finweanladiesweek
Finwëan Ladies Week
September 18-24, 2023
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The lineage of Kings
- Finarfin
- Finrod
- Orodreth
- Finduilas
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For the pride requests, what about t4t Celeborn and Galadriel please?
here they are!! thank you so much for the request <3
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You're doing pride requests? Can you do genderqueer Finrod? Maybe along with trans or bigender Galadriel?
love this for them. Thanks so much for the request!
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Indis + Nerdanel for mistletoe prompt #2 please!
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A slightly mussed up Nerdanel and an exhausted Feanor for Day 2 of @silmsmutweek Well, more like post-smut, but still.
They were watching each other work and then got a little distracted. (Nothing sexier than being a master at your craft, right?)
Also a late submission for @finweanladiesweek since I didn't get around to drawing my other Nerdanel idea back then, but at least I finished this one.
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Our girls Findis and Írimë!
I missed @finweanladiesweek 😭
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Finwean Ladies Week @finweanladiesweek | Aredhel & Galadriel
It was not that the only daughters of the sons of Finwe misliked each other.
It was difficult to mislike Artanis - with her it was either adoration or loathing, and few dared to loathe her. She had many friends, many partisans and followers among the noble maidens and young apprentices of the Noldor.
Always there was a new matter of study that held her in utmost passion, always she held herself apart, high-minded and bright-eyed. Neither of them were easy to tame , though from the beginning Nerwen was alive to the importance of light, refraction, reflections and symbols - went about it in clear sight of their people, with her mind always to the eyes on her, the words spoken, the wills to be mastered and hearts to be guided.
In the impetuous days of her youth, when all things left her impatient, and there were not enough moments between Minglings for all her projects and studies, the fire of her spirit burned fiercely from its own kindling. She preferred none so well as her brothers, and among them Finderáto, who was in her eyes as an older and gentler and paler shade to her power and foresight.
And as for Írissë - No creature was as strange to Artanis as her girl-cousin, born and raised in tandem with herself and so unlike herself.
Fierce and deliberate and in love with the most esoteric mysteries of the hunt and the wandering trances, Írissë perfected the art of walking through cities and forests undetected to avoid being perceivable, and kept to the wild places as much as she could; she had no wish to be known.
She made no displays, cared little for competitions. That which she sought was a less defined mastery. Her studies was no lesser, but stranger and altogether indifferent to laboratories and pulpits.
Artanis was keen of eye, even then, eager to see where others would not. She knew when her almost-sister grew so wise to the arts of patient stillness and encompassing existence, that time itself seems to bend a little to her. The reality of things lost its edge, had its sharpness bent just enough that she might move through them undetected
Most often, Írissë found freedom in the woods and high cliffs, riding wildly deep in Aman or walking the deep forests where few Eldar have dared to tread. The White Lady, her cousins called her, for her great skill in hiding from the world, making herself indistinguishable from even in the darkest groves and caves, wearing the brightest of clothes as a dare, and a boast: no one would see her that she did not wish to be seen, no prey could escape her relentless hunt.
Artanis alone ran as swiftly as she did, and guessed at the mysteries of her wanderings; Artanis alone could find her, when she did not wish to be found. In days to come, long after their youth, she would think on that - she might have found Aredhel, perhaps, where none could.
They spoke little to each other; but long after Aredhel was bones under stone, and the stone sank into the salted sea, Galadriel walked in her hidden domain through the long nights and felt the keen-edge of longing for a great darkness, a more perfect concealment, the hunter’s challenge of a flash of white amidst the silver and gold.
#apologies for taking this long to reblog this! it evaded our notifications until now#aredhel#galadriel#fic#searchingforserendipity#searchingforserendipity25#day 3#2023
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Too late for finwean ladies week, but i decided to post it anyway. Aredhel in the forest.
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some fantastic finwëan females <3
my 1 (one) submission for @finweanladiesweek except i got almost all of them in one piece so it suffices i think? thank you @arofili and @elesianne - it was fun drawing them all!
prompt list vv
#miriel#indis#findis#lalwen#aredhel#galadriel#nerdanel#anaire#elenwe#amarie#idril#elwing#celebrian#arwen#art#a miphae#day 7#2023
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Finwëan Ladies Day 7: Arwen
When she was young, Arwen loved the library of Rivendell more dearly than any other place in her city; the gardens and courtyards were pretty, but there was little else for her to do besides sit and admire the sight of the waterfalls flowing between the trees. The Hall of Fire was only full at evening time, and she felt ill-at-ease around large gatherings of people anyways, being a quiet girl. Elladan and Elrohir went hunting often, or else spent their time sparring, and she cared little for swordplay. Her father was always in his study, and no one went into her mother’s room anymore.
But the library’s doors were always open and inviting, and in it she could find any sort of thing to enthrall her—legends, poems, songs, instruction manuals for various lost arts, and best of all, history books that told tales of the epic deeds of her ancestors.
Arwen had always been proud of her heritage, just as her father was. She even enjoyed the company of that strange, sad-looking Elf that sometimes visited Rivendell, whom her father said was some uncle of hers. He told her stories and sang songs, but never stayed for long, and had never told her his name.
Her ancestors, she read, had done many great deeds—some good, some grand, some bad, and some grandly bad—that set them apart and branded their names in history forever.
There were Elves who fought battles, Elves who became Kings, Elves who started wars, and even some Men who were as strong as Elves.
Arwen knew all of these stories—and all of these people—by heart, so that even though many of them were dead and gone, she felt like she had personally come to know her fabled grandfathers, uncles, and cousins.
Her favorites, though, were the women of these legends.
Míriel, a Weaver of Vairë.
Indis, a Queen of Elves.
Findis and Lalwen, sisters separated by war.
Galadriel, her grandmother, who was just as wise and noble as the records said.
Aredhel, a Princess of a secret city, the heroine of a tragedy.
Idril, who defied the Valar and walked to Valinor on silver feet.
Nerdanel, a simple sculptor turned high Lady.
Arwen saw herself in all of these noble, wise figures, and hoped one day to be remembered like they were. Remembered for her grace, her beauty, her strength, her choices that changed the world.
She had never been drawn to the sword, or particularly strong-voiced, but she looked at the stars and she dreamed.
And even if all Arwen could do was dream, and hope for a better world, and perhaps indirectly pull at the strings of fate, that would be enough for her.
»»————- ✼ ————-««
This is just a short, 450-word-drabble I did to close out my run of Finwëan Ladies Week; young Arwen reading about and admiring all of the women who formed history, which I think ties in all I've written about before and gives a new flavor to the series.
I am so proud of myself for completing this challenge, and so thankful to all of you who have supported me during this week! I look forward to participating in next year's Finwëan Ladies Week, as well as any other Silmarillion and Lord of the Rings challenges that cross my path! Namárië, until next we meet!
@finweanladiesweek
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Eldalotë for day 7 of @finweanladiesweek
[Image description
1: flowers, text = Eldalotë
2: Paola Mathé (a dark skin Haitian woman) in a green field
3: Paola Mathé standing and looking out of frame
4: a background of flowers, text = Elven-flower, of the Noldor
5: Part of a family tree showing Eldalotë, her husband Angrod, his brother Finrod, his parents Eärwen and Finarfin, her son Orodreth, and grand-daughter Finduilas
6: Paola Mathé with flowers on her lap.]
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Without a (conscious) intention, my writing focus recently has turned to Finwëan women.
Here are some of the latest takes:
To Find a Home in the Twilight (G 8k) - Freshly out of Gondolin, Aredhel meets old friends in Celegorm's lands, makes new ones among mortal people in Estolad, and journeys to Nan Elmoth to seek the Fairy of the Night. She is definitely NOT lost.
Written for @toastedbuckwheat's beautiful art.
Red (G 3k) - in which reborn Fingon attempts to save Maedhros again, from Mandos, and himself. He almost fails, if not for Anairë's wisdom.
Enriched by this gorgeous painting by @helyannis
Mothers (G 600) - where Nerdanel remembers the song of each of her sons, and Indis helps her heal her old grief.
Inspired by @welcomingdisaster's sweet drawing.
Keep my heart warm while I’m gone (M 1,6k) - On the Helcaraxë, Aredhel and Ecthelion find much-needed warmth in each other. Inspired by native Lakota traditions.
Selected Lays of Finrod Felagund: Amarië (G 500) - Finrod returns home to Amarië after centuries of exile.
Written as a gift for @cuarthol.
Voices That Were Once Ours (M 5k) - Maglor & Finrod-centered story, where the Noldorin hosts at Mithrim meet for the first time, featuring a diplomat Lalwen who keeps the peace among Finwë's brood.
Written as a treat for @themultileggedcreature's art.
Stay, Forever (G 1,3k) - Through remembrance and song, Elrond finally finds the courage to admit his feelings for Celebrían.
Written as a gift for @searchingforserendipity25
I hope to break out of my creative block for the last day of @finweanladiesweek but if not, head over to the event's page for more amazing art and writing featuring Finwëan women. Reblog, read, give love to the creators.
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Finwëan Ladies Day 6: Lindelin, Daughter of Maglor
The ocean was grey today, churning and crashing up against the rocky beach in foamy white spray. The sky above roiled just as darkly, threatening rain in a grumbling voice.
Lindelin feared no storm; she would be here for but a short while anyways, and it did not matter to her if she got a little wet. It was the ocean, after all. The hem of her flowing blue dress was already spattered with drops of salt water.
She was alone, a tall, blue-swathed figure on a long slate-grey shore, keen green eyes scanning the horizon but not expecting to see what she searched for. Once upon a time, her mother had accompanied her, but she had abandoned this daily ritual because she had given up hope of ever seeing it. Lindelin, too, had no real hope of seeing anything but the great watery expanse; she simply came here because it was her way of paying respect to the father that would never come back.
Lindelin knew him very little; the name Makalaurë Kanafinwë was one not spoken in her home—it grieved her mother too greatly to talk about him—or anywhere else. All she really knew of him (besides what little she could persuade her mother to tell her) was that he had left Valinor with his family and a host of armed Noldor, burning ships and slaying Elves as they went, when Lindelin was but a small child. He had not returned since, but the rest of his family—six brothers and his father—had been killed across the sea and had been sentenced to prison in the Halls of Mandos, where they now dwelt.
Lindelin had not met them. She hated them too much for taking her father away from her. A small part of her, one that she sometimes shunned and sometimes indulged, hated her father too, for leaving her and her mother to a life of solitude and shame.
There goes the daughter of the Kinslayer, some whispered when she passed in the streets. She looks just like him—my, what a scowl!
Her mother had said she only resembled him in her jet-black hair and fair skin. Lindelin’s green eyes belonged to her mother, as did her impressive height. She wished she could sing the way her mother did, in that soaring, warbling tone that had earned her the title ‘Clarion of Valinor’ from many years ago. Her mother did not sing anymore, and she had never taught Lindelin how either. Her father had been well-known for his rich voice, and some said that they had never heard anything so beautiful as when those two sang in harmony.
A crystal drop of rain fell from the sky and landed on Lindelin’s cheek, followed by many more; soon the steady hum of the rain joined the sighing of the waves, and a silken haze rose from the surface of the water, obscuring the distance. It was almost time to leave, she thought, but there was one more thing that she always did to complete her act.
She started with a hum, a harmony with the rain and the sea; her voice was still not as lovely as her parents’, but it was good enough for her. No one could hear her, anyways.
Her earliest memory was of dancing in the sand, twirling under an azure sky and golden sun; her mother’s laughter rang like bells, accompanied by another voice that Lindelin could almost hear through the haze of time.
Her note grew louder, and more intricate—a husky, swaying croon to the tempest around her.
A pair of hands, long and pale, gently took hers and long legs danced in time with hers, blue-and-gold robes swaying like the sea. Lindelin giggled as they waltzed.
“Sing for me, little melody,” said a voice, brushing against her like a river.
Lindelin sang, crescendoing with the storm. The ocean pulsed in response to her voice, and the thunder drummed above. Lindelin had heard of Songs of Power, of the ecstasy of music, and she felt that richness and life flowing through her sometimes. It felt good, and deep, and roared in her ears loudly enough to drown out her sorrow in the few moments she could hold that mighty note.
Sing for me.
And for one instant, in the finale of the Song that drowned out all other senses but the noise, Lindelin thought she heard another voice join with hers, baritone and aching with loneliness. They called out to each other like hands stretching across oceans, straining desperately to touch each other—but Lindelin’s voice broke at the last instant. No song, however powerful, could bring her father back.
The Power slipped from her, as it always did, and in another breath she had ended the song; the maelstrom calmed, the rain ebbed, the clouds let go the breath they seemed to be holding. Lindelin was alone, and it was raining, and she had best be going home.
»»————- ✼ ————-««
I had a lot of fun coming up with an original character to write about; I had always headcanoned that Maglor had a daughter (it's known he had a wife, but there is no information about any children he had), but this is the first I've written about her! This one is my favorite so far. @finweanladiesweek
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For day 6 of @finweanladiesweek. Lirindë the wife of Curufin (OC of @solmarillion)
[Image description
1: music scrolls, text = Lirinde
2: a woman holding a scroll
3: two silver haired figures, mist, trees
4: sword dripping blood, green music notes
5: necklace with red gems lying on a book. A faint green eight point star
6: adult hands and child hands holding small sprouting plants. The adult hands drip blood.]
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Eldalote, snippet
@finweanladiesweek, for Ladies Who Married In
A snippet on Edhellos or Eldalote after Angrod's death (not, I think, posted publicly before).
In Himring 'verse, she escapes and chooses to become the guardian of Barad Nimras, the watchtower on the coast.
Edhellos stands on the top of the white tower of Barad Nimras, looking out to Sea. It is her task to scan the coast and the horizon northwards in case Morgoth attempts an invasion by that route. They have gradually begun to suspect, during the time since the tower was built, that no attack will come that way, that Ulmo will continue to bar the way over the waves. However, that is no reason for Edhellos to relax her watch. Morgoth has surprised them before—and death and devastation followed. As far as it is in her, he will not be allowed to catch them out again. This is a task she has taken on by choice, pleased to find that she was relieving others from an irksome duty who are more usefully employed elsewhere.
Unlike her husband, lost to her in the destruction of Dorthonion, Edhellos does not have much of an early affinity with the sea. She has no Telerin heritage. Kinder memories of visits to in-laws in Alqualonde are overshadowed by later events: the long, weary, lightless trek along the coast of Araman, the terror and grief of Alqualonde behind, the terror of the Helcaraxe ahead, constantly conscious of the wrath of Uinen on the seaward side, like moisture and salt on her skin. Others might take comfort from the view westward, towards Aman beyond the horizon, but to her it mainly underlines how unreachable the past is.
Looking out, keeping watch—it is these tasks that have become somehow almost reassuring and familiar. Strictly speaking, Nargothrond might, in fact, have been safer but it did not feel so to her—more like the maw of a giant beast whose jaws might one day, unexpectedly, close. Of course, she would never have said so to her brother-in-law Finrod.
She also has some skill in handling the naltalma apparatus that is installed on top of the tower and that can be used to send light signals to Brithombar and Eglarest.
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“Maedros the eldest appears to have been unwedded, also the two youngest (twins, of whom one was by evil mischance burned with the ships); Celegorm also, since he plotted to take Luthien as his wife. But Curufin, dearest to his father and chief inheritor of his father's skills, was wedded, and had a son who came with him into exile, though his wife (unnamed) did not. Others who were wedded were Maelor [Maglor], Caranthir.” —The Histories of Middle Earth, Vol. 12: The Peoples of Middle Earth
Small experiment for @finweanladiesweek - the unnamed wives of Curufin and Caranthir
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Finduilas for @finweanladiesweek day 4: later generations
Longing makes girls prettier
–Akogare, Yukiko Okada
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