable silk-screen.

Mairon’s first order of business was making Melkor’s branch less like a penny-dreadful horror-mansion and more like a liveable place. Mairon patched roofs, fixed walls, and mended doors when he wasn’t trying to progress further along his Dao. So far, the room where Melkor stayed and Mairon’s room were completely repaired. He was also close to a third of the way through repairing the common room that both his and Melkor’s rooms connected to. Yet Mairon still had more repair work ahead of him; Melkor’s branch was surprisingly large for such a recluse. Mairon’s repair work’s extent only consisted of part of one wing, with another three buildings to work on he hadn’t even entered yet.

Mairon currently sat on a stool in Melkor’s room, meditating on the Dao. He wasn’t making progress, his mind unwilling to focus on the path he was trying to walk. Mairon’s frustration hung heavy in the air like dark ashes and coal fumes, a heat just shy of painful.

The answer to his question seemed obvious,yet it wasn’t. Frustrated, Mairon ended his meditations and instead went to the pitiful, makeshift forge he had set up to make nails so he could put the doors in the hinges. He thought he’d had nails, but they’d turned out to be so rusted as to be useless for even melting down. After he’d made the nails, he would try to get another blanket, for Melkor’s incessant shivering worried him. Finally he’d make tea and see if he had zongzi left. Out of the two times Melkor had spoken since Mairon arrived, one of them had been to note he felt hungry. That too worried him: cultivators didn’t need to eat or drink or even breathe to remain alive.

Mairon worked in nearly complete silence, the only sound the clang of his hammer as he worked.

~~~

When he finished the nails, he went to put up the doors, finally tearing down the sheets he’d put up in lieu of doors. He hated those things; as an intentional design element, he was neutral, but having them up was just another reminder that everything around Mairon was in disrepair.

After he’d gotten the doors up, he went rummaging in the one intact closet in Melkor’s room for more blankets. The Vala has so fair been unable to muster the will do anything but lay in bed and shiver. Mairon thinks he ate once, so he brings food often because he wants Melkor to do more than just lay in bed, nigh insensate.

Mairon arranged the blankets on top of Melkor, who appeared to be sleeping at the moment, then went to get him some food and tea. Mairon only had cheap green tea, chosen because there had been an awkwardly large surplus of it this year and he could buy it cheap in bulk. He still had one zongzi left, so he set to cooking it while the water for tea boiled. They still had sugar left, though they were running low. Mairon added it to the list of things he needed that was in his old notebook. Well-worn, held together by literal threads, the old notebook from when Mairon was still mortal had seen better days. In between different ideas and hasty sketches, he had a few memories he’d written down. Sometimes, when he felt particularly lonely, he would reread them and remember them with a certain nostalgic fondness. He hoped Thuringwethil and Gothmog yet lived, but he couldn’t bear to think of the war, so he didn’t.

Knowing that zongzi took awhile to cook, Mairon began weaving as he waited. He was not one to look down upon any craft or art, and he always needed more textiles for something. Busywork was good for him and helped clear his mind when he was frustrated.

~~~

Mairon knew when the zongzi was done because of how many he had cooked since he’d helped out at Duanwujie and found himself with so, so much rice. And sugar.

“Mairon?” Melkor said, startling Mairon so much that he almost disturbed his weaving.

“You’re up. It’s good to see you.” Mairon replied.

“I…” Melkor said hesitantly, confused. “I felt lonely. Can I stay with you for a short while?”

“Stay as long as you want to.” Mairon replied. “There’s tea if you want, still warm, and I have one last zongzi for you, with sugar, if you want it.”

Melkor sat on the bench beside Mairon, leaning against him.

“You’re stuck on your Dao again.” Melkor said, almost lost despite the silence. “If the question you’re asking isn’t giving you answers that make sense, ask a different question.”

“I hadn’t thought of that.” Mairon said. “Thank you. I’ll keep it in mind.”

Mairon stood, stretching a little.

“The zongzi is done.” He told Melkor. “Do you want some?”

“Yes please.” Melkor replied.

#xianxia au in the works #angbang #SAURON/MELKOR #Melkor #mairon #snippet from a wip #references to Chinese culture because this is a Chinese genre