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skyeventide · 1 month

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does the Oath of Feanor work as a magical compulsion, or does it have magical properties, and are its consequences real?

yes, because the magic of Arda is also based on words of power, and it would be dissatisfying and limiting to assume that somehow that power doesn't work in this specific instance. no, because even if Feanor is the one speaking, not even his power could bend the fate of elves to that extent. yes, because the fate of any one people can be bent, delayed, or weirdly modified until an oath is fulfilled; in LOTR, the ghosts of the path of the dead prove it. no, because Manwe and Varda would not feel bound to enforce an oath of death with them as witnesses, and it goes against the rules of oathing. yes, because the enforcer is Eru, they just stand as witnesses and do not have the power to release the swearers as Eru would. no, because we don't even know if Eru accepted that oath. yes, because if the oath was invalid from the start, it would be beyond callous of Manwe and Varda not to inform the swearers and allow the consequences of the oath to happen. no, because a magical compulsion would remove or to an extent at least lessen responsibility of actions taken in its pursuit. yes, because the author of the story acknowledges a certain "will" of the oath by making it wake or sleep with active verbs. no, because even swearing without additional magic on top can feel like a compulsion to do things or to keep going that otherwise would not exist or not be felt by a given swearer. yes, because no matter what the everlasting darkness is or does, it can be real independently from any other prior compulsion to act; in other words, there may not be a magical property to the oath, but its called consequences for the swearers are very real. no, because there's several slightly different versions of the oath across the texts, and it's impossible to do a literal, word for word reading of its lines if it's possible to recite it slightly differently at a given time. yes, because the only valid version is the original pronounced by Feanor in Tirion, you can't wiggle out of that one. no, because who's to say that was recorded correctly, it's far too poetic for a sudden decision. yes, because who's to say that Feanor couldn't whip out all that via improvisation, I bet he could. yes, because other characters beyond the sons of Feanor treat the oath as something absolutely serious and real, and that includes Finrod in speaking to Andreth, when he says that Eru's name is not called upon even in jest, as well as Melian, when pointing out the strong forces awakened by involving that power. no, because neither of them can talk to Eru anyway. yes, because it's narratively more satisfying to imagine characters morally struggle against something that is eventually unbreakable and unavoidable like in any good tragedy. no, because it's narratively more satisfying to imagine characters do it to themselves and compromise with who they are out of family loyalty. yes, because the curse of Mandos actively turns it against the swearers into a betraying force, a consequence that wouldn't otherwise be a given, that is, nothing says that everything they start well would have finished badly and that the oath would have led them to defeat, and if it weren't magical before Mandos' addition, it is now. no, because Amrod's death in a draft would prove it breakable through his (admittedly only guessed) desire to turn back. yes, because he still died in the process, aka the everlasting darkness claimed him for being an oathbreaker. no, because how is it possible that it's simultaneously unbreakable and broken. yes, because the fate of arda and that of elves is inscribed within the eternal paradox of everything being predicted and everything being free will, and that will never be solved, neither regarding the fate of the elves nor the oath of Feanor. no, because the oath is a narrative device. yes, because the oath is a narrative device. three hundred more lines.

hope this helps. hope it doesn't. your pick.

#I am most definitely not normal about it #oath of Feanor #Feanor #The Silmarillion

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welcomingdisaster · 5 months

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first age beleriand discourse tag simulator

user1: sure you have "kinslayers dni" in your bio but are you normal about the sindar

user2: keep getting anons about this but NO prince turgon isn't a girlboss for fucking off with half the fucking population

user3: Got blocked by the OP of the post so I can't respond directly but the day I'm allowed to speak my own language in public is the day I'll believe in "Noldor privilege" sweet fucking varda

user4: 👏remarriage 👏 isn't 👏 valid 👏 your 👏 old 👏 marriage-bond 👏 can't 👏 be 👏 broken 👏 it 👏 doesn't 👏 matter 👏 if 👏 your 👏 spouse 👏 died

user5: gotta say i'm almost impressed by the level of cognitive dissonance some of you have to have to condemn feanor but excuse the valar tbh tbh

user6: reblog this if you're loyal to king thingol and live outside the girdle i'm trying to prove a point

user7:

user8: say what you want about it i was born a humanfucker and i'll die a humanfucker

#lena speaks #silly shit tag #silmarillion

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thesummerestsolstice · 2 months

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Peredhel biology is interesting. They can become mortal or immortal; and it's not entirely clear what the "default" setting is. Is it even the same for all half-elves? What are the implications of being part-elf and part-man? And that's not even getting into the part-Maiarin or pseudo-Maiarin(? Earendil?) Peredhel. There are a lot of really interesting ideas and interpretations there, but I'd like to share a few I've been wanting to write about:

The Peredhel choice is a myth; whether half-elves become mortal or immortal is baked into their biology. Because of the nature of twins, one will always be mortal and one will always be immortal. (I'm mostly thinking about the implications for Elrond and Elros here because I don't even want to consider what that would mean for Elladan and Elrohir)

Peredhel have the strange ability to "mimic" those around them; they appear more elvish amongst elves and more mannish amongst men. No one really knows how they do this, but it's led to lots of stories about "changelings."

Actually, lots of Peredhel have weird, vaguely mystical abilities. Think about the kind of things you'd read about in a fairytale- speaking to animals, unusual strength, preternatural charm. These things aren't unheard of amongst elves or men, but they're a lot more common amongst Peredhel. It's suspected to be some sort of Ainuric boon, or possibly a result of half-elven souls being more "flexible."

Because their souls are inherently kind of unstable, Peredhel fade more easily then elves. That being said, the "symptoms" of fading are different (elves will literally become translucent, while half-elves will lose weight, sleep for most of the day and still be tired, etc.), so it's often assumed to be a normal mortal illness until it becomes a life-threatening situation.

Ulmo has kind of adopted the Peredhel as his people. He's their patron, and he cares for them all. Many half-elves live or work near or on the ocean, and for those who are immortal, the desire to sail west generally manifests less as wanting to go to Valinor and more a literal desire to go to the sea. Half-elves who are inclined to pray usually do so to Ulmo. There's a reason that Rivendell is protected by a river. Also, yes, Earendil is still absolutely Ulmo's guy, he's just also Varda's guy. They have a very friendly custody agreement.

#silmarillion #silm headcanons #peredhel #eldritch peredhel #half elves #peredhel meta #elrond #elrond peredhel #elros #elladan #elrohir #earendil #ulmo #thoughts!#not sure which of these I want to write about first #hope they might inspire some other people too

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elfy-elf-imagines · 9 months

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To Meet Under the Stars | Thranduil

▹ Pairing: Thranduil x Elf!Reader

▹ Genre: Fluff

▹ Words: ~3k

▹ Summary: In light of the stars, Thranduil finds himself entirely enchanted by a mysterious masked woman.

▹ Notes: I love masquerade balls, that is all. Unedited because we die as men.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ

The light of starlight was something sacred to the elves.

In the times of old, before the moon and sun had been created, Varda placed the stars in the sky, illuminating the world for the elves to see. For all other races, stars were just light that guided their way at night, but they were so much more for the elves. They held the promise of life unsullied by the evil of Morgoth. A beautiful display of glistening diamonds that held the light of creation. To honor the stars was to honor Varda herself.

Under the canopy of stars, the wood elves of Eryn Galen celebrated the first night of the autumn equinox. The moon was full and high in the sky as lords, ladies, and commoners alike gathered for the party. The echo of minstrels ensured there would be no corner of the kingdom not lit with joy. Dragonflies darted across ponds, and crickets hid in the forest, chirping to the beat of the lute. There were festivities all throughout the kingdom, but the main attraction was the masquerade ball held within the palace of King Thranduil. Only guests of high esteem were invited to dance under the lush canopy in the company of the royal family.

And there you were, with summer in your hair and winter in your eyes. Dancing through the crowd, illuminated in the silver light of the moon, you were the vision of a goddess. A soft halo shone upon your silver-gold hair, pinned in an updo with stray pieces that cascaded down your back. Flowers in purple, blue, and silver hues were placed upon your head like a crown, creating the silhouette of a queen. A silver mask encrusted with enough jewels that it glittered under the light concealed the top half of your face, two holes allowing your eyes to glow in the dark. A grin born of pure ecstasy was outlined by the lipstick on your lips.

No one could recall who you were nor when you’d arrived at the celebration. It was as if you were always there, lying in wait and dancing with the ghosts of the open-roof ballroom. A laugh rivaling the minstrels' songs hung in the air where you stood and followed your every sweeping move.

From the high table, with a glass of wine precariously hanging in his hand, Thranduil watched you. He couldn’t help it. It was as if you were weaving some sort of spell, casting it upon all who watched, paralyzed by your song and enraptured by your dance. You were beautiful, quick as a whip, and light as a feather. Each step seemed calculated and purposeful, yet so loose it could only be natural.

Thranduil couldn’t recall ever meeting you, so certain he’d know your laugh even if he couldn’t see your face. His advisors tried to make idle conversation as Legolas spent his time with the other members of the guard, drinking and laughing. Thranduil couldn’t be bothered to even pretend to listen, intently focused on the way your summer blue dress flowed like water around you. It nearly felt sacrilegious to directly look at something so beautiful, like staring at the face of Varda herself.

“It is a beautiful--” his advisor beside him began to speak, talking so slowly it made Thranduil’s lips curl in slight irritation that was hidden by the goblet he held. He watched as you threw your head back in laughter, finding amusement in whatever the elf lord you were speaking with said. It took all his willpower not to roll his eyes as he drank more sweet wine.

The elf lord offered you his hand, which you gracefully accepted. Instead of dancing through the crowds alone, you twirled in the arms of another man. It made Thranduil’s stomach turn in a way it hadn’t for centuries.

You and the elf lord you danced with would flit in and out of his vision, yet the merriment never left your expression, and when the face of your dance partner would face Thranduil, he could see just how enchanted the man was by you. His grip on the goblet tightened, knuckles turning white.

The song seemed endless, drawing out the end of it for as long as possible. Part of Thranduil was tempted to bark at the minstrels to begin a new one in hopes you would once again be left alone, but he didn’t. A king needed to maintain his composure, even if everything inside was screaming not to. It seemed silly to be so taken by a woman whose face he couldn’t even see.

“Have you tried one of these cakes yet? They’re quite--”

“Galion.” Thranduil interrupted the man previously speaking, gaining the attention of his butler. The advisor that had been interrupted scowled yet said nothing else as Galion stepped closer to Thranduil.

“Yes, my king.”

Thranduil pointed at you, Galion’s eyes following his finger. “Who is that?”

His eyes narrowed as Galion leaned closer to try and get a better look at you. Yet not a glint of recognition twinkled in his eyes. Did anyone here know who you were?

“I’m afraid I am unfamiliar with who she is. Would you like me to fetch her, my king?” Galion asked, his attention returned to Thranduil, whose eyes furrowed in mild annoyance.

“That will not be necessary, Galion.” He waved his hand, and Galion returned to his previous seat. It would be easy to bring you to him, he was the king, after all, but he didn’t want your meeting with him to seem forced upon you. He already had enough of a reputation as a cold, unfeeling man; it wouldn’t do any good to give you a reason to believe them.

The song ended, and you stepped away from your partner, lowering into a curtsey that he returned with a bow. Thranduil stood, the legs of his chair scraping on the floor; he didn’t bother giving a weak excuse for his exit. If he doesn't act soon, you might slip from his fingers. Thranduil took long strides down the platform and disappeared into the sea of elves.

He pushed his way through the crowd, most too lost in the magic of the music to pay their king any mind. He could see you, dancing alone with your eyes shut. The grin on your face was wide, never wavering in the slightest. The distance separating him from you was dwindling, the anticipation making his palm sweaty. The crowd parted, and he could’ve pulled you into his arms if he wanted to.

But as he opened his mouth, you disappeared into the crowd, so preoccupied you never saw him coming. Thranduil’s eyes narrowed, his misty eyes searching the crowd for you, but you were nowhere to be seen. Had you merely been a figment of his imagination conjured by the trickster spirits rumored to hide in his forest? Perhaps you had been, but Thranduil was determined to comb through the crowd hoping to see you again.

Then, a flit of blue brightened the corner of his eye. He turned, seeing you dart from dance partner to dance partner, now on the other end of the room. A cat-like grin appeared on the edges of his mouth; he’d found you. Once more, he pushed through the crowd, not moving his eyes from you for one second, afraid you’d disappear without a trace if he did.

The crowd would pulse, and you would get closer to him before suddenly spreading out towards the treeline. Thranduil would get close enough to smell your floral perfume, but you'd dart in another direction before he could take your delicate hands in his. He wasn’t entirely sure if it was on purpose; you probably hadn’t even noticed him. Your eyes never locked with his that never strayed from you.

But the gods seemed to smile upon him that night, and as the crowd came closer, Thranduil snatched your hand. Your body twisted to face him, the grin on your face never faltering. The perfume you wore was distinctly jasmine, vanilla, and something sweeter, tantalizing enough to bring him closer to you. His hand was rough in comparison to yours, much larger too.

“May I have this dance, my lady?” His voice was velvet smooth. Thranduil stood out like a sore thumb as the only one in the crowd without a mask.

“You may, my king,” you curtsied before placing your other hand on his shoulder as his hand found its place on your waist. Wasting no time, the two of you twisted and spun through the crowd in an airy waltz. You had the grace of a swan, maintaining a poised elegance with a child-like grin. Thranduil felt himself falling deeper into whatever spell you had cast.

A witch, that’s what you had to be. There was no other explanation for the hammering of his heart or the delight your touch elicited.

One step back, one step forward, one to the side, and repeat. Another spin, extra flourish added for flavor, and the movements continued. Neither of you spoke, eye to eye, unable to look away from one another. Thranduil found himself counting the flecks in your eyes, convinced they held a thousand little stars in them.

Perhaps you hadn’t been an illusion placed to taunt him but a gift from the Valar themselves.

All too soon, the song ended, and the dance was finished. As he watched you do before, you stepped back from Thranduil and lowered into a sweeping curtsey. He wanted to ask you to stay with him, not only for the night but the rest of eternity, but he found himself tongue-tied.

“It was an honor to dance with you, my king.” Your voice was soft and warm, like the spiced tea he would drink before bed. He wanted your name, to lift the mask you wore and lay his eyes upon your face entirely. He needed to see the face of the woman that would surely haunt his every dream.

Thranduil blinked, and in the brief time, his eyes weren’t on you, you’d disappeared. He half expected for there to be stardust left where your feet had been, but the only proof you’d existed was the imprint of your heels in the grass. His eyes scanned the crowd, twisting his body and craning his head, yet you were nowhere to be seen. But this time, instead of seeing flashes of your dress or silver hair, you were nowhere to be seen. You’d disappeared entirely.

Thranduil stood in the crowd a moment longer, hoping for a glimpse of you before deciding to return to his seat at the table. Perhaps from the high crowd, he could ascertain where you were. Thranduil returned to his seat, acting as if he hadn’t suddenly rushed from the table to dance with you, ignoring the questioning glances from his advisors. His goblet of wine in hand, eyes on the crowd, Thranduil sunk into the music and lost himself in thought. All of them were plagued by you.

And there he stayed as the hours ticked by, seemingly in a trance. No one at the table bothered to strike up a conversation with Thranduil anymore; it was like trying to converse with a brick wall. So they settled in silence, occasionally remarking about the party with the other guests.

“My king,” Galion returned to his side. “The lady you danced with has stepped away to the gardens.” Galion’s tone was even as if he were merely commenting on the weather. Thranduil side-eyed him, noticing the tinge of mirth on Galion’s smile. Thranduil tilted his head to the side, then slowly nodded.

“Perhaps I should ensure our guest is enjoying the festivities.”

Thranduil stepped away from the table and followed the path toward the garden’s you just slipped into. He took long strides to reunite with you sooner. This time he was determined to get your name and to peek beneath the mask you wore.

When he finally stepped into the garden, he saw your back turned to him, fingers dipped in the fountain's water. Your posture was relaxed, hair loose and flowing, no longer pinned in the updo it once was. It flowed like liquid silver, furthering his conspiracy that you were a celestial being born of the gods. Precariously hanging in your hand was the mask you’d been wearing, thumbs rubbing against the ribbon that tied it in your hair. The minstrels were now a distant hum, the flowing water, and the chirp of crickets the only song in the gardens.

He stopped a few steps from you, trying to find the words to say. It’d been so long since he’d been made to feel like a shy elfling, nervous about approaching his first crush. A king should be dignified and confident, but he felt all of that crumble in your presence.

Your ears twitched as Thranduil shifted in his spot, head raising at the sudden intrusion. Slowly, you turned, unsure who to expect would intrude upon your solitude. But of all the people you imagined stepping into the garden, you never anticipated it would be the king. He nearly seemed awkward and unsure in his place, fingers smoothing wrinkles on his robes that weren’t there.

Immediately you lowered into a curtsey, but the king didn’t acknowledge the movement. His eyes were wide and mouth slightly agape as he stared at you. As he looked upon your face, this must’ve been how the first elf to gaze upon the stars felt. The curves and lines of your face were soft and delicate, the vision of beauty. Your eyes seemed even brighter in the dim lighting, an unsure, shy smile curling on your lips.

“My king.”

He remained silent, too wonderstruck to speak.

“If you require to be alone, I can--” You began to walk towards the exit, but as you passed Thranduil, his hand reached out and caught your arm. You turned to face him, uncertain. Thranduil’s hand trailed down your arm and intertwined with yours, a soft smile on his lips.

“Of all the people who desire my presence, yours is the one I desire most.”

You swallowed thickly, your mouth suddenly dry. You’d been close to the king only hours ago, sharing a dance with him. Yet the privacy of the gardens and the sweetness of his words, it all felt much more intimate.

“Then I shall stay.”

Thranduil’s grin widened as he guided you further into the gardens. The flowers were vibrant and lush, a true testament to the skills of the elves. A canopy of trees diffused the moon's light, reflecting off the fountain and casting a spotlight on you.

“I have a confession.” Thranduil suddenly stopped, eyes intently watching your face, noticing how your lips slightly parted and your eyes glowed with curiosity. “I have found myself quite enchanted with you, my lady. It seems foolish, not knowing your face until this moment and not having your name.”

“It’s Y/N, my king.” You interrupted, a charming smile curling your lips. The hammer of your heart matched the tempo with Thranduil’s.

“Y/N.” He muttered your name quietly, your name on his lips making your stomach curl. Of all the ways you anticipated this night's end, strolling the garden with the king was not what you could’ve predicted in your wildest dreams.

“Y/N. If I may be so bold, I would like for this to not be the last time we meet. I desire more of your company.”

Thranduil stepped closer, the heat he radiated warming your chilled skin. Gossebumnps followed where his hands touched, a shiver rushing down your spine. Subtly you pinched the back of your leg, convinced this was nothing more than a dream. Yet you didn’t wake; this moment was real.

“If I may speak freely, my king?”

Thranduil nodded his head. “Please, you may call me Thranduil. No need for such formalities.”

You tipped your head at him as the smile on your face brightened.

“If I may speak freely, Thranduil.” You corrected, with an almost mischievous lilt to your voice. “I would much desire more of your company as well. I have heard many rumors of your cold and detached demeanor. I’ve heard of how harsh you can be, yet I have seen nothing of that.”

“I’m glad the whispers of the court haven’t scared you away, my lady.”

The smile on your face curled into a teasing smirk, eyes illuminating. “You’ll find it’ll take more than malicious rumors to scare me away.”

Thranduil's finger twirled around a lock of hair that framed your face. He seemed relaxed and more at ease than you'd have imagined.

"A strong will and a fair face, Varda herself must've crafted you."

His words made your face flush red, so deep it was seen in the dim lighting of the garden.

"Pretty words you speak, my king; I'm eager to learn if your words match your heart."

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ

#thranduil imagine #thranduil x reader #thranduil #the hobbit imagine #the hobbit one shot #the hobbit #lotr imagine #lotr oneshot #lotr fanfic #lord of the rings imagine #middle earth imagines #lotr #tolkien #lord of the rings #lord of the rings oneshot #mirkwood elves #lord of the rings fanfic #king thranduil

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ay0nha · 9 months

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Venus Rising | Thomas Shelby

SUMMARY: Three moments in which you run into Tommy, the final provoking a deal neither of you are prepared for.

“I am afraid of getting older. I am afraid of getting married. Spare me from cooking three meals a day—spare me from the relentless cage of routine and rote. I want to be free…I want, I want to think, to be omniscient.” Sylvia Plath (1949)

PAIRING: Tommy Shelby x f!reader

WORD COUNT: 2.4K

WARNINGS: ANGST, swearing, smoking (tobacco/weed), criticism of time-period misogyny/misogyny in general, canon-typical things, angst again, rich people being annoying, no proof reading, rushed ending, slow burn, etc.

A/N: Oop, another Tommy fic, apparently it’s not quite out of my system. Inspired by the film How to Steal a Million (title is inspired by the original title of the book!) and @huntingingoodwill‘s post (here), ESPECIALLY with the third part of this as it comes from Carmen’s beautiful brain. Inspo is taken from various feminist writing and particularly an Agnes Varda quote. MIGHT do a part two, idk yet.

Comments are VERY encouraged! Enjoy.

“Thanks for that…” Tommy was finally catching his breath but still searched for your name. He hadn’t seen you in the gathering below and questioned if the room he found himself in belonged to you.

“We’re better off strangers.” You weren’t defensive, nor was your guard up; you were just focused. Fixated. The painting was borderline mesmerizing, and you struggled to tell if it was from the art or how your joint dwindled steadily.

Your isolation was purposeful.

The reception provoked the start of a migraine; its noise bleeding through the thick walls of the stately home only grew more deafening as the evening furthered. To find relief, you wandered the empty halls, the stairs that led to darkness, and every door that seemed particularly off-limits.

It was a simple measure of self-preservation until your seclusion was fractured.

The door opened abruptly, a body sliding through the narrow space to hide in the most prominent shadow. You thought you were caught, but the man held a finger to his lips, expression prepared for the obvious chase.

You were the perfect accomplice.

Those who came looking for him were met with your theatrics, a role well-rehearsed; your eyes never glanced to where Tommy hid in the most prominent shadows; your upset alone secured you hadn’t seen the man with the razor-lined cap; you simply wanted to return to your silence.

“You stick out, you know…” You filtered smoke through your nose, half-lidded eyes remaining ahead. The thought was absentminded, your lips tingling with indifference.

“I have an invitation.” Tommy had it forged, making it nearly identical to the one you’d received in the post.

You hummed with amusement. “I mean—you don’t belong.”

Considering how you equated his presence with his class, Tommy considered taking offense. However, your humor exposed no ill intent. You were trying to relate to him. To offer some solace, you offered the joint to him between pinched fingers.

“Let me guess, neither do you.” Tommy accepted your olive branch with a drag.

“Oh, I never will.” Although your smile remained, your tone became distant. You didn’t glance at Tommy until he took another puff. His eyes were ahead, just as yours were, attempting to see what had enraptured you in the painting. “Just like her.”

The face of the young woman depicted was covered, but her body was exposed. You were sure the owner of the canvas only valued the misinterpreted eroticism. Yet, the scene’s voyeuristic purposes were to convey the end of a very long day. You were convinced if you reached out, you could soothe her aching muscles from her obviously laborious job.

The painting's size didn’t speak for its cost. You wanted to laugh at how something so precious was stored on a wall as a forgotten decoration. However, you would do the exact same if it were in your possession. It would hang on your ceiling that way; when you rested your head against your pillow, you could get one final look at it as if it were a mirror, a grounding reminder that there was company in such an empty space.

“You pity the poor.” The statement held a questioning tone. Tommy interpreted the painting and your thoughts literally; a woman relieved of farm work was being judged by you—someone worse than the bourgeois.

“Don’t you see it?” Bitter ecstasy carried your words. You wanted to be heard. “Her and I are the same…”

Tommy returned the joint, realizing its purpose was to aid and calm you from the turmoil you hoped to escape. He felt an odd sense to comfort you but wouldn’t.

Instead, he repaid his earlier debt with unaccustomed humor, “I doubt someone like you shovels shit for a living.”

“Doesn’t matter.” You let the smoke settle in your chest, its warmth comforting. “From inception, we’re indistinguishable, born with an innocence that is only nurtured to be stolen. Our very being is never our own. Once our bodies are pried from our minds, we starve because of it.”

“Ah, I see…” Tommy started, “You’re a modern woman.”

The joint was almost a roach, but you passed it back, ridding yourself of its responsibility. The man beside you was a stranger, and you were thankful for that position. Anything said didn’t matter. It would evaporate and leave no trace. Tommy understood this well, participating in a game he didn’t know the rules of.

“Modernity is irrelevant.” You corrected. Your words sunk into your stomach, weighing you down. “This is beyond time.”

—

“Gave a try shoveling shit, eh?” Tommy crossed his legs, leaning back with an ease you were envious of. A cigarette was rolled along his lips, a habit formed by comfort.

Once lit, the image was complete. It had clicked. “You.”

Thomas Shelby. Your memory of him held a haze, that night's intoxication cherry-picking how you retained the interaction. But your vague image of him was enough to understand his occupation. You were warned against his world, but you could only do so much when your worlds overlapped so bizarrely.

“Me.” He confessed with mitigation. There was a cadence even in his silence. Clearly, he was thinking of how to approach you, but you failed to recognize how he always remained ahead in his business. “You were found near the stables.”

“Apparently, I’m a witch.” You mused. Cheltenham was never dull.

Tommy hummed, entertaining your wit only slightly. “They think you’ve cursed the horses.”

Horses were efficient beasts that were often mistreated, that much you knew. However, they intimidated you into submission. Their role in your life was distant, typically involving a reflection of wealth and nothing more.

You hid behind the stables because you misunderstood the distance you created. It had a false bottom that showed those in your world never enter their stables, allowing others to do the hard work. Those around you wouldn’t dare stain their fine fabrics how you chose to.

Although the air was foul, the stables were the only place you could breathe without the hands of your arranged date finding home where they weren’t welcomed.

You knew the man who caught you was Tommy’s brother. Though they looked different, the air surrounding them was suffocating. They were driven by brutal confidence that manifested physically and for Tommy mentally. The mind game you were presented with was just as predetermined as the races.

“I want us to understand each other.” Ash fell from Tommy’s cigarette in thought. “We do not share the same fantasy.”

“And what fantasy is that?”

“Poor little rich girl—” His words were punctuated. “—thinks she can play gypsy until she hears the dinner bell.”

Your laughter made him flinch. “And what’s for dinner?”

Tommy had vetted you. No one knew anything worthy about you. So everyone simply fantasized about you, spinning tales. Yet, you were an extraordinary nobody—an amazing unknown. Suspicion wasn’t necessary, but there was no need for his growing intrigue.

“That man you came with…” Tommy knew who he was. He was another kid that thought one day he could rule the world. But all he was capable of was poorly executed white-collar crime. “Who is he?”

You shrugged. “To him, I am his girlfriend.”

“And to you?”

“Does that matter?”

Tommy quickly learned that your only form of retaliation was posed through questions. The more philosophical, the more your guard remained. “I've been thinking about what you've said…”

The admission alone was out of character and also misrepresented. Tommy's mind was riddled with your sentiments. It was a thoughtful comment on something broader, something Tommy knew of and was growing to understand. But that wasn’t what preoccupied him.

It was how your poise wasn’t carried through your posture. It was how you expressed yourself indifferently but spoke so sharply. You were a constant contrast that perplexed him, possessed him to look into you, into your life. He planned to search until he found a moment where you put your thoughts to use the way he had.

“You, a suffragette?” Your lip curled at the thought. “Now, that, Mr. Shelby, is a fantasy.”

—

Planning an escape was satisfying but little compared to the follow-through.

The feeling solidified when the silk hem of your dress billowed was the only trail of your escape. You could hear your name echo along the corridor wall, someone sent to find you and force you back into the festivities.

“Where are you going?” The voice was a mix of a whisper and shout, reflecting nothing but urgency. The guests weren’t privy to your behavior, but your absence was clear. You heard your name again.“You must come down! You’re upsetting the guests!”

Although your home, the walls felt like they were shifting, creating a maze to your safety. The click of your heels was like a countdown to being caught. That was until your hand frantically found an antique handle of the most inconspicuous door.

Sliding into the broom closet, darkness invaded your senses.

With its veil, you could make out the sliver of light that fought to illuminate the room from the other side. It tracked the shadow of who chased you, showing you how they inched closer, hoping to hear your rapid breathing. Once enough time was given to their search; the footsteps receded in the wrong direction, their voice calling after you growing faint.

Your relief was borderline euphoric; your body demonstrated success as the tension drained the further you calmed. You sunk toward the door, forehead against the smooth, cool wood.

The sound behind was as quick as the movement. Identifiable and surprising.

The match created friction that illuminated the small space with an orange glow. You moved fast, your breath pinned to the roof of your mouth.

“Cigarette?” Tobacco filled the cramped room, the burning end of the cigarette not quite exposing your companion. But you could feel the amusement at the situation radiate from the corner.

Your stupor made you move with shock. “Christ!”

Your hand shot up to feel around for the light switch above you, yanking on the cord. Awash in light, you took in the sight of the man who was casually nursing a cigarette.

“Mr. Shelby?” You blinked at him, dumbfounded.

“Tommy.”

“What are you—

“I’m a guest.” The cigarette bobbed with his chiding.

“A guest.” You repeated, your tone brimming with doubtful sarcasm. “And what is a guest doing, hiding here, so far away from the party?”

“I could ask the same of you.” He quipped, icy expression holding your own.

“Ah, but I’m not a guest.” You defended yourself, holding up a finger as you corrected him. “This is my family’s party. I am technically a host.”

“Well—” He began, taking a puff of his cigarette, silver smoke spilling from his lips as he spoke. “—not a very good host if you’re hiding up here, eh?”

Your eyebrows cocked as you took him in. His presence meant business. “I don’t seem to remember my father mentioning gangsters would be on the guest list tonight.”

“Why not?” He replied, shrugging nonchalantly. “We’re good fun at parties.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt that.” You mused. “But I doubt this is your kind of party.” You wished to witness him in action, for him to live up to all the stories you’ve heard about him firsthand. And you could tell he was itching for you to ask. “What have you got planned tonight?”

“If you must know—” Tommy remained externally stoic but revealed himself bluntly. “—I’m here to rob your family blind.”

“Excuse me?”

“Your father has come into quite a bit of money recently,” Tommy said, words calculated and measured. “He’s been stepping on the Blinders’ business. So, I came here tonight to take back what’s ours.”

“How much?” You asked.

“A million dollars.” He sighed, highlighting his statement with a drag of his cigarette.

“That all?” You scoffed.

“You’d hardly miss it,” Tommy explained. “And, with your family’s yearly legendary holiday party going on tonight, I figured I could hide until all the…” He took a second to ponder, searching for the words, “...rich fucks down there were drunk enough. Then, I’d take what’s mine and leave. No one would be any the wiser.”

There was a pause. He wanted you to protest, but he knew you wouldn’t. You were reading him just as well. It quickly became a stalemate, but you had the advantage of toying with him.

“Well, I should fulfill my host duties.” You sighed, tone wrapping up the unorthodox interaction. “Find my father while I’m at it; tell him bookkeepers are infested in our walls.”

“You’re not going back down there.”

Another pause. Your skin crawled with jest. “And why’s that, Mr. Shelby?”

He shook his head casually, eyes boring through yours. “You’re not going back down there because you don’t want to.”

“What?” Your laugh was soft and unexpected. It was hard to determine, but some of you would have rathered a threat. This was almost as entertaining.

“I can tell you don’t want to go down there. So don’t.”

Behind your back, you reached for the doorknob, but as your fingers grazed it, you lost your nerve. You sighed, flexing your fingers.

“Move over.” You instructed, and Tommy listened. He slid closer to the wall as you squeezed beside him, arm against him in a one-sided comfort. “Poor little rich girl opening up to a gangster. Never saw that in the cards.” You plucked the cigarette from his fingers, taking a drag, carefully considering your next words. “It’s never as simple as it seems, really.”

“Sure it is.”

“It really isn’t.” You chuckled, eyes trained on the glowing end of the cigarette.

“Enlighten me.” He replied, taking the cigarette back as you passed it to him.

The emotions you kept bottled up bubbled in your throat. Living in the gilded cage of high society had privilege but was equally emotionally destructive. It felt foreign, the thought of exposing yourself with such vulnerability; you grew nervous at the prospect of having to do so.

“Simplicity is a pipe dream when your life relies on codependency.” Just the thought of it made you dizzy. “It’s better to hide than risk being a blemish to the family.”

Tommy stayed quiet. Then against better judgment, he spoke. “Why not just leave? You’re a clever girl. Surprised you haven’t figured that out yet.”

“You don’t think I’ve tried?” You countered without edge; you knew his slight dig was only to lighten things. He said his part out of decency. “Why do you think I was at those stables? If it weren’t for your brother…”

The crackle of your drag filled the new-found silence. You weren’t sure how long you’d stay there nor how long you subject Tommy to your company. It was a moment of brevity you both seemed to need. You hadn’t meant to find him, and his plan had nothing to do with you, but that in itself sparked your idea.

“Hey, Tommy?”

He turned to meet your contact, eyebrows raised, air mixing from the proximity. “Hmm?”

“How’d you like some help with stealing that million?”

#q #tommy shelby #tommy shelby x reader #tommy shelby x f!reader #tommy shelby fluff #tommy shelby angst #tommy shelby fic #thomas shelby #thomas shelby x reader #thomas shelby x f!reader #thomas shelby angst #thomas shelby fluff #tommy shelby smut #peaky blinders imagine #peaky blinders fic #cillian murphy #cillian murphy x reader

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softlysilverfountainsfall · 3 months

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"But no true Man nor Elf yet free / would ever speak that blasphemy"

Beren and Finrod are willing to blow their cover right in front of Sauron himself rather than repeat these words:

"Death to light, to law, to love! / Cursed be moon and stars above! / May darkness everlasting old / that waits outside in surges cold / drown Manwë, Varda, and the sun! / May all in hatred be begun / and all in evil ended be / in the moaning of the endless Sea!"

So...how do the elves perform this part of the Lay of Lethian? Because these lines are from the Lay, and the elves must sing and perform the Lay fairly often since it's one of their most beloved stories.

I find it difficult to believe that they would willingly and frequently repeat the blasphemous and seditious words that Finrod and Been were willing to lose their lives not to repeat just for a song (however important that song might be). If nothing else, it would be very disrespectful to the heroes they are trying to immortalize who did in fact die in large part because they blew their cover by not repeating those words.

So, my theory is that the words quoted above from the Lay of Leithian are sung and performed but are not actually the words that Sauron and the orcs used. In other words, I believe that the verse in the Lay is a toned-down or altered version (it is a little overdramatic, after all) of the actual oath to darkness because "no true Man nor Elf yet free / would ever speak that blasphemy"

#quotes from the book beren and luthien #from the included extracts of the lay of leithian #canto VII; lines 474-475 (but no true man) and 466-473 (for the 'oath')#beren and luthien #lay of leithian #the silmarillion #beren #finrod #finrod felagund #sauron #tol in gaurhoth #though both go by different names in this text; thu and the wizard's isle #tolkien #tolkien's poetry #in-universe art #in-universe literature #softlysilver

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searchingforserendipity25 · 1 month

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For @feanorianweek, Maglor at a turning point of his exile, which might be the turning point for the history of Middle Earth, depending on how keen you believe his fishing skills to be.

There was a lot to be said about the quiet of solitude. Maglor said all of it, at length, in a variation of arguments.

"O, I do not know who I intend to convince," he sighed, half-way through the Third-Age's last waning years. "This grows very tiresome, and I do not see that it does any good, either."

Perhaps it did; likely it did. Certainly he could not imagine his return would be a cause of comfort to any, and like as not disturb what peace they may have found.

Nonetheless, he had half a mind to make his way to Lindon, and see what manner of trial Círdan might contrive.

All the business of endless sand in his boots, and pockets, and hair had grown irritating long, long ago; and the Noldolantë was not improving. At this time, he was fairly certain it could not be improved upon. He had invented it many times already, in arranged melodies and plain recitation, also atonal arrangements.

The facts remained the same, and still he did not know the name of many of those he had slain, which ruined the general balance of the meter. He had not the right to want to know them, decently speaking; but he would have liked to feel something about the lament, at least, was whole and complete, though it be terrible.

Nonetheless, he could not quite contrive of how to breach his exile. It was not as if he could easily return among Elvenkind. Not he, marred as Morgoth had been, and responsible, on the whole, for causing grief direct or indirect to all of Elvenkind, thereabouts, not including the terms of blame carried for his dead kin, his followers.

His chance for judgement as one of their own had been set aside, erased fully when he followed Maedhros out into the wild each with a jewel-casket in hand, Eönwë's too many eyes set on them with terrible knowing.

The burns on his hands seared with the same sharpness as they had, then. It did not ease, or alter. Nor did Maglor wonder at it. He had reflected long on his deeds, and sought in the echoes of the Music upon the wave-song a measure of wisdom and clarity; but he had not set out to heal himself.

It was not a thing that was in his means to do.

But then, neither could he ask, or expect, or suppose it could be possible. Even had all he had slain had in pleasant harmony found it in their hearts to forgive him, that changed not what he was, nor Varda's verdict on the matter.

"No," the old man agreed. She goes not change her mind, on the whole. Still more evil it would be to attempt it not, when an attempt might be had. And it generally is, if one take a - broad-minded approach. Would you not like to try it?"

He, at least, bore only the one pair on deep-set eyes under fierce brows; but what eyes they were! Too clear, and cutting, and clean. Maglor felt keenly all the sand on himself, the stiff salt in his braids, the weak crusts on his burns seeping through the bandages.

That was not very pleasant, either; but he could not deny it was a novelty.

It had been a long time since Maglor had been regarded as a useful thing, the sea having no interest in him even to drown, and most birds of rapine clever enough to sense the dead flesh he carried was not to be stripped from his fingers lightly.

"Tell me more of this creature," Maglor said, and passed him the pipe once more, with one last drawn breath of rich smoke to fill his lungs. "Gollum, if that be his name. You say he is a sorry thing, fled from the forest and crossing the mountains to hide in damp and dark caves - why, then ought I hunt down a wretch such as he?"

"I believe it should be a thing by none accomplished, but one such as you," said Mithrandir, mouth pursed slyly - flashing glance too-bright by far, and not wholly unkind. "Indulge another old wanderer, if you would. Think of it like so: would you not like a just excuse to leave the shores of the sea, for a little time only?"

#maglor #my fics #gandalf #feanorian week #silm fic

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cilil · 1 month

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Manwë Week Day 3

These two, and of that Manwë was certain, had a special bond, and he was determined to nurture it and one day see it bloom into the beautiful love story he could already imagine and was eager to bring to paper.

Day 3: The Children | Whispering Breeze Relationship(s): Background Maedhros x Fingon, background Manwë x Varda Synopsis: Sensing the budding love between two certain Noldor, Manwë decides to "help" them Warnings: / AO3

AN: Thank you to @elanna-elrondiel for bringing the fun little headcanon of Maglor doing theater performances to my attention. There'll be a little reference to that in this one :D

"My dear Maitimo, it is always so lovely to see you!"

The young prince paused, his mouth half-open to deliver a politely formulated greeting, only to be caught off-guard by the Elder King's unusually bubbly attitude and exuberant enthusiasm.

Manwë's smile was as bright as Laurelin's light and his irises were of a vibrant light blue hue, reminiscent of the sky on a clear, cloudless day. He eagerly clasped his hands together in front of him and looked at Maitimo with such fondness that he was visibly wondering whatever he had done to deserve such a special greeting.

"My lord," he managed eventually, giving a quick bow. "I... am happy to see you as well."

Manwë accepted his response with a quick nod. "Ah, as wonderful as it would be to exchange some pleasantries, I do believe dear Findekáno is looking for you. Perhaps you should seek him out and spend some time with him?"

The confused and slightly alarmed expression on Maitimo's face told him that, despite the tender interactions he had observed between the two, certain conversations had yet to be had, and it took all of Manwë's self-control not to wring his hands in excitement. It mattered little; aside from the grand feast he had ordained, there would also be performances of all kinds that could serve as an opportunity for the two Noldor to spend time together.

Not least of all a certain theatre piece that Makalaurë would be partaking in, whom Manwë had rather deliberately paired with a certain Vanya he had noticed him having his eyes on.

"Did Finno — I mean, Findekáno ask you to... inform me about him needing to speak to me?" Maitimo attempted to sound formal, but his slip of the tongue successfully dispelled all illusions. Even Manwë, being honest to a fault himself, was not deceived; and even if the young prince had been more convincing, his keen eyes had already seen too much to have wool pulled over his eyes.

These two, and of that he was certain, had a special bond, and he was determined to nurture it and one day see it bloom into the beautiful love story he could already imagine and was eager to bring to paper.

"No, but he seemed as though he was looking for someone," Manwë smiled. Having ulterior motives or not, he had neither the intention nor the capability of deception, though it came with the unfortunate side effect that Maitimo appeared to grow increasingly nervous.

"Please, my lord, I mean no disrespect, but may I ask why you would assume he was looking for me?" Fearing that he had sounded rude, he quickly added, "Our family is quite large, after all."

"Well, you two are quite close, are you not?"

Maitimo's face reddened with such incriminating intensity that it began to resemble his hair.

"W-we maintain a good relationship. As cousins, I mean. I-I know our fathers don't get along very well, but... we are also trying to keep some peace between our families... a bit of diplomacy can never hurt..."

He continued to prattle on, and Manwë's smile fell slightly as he was reminded of the rift between himself and his own brother. Melkor would be better off with a few good friends and a spouse too, something he had often told him only to have some rather rude comments thrown at him in return. But that was an issue he would deal with another time.

"Do you feel that Fëanáro and Nolofinwë are making it difficult to be close to Findekáno, Maitimo?" Manwë interrupted him gently. "Do you want me to talk to them?"

"I..." The young prince seemed both out of words and out of breath, and he reflexively blew a tiny breeze in his direction to assist him, smiling reassuringly. He sensed that their conversation had drawn the attention of Varda and felt the weight of her sharp gaze upon him.

I know, I know, Manwë thought to himself, his mind open as always if she wanted to hear him. And he was indeed aware, as his beloved wife had informed him numerous times in the past, that he was being nosy and impatient and that such things were supposed to be beneath his station. Yet he had witnessed the joy and affection in Maitimo's and Findekáno's eyes when they were together, and the love they clearly had for one another warmed his heart; all he wanted was for them to succeed.

"I, uh... Father may not approve, but if he does, he hasn't said so," Maitimo said finally.

"Ah, then things should be well for the moment. And your uncle Nolofinwë has ever been so patient with him too," Manwë nodded sagely, and was surprised to see the young Noldo avert his eyes in embarrassment. "Why, dear Maitimo, have I said anything wrong?"

"No, my lord... and that is what... no, I shan't speak of it," Maitimo mumbled.

Wishing to ease his discomfort, Manwë let out a sympathetic clucking noise. "I know such close bonds are not easy to forge, especially within the confines of familial relations and obligations."

"Pardon me, what bonds are you talking about...?"

"Your beautiful bond with dear Findekáno!" Manwë exclaimed. The volume of his mighty voice caused Maitimo to flinch ever so slightly.

Varda was glaring at him at this point, he could feel it.

"Oh. Yes. Findekáno... I suppose I should go and look for him then, in case he wishes to speak with me." Maitimo, seemingly glad for an opening, bowed hastily. "If I may...?"

"But of course, I shall not keep you away from him any longer," Manwë said, his face practically glowing with contentment when the young prince all but fled from their conversation.

Unbeknownst to him, he wasn't going to escape the Elder King's sight any time soon, and Manwë was already on his way back to his throne so he could observe from there.

"You made that poor Elf way too nervous with your nosiness," Varda scolded him as soon as he was alone. "Did I not tell you to behave?"

"But my love, what if nobody had told poor Maitimo that Findekáno wants to see him? He seemed so shy, he may not have had the courage to seek him in a public setting..."

"A question that would not need to be answered if a certain someone hadn't spoken to Findekáno beforehand, claiming that there might be something Maitimo wishes to discuss with him."

Making himself comfortable on his throne, Manwë tried his best not to look too guilty.

"Well... it is no lie."

"It is not," Varda agreed, "but it is none of your business. And don't you dare recite any of the poems you wrote about them! Not before they are wed, do you hear me?"

Despite her strict tone, there was a smile in her voice.

Thanks for reading! ♡

taglist: @asianbutnotjapanese @a-world-of-whimsy-5 @bluezenzennie @edensrose @eunoiaastralwings @i-did-not-mean-to @melkors-defense-attorney @singleteapot @stormchaser819 @wandererindreams @manweweek

#maitimo #manweweek #manwe week #maedhros #manwe #manwe sulimo #manwë #valar #ainur #silm fanfic #silmarillion fanfiction #silmarillion #cílil writes #my writing

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doodle-pops · 9 months

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Ok so I know for elves sex=marriage but what if an elf has sex before marriage with their lover ?

Like do they get shamed or die or something? (IDK OKAY 😭😭)

I really went off on this answer for you >.<

As far as LaCE states, sex = marriage. There's a whole explanation about their marital process of being betrothed for one year and then wedding at the altar before the eyes of Eru (or Manwë and Varda??). The act of of sex is how the elves complete their marriage (consummation) and form their final bond between each other. However there were probably records of some elves just marrying right away (probably doing a quick exchange of vows and rings and jumping into bed).

Hypothetically speaking, lets say you have a high class couple (one's royal the other is a lord/lady) and a wedding ceremony was planned and the entire public knew about their betrothal and so forth, then in secret, they engage in sex out of lusting for each other, shame could play a part there. This would push for them to properly wed quicker to avoid shame upon their house.

Then, you have to remember the process Tolkien described elves' marriage had a lot to do with his Catholic beliefs. That meant, wedding at an altar and then having sex was the traditional method that all elves abided by. Thus, having sex before marriage (more so in Valinor) would have been consider improper; people would ill-talk and such. Even as they moved to ME, I don't see elves rushing for the quickest method (sex) to get married, since they enjoyed celebrations. So a wedding was a huge highlight and a must to celebrate a joyous moment in their lives.

As for the dying part, elves didn't die if they had sex before wedding, however, (see below the cut)

If an elf had intercourse forced upon them, their fëa would leave their bodies and the they would die (as stated in LaCE and also stated that no elf had ever forced their partners, even though we had Eöl using enchantments upon Aredhel but it was then stated that she was "not unwilling" but imo it sounds forced).

"Among all these evils there is no record of any among the Elves that took another's spouse by force; for this was wholly against their nature, and one so forced would have rejected bodily life and passed to Mandos. Guile or trickery in this matter was scarcely possible…for the Eldar can read at once in the eyes and voice of another whether they be wed or unwed." (LACE footnote 5)

So marriage and sex was always consensual between both parties and shame played a part depending on the wedding procedure.

Edit: I know it said "took another spouse by force" and nothing about forceful taking in general for unwed elves, but honestly, even if an elf were to be taken by force, since they experience emotions on an entirely different wavelength than us, who's to say that they can't die from being taken by force. Their freedom and consent were taken only be defiled. Them choosing to die can be a (optional) thing.

#elves #tolkien elves #elves and lace

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a-world-of-whimsy-5 · 1 month

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A brother's instructions

Day 5 for @manweweek

Rating: E

Prompts: Free of Evil | Opposition

Pairing: Manwë/Melkor for Sofie (nyarnamaitar)

Themes: Dead Dove | Smut

Wordcount: 2.7k words

Summary: Prior to his wedding to Varda, Manwë’s brother calls on him, offering to teach him how to satisfy his bride in a way he does not expect.

Minors DNI | 18+

This fic is also available on AO3

“I hear you are to be wed.” Melkor leaned against the doorpost, the dark pools of his eyes glinting in the starlight that spilled freely into his brother’s chambers. “And I have come to offer my felicitations, brother mine.”

Manwë turned to face him, his lips forming a bashful smile. His brother’s visits were always welcomed, especially now that an occasion of great significance loomed large before him.

“My thanks, brother,” he returned warmly. “Lady Varda’s wish to be wed to me was wondrous for me to hear.”

“Indeed, brother mine. Indeed.” Melkor was perfectly calm, perfectly amiable. Deep within him, however, anger rose like a tumultuous storm that would have stripped everything around him to its bones had he allowed it. His brother was to be married to another, and the notion distressed Melkor deeply.

Look at him, he thought, while his brother kept up a lively chatter about his upcoming nuptials. Varda is unworthy of him. He is so radiant. So beautiful. So innocent and unsuspecting of the true motives and desires of others.

Dark lips curled into a twisted smile. Manwë was beautiful and radiant, as any of the Valar should be. He was also an innocent who was free of evil and pure of heart, a being who could not truly fathom the secret notions and desires hiding within the dark recesses of the minds of others. And he had not seen the desires that dwelled in his brother’s mind, for they had always been concealed from him. Melkor was besotted with him. It had been this way since the moment his younger brother came of age and Melkor found himself smitten by Manwë after he made himself known to him. This feeling grew with the passing of the ages, and Melkor did little to dampen it.

Innocent and unsuspecting, he repeated to himself. Too innocent and unsuspecting for his own good. Perhaps there is a way yet for me to achieve a sliver, at least, of what I desire, he realized, if I speak the right words. And if I am successful, I may yet have a taste of him before he places himself in the arms of another for all time.

“What you have said is all good,” Melkor began and set his plan into motion. “But it will not be enough. A marriage is more than just a pledging of vows, brother. There are times when a marriage needs more than just tender companionship to keep itself alive. Have you given any thought to the other aspects as well?”

“You mean pleasures of both the spirit and the flesh?” His brother flushed, wringing his hands. Manwë had indeed given the notion much thought, and he found himself praying that he would not fail to please his new bride in any way, for he had abstained from such acts despite the many invitations from others to do so. Oh, he saw nothing wrong with such invitations; he simply desired to wait until he found the companion of his life. “Yes. I know of this brother.”

“Do you desire it?” Melkor asked with feigned indifference. “Does your lady desire it?”

Manwë flushed again, unable to look his brother in the eye. “Yes. To both. Varda is said to be a most passionate woman, and I… I hope that I will be able to please her in every way.”

“I understand completely,” Melkor replied solemnly, pacing his brother’s chamber, his eyes darting to the wide featherbed and its silk sheets. The bed was barely slept in, for they, the Valar, did not require rest and true sleep unless their earthly vessels were weary. And Manwë was rarely weary.

Perhaps it is time that featherbed was put to some proper use. Melkor stopped by the foot of it before turning to face his brother.

“Do you wish to know how best to please your future queen and keep her content?”

“I do. More than anything.”

“Then will you allow me to teach you? I have some experience in this sphere. I could guide you.”

His brother—who had been gazing out the windows—snapped around to look at him, startled by this most unusual offer. “You mean I should listen to what you have to say?”

“Not just say,” his brother answered, laughing. “I will show you by allowing you to take liberties with my body. Come now, brother,” he added when Manwë grew pale. “Have you lost your courage?”

“I… I do not think it is wise, brother,” Manwë said, puzzled. His brother sought to show him how to please his queen instead of just counseling him about what took place in the marriage bed. He did not know what to make of it. What he did know was that such acts were forbidden, not just for the Children, the Eldar and the yet-to-be-discovered Edain, but for the Valar as well. “And it is an abomination, brother, for you and I to cleave to each other in such a way even in the flesh.”

“It is far from an abomination,” Melkor sighed as if in defeat. “But I will leave if you do not desire my guidance.”

“So soon?” His brother cried when he walked past him, comporting himself in the manner of an aggrieved soul. “Please stay, brother; I cannot bear to see you leave so soon.”

Melkor paused by the door, his hand already around its golden handle. The key has found its way into its lock, he thought, pleased with himself, and pleased with how easy it was to bring his brother around. Now all I need to do is to turn it into its proper place.

“You do not wish me to leave?” he murmured, his back to his brother the entire time. “But why must I stay, brother mine, when you call my offer to help a vile and monstrous act?”

“Please stay, brother,” his brother beseeched him. “Please. I… I did not mean to insult you.”

“You will trust me and willingly do what I ask of you?” Melkor turned around to face him, his countenance grave. Deep within, however, he was rejoicing. “All of what I ask of you?”

“I…” Manwë paused and hesitated. Melkor invited him to do something that would go against everything they were taught by their creator. However, he wanted to trust his brother. He wanted Melkor to see that he did not doubt his intentions, and he yearned to know how best to satisfy his future queen. “Yes. But just in the flesh, yes?”

“Of course, of course,” Melkor agreed. “Just in the flesh, and not in the spirit. Too much harm can come to us if our spirits are bonded. Now stay here. There is something I must procure for us first.”

That something turned out to be a clear, crystal bottle of oil that Melkor obtained after some discrete searching. It gleamed atop the little table it was placed on, and Manwë regarded it, wondering how it would be used. Then he turned to face his brother, mustering the courage that threatened to desert him at that moment.

“I… I am ready,” he declared softly. His brother smiled.

“First,” said Melkor, “we must kiss. Come here, brother mine. Place your arms around my neck and close your eyes. I will show you how it is done.”

Manwë obeyed, albeit reluctantly, gasping when he was kissed violently and his brother’s hand tangled in his hair. He willed his mind to open, more than a little frightened by the savagery of his brother’s embrace.

“It hurts,” he exclaimed when his brother tightened his other arm around his waist in a vise-like hold. “It hurts, brother.”

“Tis how it is, brother,” Melkor growled, savoring the warmth lingering in his brother’s mouth. And oh! The sweetness he found lingering within it, the cravings it gave rise to! “Varda will desire this, even act in this manner as well. Listen to me, brother, when I say this is the only way to keep a being like her content.”

“I… very well, brother.” Manwë yielded, whimpering when he felt the sting of his brother’s teeth against his lips and when the heaviness of his brother’s arousal pressed against his lower belly. Melkor wasted little time, ripping the robes off his brother’s person in his greed to feel flesh against flesh. He was not disappointed in any regard, for when he freed himself of his robes and drew his brother close, he found himself sighing wistfully.

He feels so good. His brother’s fair skin was uncommonly soft and smelled faintly of cool mountain air. And it was perfect, devoid of any flaw. Melkor had often dreamed of it—his brother’s pale skin pressing against his own and his soft, windblown hair spreading around him like silk.

And for once, I get to make my vision of us real. Melkor tumbled Manwë onto his bed and sat astride him, marking his throat and arms and torso with his tongue and his lips and his teeth. Manwë—despite the arousal that had already gathered deep within the pit of his stomach—thought this was all too much. Surely the pleasures of the flesh were supposed to be gentler than this?

“Too much, brother. Please.” He tried to resist, to push himself away. His nails inadvertently dug into his brother’s thighs during his attempts to break free. Melkor growled, inflamed, and wrapped his hand around his brother’s throat, pinning him to the featherbed. “Tis too much for me.”

“It is far from too much,” he lilted, bracing his other hand by his brother’s shoulder. Manwë hissed softly when the pressure applied against his flesh increased slightly, and when the weight of his brother came to settle against the cradle of his hips. He could have used his mastery over wind and air to free himself, but he could not bring himself to do so. He could not bear the notion of wounding his brother in any way. “And it is how your lady would desire it—all heat and flames and passion. Do you wish to stop now, brother mine, when you are so close to discovering how to truly pleasure her?

“I… I do not know.”

“Precisely. You do not know. Which is why I intend to teach you. Now stop resisting my embraces, and let me show you the rest.”

His brother looked at him, his eyes wide and full of confusion. And Melkor, thinking an inducement was needed, released his hold and reached down to wrap his hand around his brother’s cock instead. It produced a much-sought-after effect. Manwë arched his back and let out a transported whine, his hands fisting against the sheets, when he felt himself being stroked for the first time.

“Is that a yes, brother mine?” Melkor asked, masking his elation with innocent warmth, when his brother thrust up his hips.

“Yes, yes, brother,” Manwë—unable to stop himself—cried out, when yet another flash of pleasure tore through him.

Melkor groaned when he was addressed so. He did not dwell on it, thinking it would undo him and drive him mad if he did. He set his eyes on the task at hand instead, turning his brother onto his belly, bidding him to wait, and telling him that he had to be prepared for what came next. Manwë waited, ashamed of the want that bloomed and surged through his being, and ashamed for wanting to know more of what his brother had in store for him.

His brother had a great deal in store for him, though, at the time, he knew little of it. The first thing he felt after the weight of the featherbed shifted again was his brother’s legs forcing his own apart. He turned to look over his shoulder, but his brother commanded him to turn back with a heated thought. The next thing he felt was his brother’s hand, large and cool and slick with oil, caressing the small of his back. Manwë closed his eyes.

What will come next? He wondered.

Pain came next. Pain like he had never felt before was searing through his insides. Manwë tried to look over his shoulder again when the finger that had breached him sank deeper.

“What are you doing to me?” He demanded, his words feeble.

“Preparing you, just as I said.” Melkor thrust deeply, pressing his finger against a particular place that made his brother dig his nails into the sheets, tearing at them. His quiet moan was sweet and golden, like music to Melkor’s ears. He pressed his finger against that place again, and his name spilled off his brother’s swollen lips in a whisper. “For Varda may do it as well. There are even special implements that she could use for her pleasure as well as for yours. Would you like to know how she could do this?”

“I… that is yes, brother.” Manwë, still full of shame and self-disgust, moaned again when a second finger joined the first, opening him up even more. Melkor used a generous hand with the oil. He applied it along his length and pushed more inside his brother. Then, when he was more than ready, he gripped his brother’s hips and lifted them just high enough to breach him again without too much trouble. And without warning, he did so, pushing himself inside with one long thrust.

Manwë cried out: from shock, from pain, unable to comprehend how he could accept such an intrusion, and unable to comprehend how he could accept so much of it. Melkor was big—uncomfortably, painfully so. Manwë felt him grunt against the back of his neck and heard him whisper “Finally,” when he sank home. Then he began to move, his shallow thrusts deepening as his pleasure grew.

This is wrong, thought Manwë, even as hunger for more flared through him, white-hot and blinding. This is wrong. This should not be happening. We must stop. I must put a stop to this. I must…

“Enjoying yourself, brother mine?”

Too late did Manwë realize that his moans joined the euphony Melkor had created with his own. Humiliated, he dropped his head, muffling his cries against his arm. His brother did not mind. He took his pleasure as and how he found it, striking the place he found before, bringing both himself and his brother to the very brink by chasing his own release.

“You are close.” Melkor tightened his grip with one hand while the other moved to tangle itself once more in the pale silver of his brother’s hair. He grabbed onto it and tugged hard, delighting in the little whine he heard. “Your release is almost upon you. I can feel it in the tightening of your body. Do you want me to show you what that would feel like, brother? When your queen takes you over the edge while sharing pleasures?”

“I… that is yes, yes, brother.” Manwë was starting to think there was more to these lessons, something that Melkor kept hidden from his sight. Still, he could not dwell on any suspicion. Not at that moment. Not when golden light kept bursting to life behind his eyes. He whispered his brother’s name and chased after it, giddy and lightheaded, forgetting his shame, unable and unwilling to linger on his brother’s motives. He whispered brother’s name again, this time when he found that light. He let it wash over him and drown him in its brilliance, his body trembling and trembling while he spilled across the sheets, his brother’s name parting his lips in wild little cries. He was still shaking when he heard his brother’s deep cry, and when he felt the warmth of his brother’s spend flood his insides. Then his brother went still, and a hush settled over his chambers. It was everywhere, as all-consuming as the light that washed over him before. Manwë slowly opened his eyes.

Is it now over? He made a faint noise when his brother finally slipped out of him and collapsed onto his side. Has my brother’s lesson come to an end?

“Are your instructions over, brother?” Manwë murmured when he could finally lift his head and speak. He regarded his brother discretely, drinking in the shimmering, slate-gray skin and the hair that fell around him like a dark waterfall. Then he turned away, mortified for admiring him so. Melkor had seen him looking and did well to hide the triumphant smirk that threatened to burst forth.

So trusting. So innocent. And finally, mine. Varda will never be able to claim all of him now. My mark will forever be etched on his spirit.

“Our lessons are far from over,” Melkor began after he gathered his breath. “Rest, brother mine. I have so much more to teach you. They too will serve you well, I think, where your new queen is concerned.”

#manweweek #manwe week #dead dove do not eat #manwë #melkor #manwë smut #melkor smut #manwë x melkor #the silmarillion #the silm fanfiction #a world of whimsy writes

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lamemaster · 9 months

Text

The Prince My Sister Speaks Of

Pairing: Rog x Reader'

Summary: Rog carries within his heart these stolen pieces of you. He has loved you from the very first moment of meeting you. His affections for you, however, remain a well-kept secret.

AN: I really wanted to participate in this event. So, here's my entry.

Rog pines. He does so as his hammer shapes the seething metal, he does so as he sits in lengthy meetings. He would rather perish pining for you than witness another fate.

For a looming hardy smith, Rog's heart is nothing but the softest cotton for you. It blooms from a single glance by you and weaves itself into a thread to make a tapestry of you.

Even now as you chase after a giggling princess Idril, Rog's eyes follow your every movement. You are Lady Elenwe's sister, thus, Idril's aunt.

You had left Valinor following your sister. Rog wasn't there to witness your journey or your loss. His life had started on the shores of Middle Earth separated by seas, it was a wonder that Rog's path had somehow met yours.

You carry in you the light of Aman. The entire city of Gondolin knows of you. King Turgon's sister-in-law, who resides in the world of dreams.

A romanticist. You are a dreamer. A soul who walks the paths of Gondolin with a skip in their step, crouching among stacks of books all detailing deeds of love. During dark solitary nights when most scurry to light lamps or find comfort in their homes, you are found staring dreamily into the sky that holds all of Varda's creations.

Maybe that is the reason why King Turgon entrusts you completely with his treasured daughter.

You have looked after Princess Idril ever since your sister's death. Not even an ounce of darkness has come to the princess in your wake. It is said when the entire family grieved for Lady Elenwe's death, you were there holding on to your niece, singing her a soothing lullaby.

Rog carries within his heart these stolen pieces of you. He has loved you from the very first moment of meeting you. His affections for you, however, remain a well-kept secret.

The room pulses with an inexplicable heat, perhaps a result of the wine flowing freely among the company. King Turgon succumbed to intoxication long ago, his alcohol tolerance no match for the revelry.

Glorfindel and Ecthelion remain locked in conquest over the coveted loveseat. The others have long abandoned any attempts to intervene, letting the two elves sort out their seating dispute in their own boisterous manner.

Penlod, wisely, chose solitude over the rowdiness of the gathering, seeking refuge in this quieter corner. Meanwhile, Egalmoth has shifted his focus from the merriment to engage in what seems like profound conversations with the sapphires adorning his crown.

And then there's you — comfortably nestled on the chaise, a half-filled glass of wine cradled in your hand, your cheeks flushed from the abundant indulgence.

Yet, amid this chaotic scene, a world-altering event remains unnoticed by the intoxicated crowd. Rog, a pillar of unwavering composure, sits with unflinching poise. His back is as straight as a spear, seemingly impervious to the revelry around him. The wine in his glass ripples with the faint tremors he can barely conceal.

The epicenter of this upheaval? You. Leaning heavily against Rog, your head rests trustingly on his broad shoulder. Your hair cascades like a waterfall down his back, and the warmth of your breath skims his neck as you mumble incoherent words.

For Rog, each beat of his heart resounds louder than the clamor of his own forge. Your hushed, unintelligible utterances, so close to his ear, send ripples of both trepidation and exhilaration through him.

"She said emm she said... that I would marry a prince," your tipsy murmurs reach Rog's ears, your lips brushing temptingly close. He takes measured breaths, attempting to steady his racing heart as your ramblings persist. "Elenwe said that...," the mention of your sister stirs an involuntary twitch from Turgon even in his slumber, though you seem blissfully unaware. "but prince work in forge like Feanor did...then are you the prince? My prince?" you query, your voice a delicate melody that winds its way into Rog's very soul.

A prince...a concept so alien to him, a notion he could have never imagined. You, who were not born of royalty, now address him with a term that feels foreign yet tantalizingly sweet. As you delicately set aside your glass, Rog's world shifts. Your warmth leaves him, though the lingering sensation of your touch remains etched upon his skin.

Turning back towards him, you rise unsteadily, your hands finding purchase on his sturdy shoulders. Your bleary smile, a radiant beacon amid the haze of the room, holds a magnetic pull. Rog's lips twitch, the desire to mirror your expression warring with the taut control he maintains.

Your hands cup his rugged face, drawing his gaze into the depths of your eyes. In this intimate moment, your voice is a whisper, softer than a sigh, "Will you be my prince, Rog? Will you fulfill the prophecy my sister shared? Will you wed me?" The words hang in the air, untainted by the usual lilt of jest or the haze of inebriation. They are a genuine inquiry, vulnerable and heartfelt.

Rog's heart, once a forge that shaped the mightiest of metals, now hammers erratically within his chest. His dark eyes, a reflection of his internal turmoil, search yours for any trace of jest or illusion. But what he finds is unwavering sincerity, a truth that cuts through the haze of the evening.

From the stacked towers of your books to the winding paths of Gondolin your eyes always find him. The Lord of the house of Hammer of Wrath.

You can't help but muse about the way his eyes shine under the light of the Sun. Or how desperately you ward off elleth lingering about his forge.

These days even your darling niece, Idril finds immense joy in rushing into her father's office specifically during meetings with a certain lord. And you can't help but follow Idril with a fluttering heart.

On starry nights with no company in sight, you can't help but ask Elenwe, "Is he the one your stories spoke of?"

#the silmarillion #noldor elves #silmarillion x reader #rog #rog x reader #house of the hammer of wrath #underratedcharacterevent

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nyarnamaitar · 17 days

Text

Ulmo Comforts His King

(AKA a small Ulmo x Manwë drabble I wrote in 5 minutes and decided to throw into the Void)

— — — — — —

He is still not looking at you. He raised his eyes briefly, yes, to meet yours, but he quickly lowered them again. His face is very pale and he seems smaller somehow, curled into himself. He has always been quiet by nature, contemplative, the trappings of his position forcing him to speak more and louder than he would do if he were not crowned king. But this is no comfortable quiet of his; his features too neutral, the curve of his spine too tense.

“Highest?” you ask, trying to get his full attention, trying to connect as you have always done whenever you are together. “Manwë?” you add, pushing, when he remains silent. You are growing desperate, you realise. It has been a while since you have last had a real, private moment with your dearest friend. You miss him. At first, when Melkor — Morgoth, the Eldar call your foe now, deservedly— betrayed you and yours, destroyed the Trees, and fled to his stronghold in the North, Silmarils in hand, you came speeding to your king, and during and in-between the long hours of council, you fought the urge to pull him to the side and let the words I told you so, did I not? He was never worthy of your mercy, let alone your love roll from your lips, but you fear that he heard them anyway. Ever you have failed to keep your heart hidden from him.

And now it has come to this: the radiance of your lord dimmed, his heart and soul surrounded by tall walls, his eyes averted from yours.

And though his demeanor does not come as a surprise — your kinsmen warned you — it still pains you to the very core of your being. He barely speaks to me, Námo said, and when he does, he only ever asks for advice of a political nature. He stares at Vairë’s tapestries in silence. He no longer visits Irmo’s gardens.

We used to enjoy sitting together, Yavanna and Vána told you, enjoying the sight of flowers in bloom and the touch of the wind in the meadow. Now he rarely strays from his mountain home. Even the birds feel his absence; their songs are muted.

My love is grieving, Varda confided, he needs time — or so he told me. But I know his heart and I worry. Sea King — Ulmo — friend — will you not talk to him?

So now you are here, in front of him, yet no words are sufficient to encompass the enormity of what you feel, what you wish to tell him. I know you are ashamed; do not be. I know you believe I judge you; I do not — I never did — I only ever sought to protect you. I know you find yourself unworthy of your station; do not condemn yourself so. You are by far the worthiest among us. Please believe me. Please allow me to stand by you, as I have always done. Do not push me away, where I cannot find you.

His soft-spoken words, almost whispers, take you out of your reverie. “Sea King — Ulmo — what brings you here?” he asks, as if he cannot quite grasp why anyone would willingly seek out his company. It is this uncertainty, this self-hatred you hear in his voice that makes something balk within you, scream in outrage. You have to make this right. Now. You go to him, almost running, and before he can flee into hiding, you take his hands and kiss his wrists — his pulse is like the thunder that precedes a storm —, his open palms. You pull him closer to you and you look up. The walls are down, finally leveled, and you see tears clouding his blue eyes. He bows his head in sorrow. You embrace him, and he goes willingly, curls himself against your chest. Something slumbering within you unwinds and comes to life. From this day forth, you swear to yourself, you will not waver from his side.

#manwë x ulmo #ulmo x manwë #ulmanwë #manwë #manwe #ulmo #tolkien #i’m in my feelings y’all

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