#Helcaraxe
Photo
Do not follow her, Turvo. Don’t go there, you mustn’t go! You cannot leave Itarillë -- you cannot leave me! Don’t leave me!
Fingon and Turgon on the Helcaraxë! Since I still had these two on the brain, I decided to indulge in some more brotherly feels (or angst, in this case). This scene is sometime after Elenwë is lost; I imagine Turgon was so taken by despair in the days after that he nearly followed his wife, but Fingon stopped him in time. So Turgon had to release his grief some other way!
For Turgon’s face, I referenced War Pieta by Max Ginsburg since I really wanted his expression to be visceral. For some reason, drawing these types of expressions is lots of fun! XDD
#the green light above is from arda's version of the northern lights#while the orange light behind them are the noldor's campfires#so i guess turgon got pretty far away before fingon caught up with him#art#my art#tolkien#silmarillion#fanart#elves#eldar#noldor#nolofinweans#fingon#turgon#findekano#turukano#brothers#family#platonic love#helcaraxe#also i thought it'd be fitting for fingon's braids to come undone#so the ribbons are all flailing around
2K notes
·
View notes
Text
Nolofinwë, Irissë and Turukáno with little daughter. Somewhere in Helcaraxë after Elenwë's death.
Do not use without my permission, please!
Больше моих работ по ссылке - не забудь подписаться прежде, чем унести на Пинтерест😉
#firinaira#nolofinweanweek#nolofinweanweek2023#fingolfin#nolofinwe#irisse#aredhel#turukano#turgon#itarille#idril#helcaraxe#silm art#elves#fantasy#tolkien#the silm#the silm fandom#tolkien art#tolkien tag
487 notes
·
View notes
Text
Crossing the Helcaraxë isn't fun
1K notes
·
View notes
Text
Some good old helcaraxë grief. For the soul.
217 notes
·
View notes
Text
Now rumour came to the camp in Hithlum of the march of Fingolfin and those that followed him, who had crossed the Grinding Ice; and all the world lay then in wonder at the coming of the Moon. But as the host of Fingolfin marched into Mithrim the Sun rose flaming in the West; and Fingolfin unfurled his blue and silver banners, and blew his horns, and flowers sprang beneath his marching feet, and the ages of the stars were ended.
~ "Of the Return of the Noldor", The Silmarillion
a little art throwback for the first day of @march-of-the-noldor
Two beautiful writings were created for this art:
Flowers sprang beneath his marching feet by @that-angry-noldo
Longed-for a poem by @searchingforserendipity25
#fingolfin#helcaraxe#arrival to beleriand#silm art#silm fic#march of the noldor#silmarillion#tolkien#nolofinweans
188 notes
·
View notes
Text
The White Lady of the Noldor; and the Rise of the Moon
The Return of the Noldor; and the Coming of Fingolfin´s Host
---
Aquilegia: the Aquilegia flower symbolizes aspiration, endurance, ascension, risk-taking, good fortune, faith, and peace and comes from the Latin word Aquila meaning eagle.
Blue: blue is a color of open space and therefore can symbolize freedom, intuition, imagination, inspiration, and understanding.
White: white often symbolizes perfection, the good, honesty, a beginning, the new, neutrality, and exactitude.
Happy Birthday Professor!!
#tolkien#silmarillion#jrr tolkien#aredhel#aredhel ar feiniel#irisse#helcaraxe#silm art#tolkien art#digital art#my art#noldor#im happy about how it turned out
358 notes
·
View notes
Text
241 notes
·
View notes
Text
Hot thought of the day: those who crossed the Helcaraxë have the similar macabre and blasé about death humor that gen z and millennials tend to have which is kinda wild to other elves
It’s part of the reason Elrond tends to get on so well with Glorfindel: because he was raised by the murder siblings.
Glorfindel will just say something like “oh at least it’d be a fast death” if he almost falls off a(nother) cliff and Elrond will snort and Lindir will look at them both in horror
#tolkien#helcaraxe#silmarillion#Glorfindel#and others#gen z humor#millennial humor#Elrond#maedhros#Maglor#murder family#Elithilanor hcs
1K notes
·
View notes
Text
March of the Noldor
What is it?
A month-long event to commiserate the grueling walk the Noldor took, across the Helcaraxe, from Aman to Beleriand.
When is it?
March 1 - March 31
How do I participate?
Post something regarding the march and mention @march-of-the-noldor. Everything made will be reblogged here.
Go forth and create something New!
But this is also a great time to reblog older works relating to the march too!
What is allowed?
EVERYTHING!
Art, fic, meta, moodboards, poems! It's all welcome!
Want to do a character study? Awesome!
Make a collage of the kind of wild life the Noldor might encounter? Amazing!
Talk about the different types of ice the Noldor walked across? Fantastic!
Record a list of new traditions that developed during the walk? Bring it on!
We shall depart on this voyage together!
If you have any questions please ask them! <3
header by Adam Excell - unsplash
#the silmarillion#march of the noldor#tolkien#middle earth#helcaraxe#ocs and aus are all allowed too. we need all we can get to make it across the ice!#the silm#the silm fandom#fandom event#info post
107 notes
·
View notes
Text
The girl on the bedroll is small, and silent as she sleeps, and her life has just been torn apart down the middle. Or, more accurately, it has been torn once more, having never been quite whole since the Trees died. Glorfindel looks down at her tiny sleeping form, bundled in so many furs, and winces.
“Will you take her?” Aredhel, currently stationed to watch over the child, asks him, “I’m not really any good with children. And I want to go to my brother.”
A selfish part of Glorfindel wants to blurt out that he is no good with children either. In Aman, he was the youngest of his family, the longed-for boy after four sisters, and doted upon. He had been, in a sense, an eternal child - when he had followed Ecthelion onto the Ice, he had not known anything about anything. But the Ice is a severe and unforgiving teacher. Now, he can butcher a seal, strip a corpse for anything worth the taking, and rally his friends to press on through the snow. Surely he can learn to care for a sleeping seven year old girl.
“I’ll take her,” he says, and Aredhel ducks out of the tent almost instantly, towards the anguished wails of her brother across the camp.
He can hardly blame her for it. Glorfindel did not see Turgon’s wife and daughter fall, but he has seen others lose spouses and beloveds to the snarling jaws of the Ice, and it is always a horror. Sometimes, the partner left behind will simply stop walking and refuse to start again. He suspects Idril is being kept away from her father while her aunts and uncles struggle to persuade him against doing the same himself.
It is unsettling, to see one normally so strong and powerful reduced like this. Turgon faces down all manner of sea-beasts, jumps in to mediate when tempers flare hot among the host, wears the grim stance of a leader as easily as a cloak. He does not falter, he does not break. But now he does.
Moments later, Idril’s snowdrift-pale eyes snap open.
Glorfindel flounders. He should not have let Aredhel leave - he does not know what to say to this tiny child.
But Idril, upon waking, simply pushes herself up onto her elbows, and clutches something to her chest, muttering to it. Perhaps it is a gift granted to children, Glorfindel thinks, the brief forgetting of life’s all-too-real horrors. In any case, he has no intention of reminding her.
It takes a few minutes for Idril to even notice him. When she does, she holds out the bundle she has been mumbling to.
“Did you want to play with my doll?”
The thing in her hands can just about be called a doll. It is a cloth poppet made up of spare bits of rag too small for any other purpose, stitched together to resemble a figure with limbs and a head. Turgon and Elenwe have - had - many skills, but sewing was apparently not one of them. The doll is leaking stuffing where it is starting to come apart at the seams.
Through the mending of clothes and of tents as is necessary on the Ice, Glorfindel has learned that he has some skill with a needle. Perhaps there is one small thing that he can do for this girl, after all.
“She’s a very pretty doll,” he says, “but she looks as though she’s hurting a bit. Would you allow me to try and heal her? You can watch me the whole time.”
Idril looks a little dubious, but she presses the doll into his hands with all the grace of a queen bestowing a gift upon a loyal vassal. She will make a fine lady someday, he thinks, and soon. Childhood ends swiftly on the Ice. Hers is in its dying throes. He only seeks to make them a little more comfortable.
Glorfindel digs out Aredhel’s little sewing kit and takes the doll apart as carefully as somebody mending a broken bone, Idril’s gaze on him all the time. He unpicks stitching, redistributes stuffing, closes up tears. When he’s finished, he’s rewarded with a little smile.
Well, nearly finished. Because -
“She’s bald,” he realises, causing Idril to giggle shyly, “we ought to give her some hair.”
He takes a small knife from his belt and cuts a lock of his own sunflower-bright hair. He makes tiny, delicate stitches, until the doll has a full head of glossy, golden hair. The same colour as his, the same colour as Idril’s, the same colour as her mother’s -
But before he can curse himself for his mistake, Idril is holding the doll tight to her chest. “Thank you,” she mumbles into the cloth, tears dampening the fabric.
248 notes
·
View notes
Text
When the brightest light vanished and Turgons heart got shattered
#silmarillion#valinorian years#silm art#silm headcanons#silm#silmarillion fanart#fanart#turgon#turukano#idril#itarille#idril celebrindal#helcaraxe#elenwe died
275 notes
·
View notes
Text
something something Himring being cold and harsh something something Helcaraxe being cold and harsh
#fingon#maedhros#silmarillion#tolkien#i think every time the cold got particularly bad in himring maedhros thought of what it mustve been like to cross the helcaraxe#himring#helcaraxe#wilwarin-wilwa.txt
53 notes
·
View notes
Text
Looking at Galadriel's gifts to the fellowship from the perspective of the Silm is a really different experience.
During the flight of the Noldor, she helped lead the host over the Helcaraxe, where they starved and froze and drowned. Orc-hordes killed Argon and icy waters took Elenwe (and possibly Idril's feet).
So she gives the Fellowship food, cloaks, rope, and light: lembas stays fresh for nearly forever, nourishing them even in the midst of Mordor when the land around is poisoned or aflame. The cloaks hide them and keep them warm, the rope is strong enough for practically anything they might need, and the light of Earendil drives away orcs and brings them hope in the darkest of times.
She gives them what she spent years wishing for when crossing the Ice.
316 notes
·
View notes
Text
dont see enough fingolfin-fingon father son relations...fingolfin who was abandoned by his father over and over...for feanor..who hates him...he definitely showered fingon with love...and turgon and aredhel and argon were probably born much later because he was so worried he would not be able to love them enough...and fingon was the one who wanted to go to middle earth...and fingon was the only one who stayed with his father in hithlum...fingolfin shows all his kids equal love but def has a closer relationship with fingon...
#thye have a bit of a codependent relationship...not your average father son...#fingon#fingolfin#feanor#the silmarillion#silm#silmarillion#tolkein#tolkien#middle earth#the silm#the silm fandom#turgon#argon#aredhel#findekano#helcaraxe#irisse#nolofinweans#anaire
189 notes
·
View notes
Note
thought i'd toss a hat into the ring if you're still doing silm prompts with:
nolofinwe + snow?
you say snow and Nolofinwe. I hear King of the Helcaraxë
158 notes
·
View notes
Text
A snippet from Against His Wisdom for @march-of-the-noldor
It is not the cold that eats as much upon Nolofinwë. There are things one can learn to produce warmth sufficient to keep walking. He learns, they all do.
But the quietness is an entirely different matter. There is no birdsong on the Ice. No buzzing of insects to fill the air nor the rustling of foliage to draw the ear overhead.
The Helcaraxë is a silent desolation interrupted only by the frightening pitch of frozen sheets beneath their feet and the repetitive rhythm of marching — step, step, swish, step, step, swish — for time immeasurable. The monotony drives him to madness so Nolofinwë concentrates on learning the strides of each of his people to keep his mind occupied. He does not need to look even to know who walks beside him.
In that agonizing silence, every small murmur travels like a breeze down the marching lines and rumor reaches Nolofinwë's ears, whether he seeks it or not.
Nolofinwë leads us against his wisdom, some say, for his son so urges him.
His son, the kinslayer, another mutters, is as mad as Fëanáro, may he be damned—
Nelyafinwë poisoned his mind—
Betrayed the kin of his friends, as brothers they were—
Fëanáro—
Findekáno—
Fëanáro—
Findekáno—
Kinslayers!
Nolofinwë cannot bring himself to command silence because his people are already stretched too thin and he sees them fragmenting, Findaráto’s followers on one end, Turukáno’s on the other. And because, in the hours when the wind howls with a peculiar intensity, even he sees some truth in the resemblance.
In profile, somewhat obscured beneath the thick layers of pelts, Nolofinwë recognizes Fëanáro in Findekáno’s high cheekbones and determined gaze. When his son walks before him, there is something about the strength in his marching steps that is almost unnatural. A power cracked open by drawing of blood from another body. When Findekáno looks behind him, as he often does to make sure his father still stands on firm ground, Nolofinwë catches himself expecting his brother’s stern face.
It grows as they walk further, this darkness. The same darkness Finwë had carried with him from Middle-earth and even in the calm of Valinórë passed some of it onto his eldest son. It now flickers behind the light in Findekáno’s eyes, calling for his bloodlust.
But unlike many of his people, Nolofinwë does not fear this power. Findekáno’s fire is not wholly of destruction. Its warmth when tamed nurtures life, even as Fëanáro’s had before grief consumed him.
It is now Findekáno who sings after those who stray away in the darkness even if they cursed his name. Findekáno who offers to step first when the ice turns more treacherous. Findekáno who hews Itarillë’s blackened toes and becomes her legs, carrying her on his shoulders beyond exhaustion.
His son looks after their people, so Nolofinwë takes the task of looking after him. He eats less so Findekáno can have more. Stands so Findekáno can sit. Keeps his dreams at bay in the precious moments of rest.
‘Walk with me, Findekáno,’ he says when his son marches alone at the head of the host for too long.
Kinslayer or no, Nolofinwë will walk by his son.
Read Against His Wisdom on AO3
#fingolfin#fingon#maedhros#feanor#helcaraxe#march of the noldor#silmarillion#tolkien#silm fic#nolofinweans#mind the tags
91 notes
·
View notes
Last Seen Blogs
