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a-world-of-whimsy-5 · 8 months

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"Mistress"

Pairing: Varda X Eönwë | Location: Ilmarin

Themes: Smut (Lemon/Graphic)

Word count: 1.5k words

Summary: Varda and Eönwë act out a proposition she puts to him after he admits to wanting her.

Rating: 🔥🔥 | Minors DNI | 18+ | You are responsible for the media you consume.

Eönwë could not move, no matter how much he wanted to. And he yearned to do so—to run his hands over her naked flesh and bask in the glory that was her.

That was not to be. Varda wanted him bound, hands and feet both, and he agreed. She wanted him to obey her in all things during the act, and he still agreed. His wings rustled, unleashing a riot of unbridled lust when Varda brushed her hands over silken feathers.

"So soft," Varda pondered in wonder. "And yet, strong enough to carry you through the highest clouds and the strongest of winds, taking you to places few others could go."

His wings were indeed soft and strong. And so sensitive that the smallest touch was enough to send waves of rapture crashing over him. Eönwë let out a lusty whine when Varda brushed her hands over his feathers a second time, then a third. Heat surged through him even as queenly fingers glided over the tops of vivid blue-green wings. Varda laughed, the sweet sound of it rippling across the chamber.

"Is my little herald unraveling already?" She teased, this time running her hands over his arms, his wrists, his fingers. Hardened muscles tremble beneath her palms.

Eönwë sighed, for he was indeed close to unraveling beneath her. Time had passed by in a blissful haze as he lay like this, bound and prone, his cock already sheathed in her warmth. Varda had taunted and toyed with him, strumming him like a harp, and there was nothing he could do in return, nothing to give her pleasure. His queen refused to move, no matter how much he pleaded for her to do so. It was agony of the most acute kind, to not be able to lose himself in her completely.

"I am, mistress." Eönwë writhed against the bed, sighing wistfully when Varda ghosted her hand over his cheek.

How the queen enjoyed being called mistress! Varda had heard countless titles and countless epithets from the lips of more supplicants than she could care to count, but the way Eönwë called her mistress, his voice dripping with profound veneration, appealed to her baser nature in a way the others could not. It roused her even more. She shifted just a little. The delicious friction that came with it was too much; it almost sent Eönwë over the edge. He writhed again and his length sank a little deeper, filling her even more. Varda moaned. She fought to regain her sense of control.

Not yet, she told herself. I must hold out a little longer.

"Poor little herald," she began, tilting her head and studying him keenly. She marveled at how glorious he looked when bathed in the starlight that streamed through wide, arched windows. Eönwë was fantasy made flesh, all lean muscle and luscious lips, and lustrous black hair. "Unable to touch me or even move, unable to do much but yield to my will. Tell me, do you wish for me to put an end to your misery?"

Eönwë groaned under his breath when her thumb drifted over his lower lip. "Yes, my mistress. Please. Oh, please, yes."

"Open!" Varda ordered with barely a second thought.

His lips parted at her command. Eönwë shivered when her thumb dipped into the warmth of his mouth and pressed down on his tongue. Elated, he brought his lips around it, gently sucking down on her finger, his eyes fixed on hers the entire time. Shimmering gray eyes now burned like they had been set ablaze, their light flickering like the stars themselves. Varda cried out despite herself, engulfed by the white-hot sparks that rushed through her in furious response.

"Clever little herald." She purred and drew back. "You are making me forget myself.”

Eönwë pouted. “While I be denied even more as punishment?”

“Perhaps. Perhaps not.” A slow smile worked its way across her face, softening the regal air around her. “We must see.”

Her smile was now as radiant as her eyes. His breath hitched at the sight, for he found her to be even more glorious than before. Her hair dazzled, as if a thousand tiny stars were hidden within each strand. Her fana gleamed as if lit from within. She was the most beautiful creature he had ever beheld, and he declared it so.

Varda laughed again and said, "I should say flattery would get you nowhere, sweet herald, but in this instance, I have decided to make an exception."

She rolled her hips, slowly and gently, delighting in how quickly Eönwë’s vivid eyes closed. Varda leaned forward and dipped her head, capturing his lips with hers. He moaned again, this time when her tongue brushed against his lips. The sharp sting of nails raking down his chest when his mouth opened beneath hers was barely felt.

"Mistress…" was all he could say. Varda kissed him even harder for it. His shudders and quickening gasps were intoxicating. It was all she had hoped for and more, ever since she first set her eyes on him many an age ago.

Had it been so long? Perhaps that was the case, but it did not feel that way. And Varda had her dreams to keep her occupied, the chief of them always filled with the Elder King’s herald. Such visions were haunted by the image of her having her way with him, never the other way around. Varda had even spent many a delightful moment pleasuring herself by thinking of him and how his strong arms and his beautiful wings would wrap around her. And when Eönwë finally mustered his courage and confessed the depths of his desire for her, Varda listened to him and put forth a proposition after he finished. She would gladly give all of herself to him, she had said, but her consent came with a condition. Just one. When he pressed, she went on to say she was his queen and was to be treated as such even while they were abed. She was to lead, not him. Ever the one in command, Eönwë’s curiosity had piqued at the notion of letting another command him.

"This is new to me, mistress," he replied after a moment's reflection, "but I accept your terms."

Varda had been well pleased with his reply. Now he was here, in her bed and beneath her and inside her, keening wantonly into her mouth.

Eönwë took a deep breath of air when she pulled away. His lips were bruised and swollen by the time she straightened herself and began riding him, her hand sliding over to curl around his throat.

"Yes?" Varda questioned.

"Please," Eönwë pleaded without shame. His hands gripped the silken ties that bound his wrists, his talon-nails digging into the soft fabric. A hand as soft as silk gripped his neck, guiding the very air he breathed. It tightened and released, leaving him lightheaded, weak, desperate to surrender. He opened his eyes, drinking in the sight of his queen heaving over him, her head thrown back, her hair swaying from side to side, her mouth parted in silent cries. All he could do was watch this bewitching scene, his toes curling when heat and tension pooled in his belly.

"More, mistress!" he cried. "There mistress! There! Oh —"

Varda brought herself down harder and faster, her grip around Eönwë’s throat tightening each time she sank down on his cock. Now she was filled with a craving to have his hands caressing her, gripping her, her hips, bringing her down even harder.

The next time, she tells herself. There is a soft rip. Eönwë nearly ripped into the wisps that bound him. She tuts, leans down, and clasps his hands. They are now pinned against the featherbed. Her fingers knit around his, her hair brushes over tingling skin. Eönwë moves and thrusts his hips, trying to match her rhythm for rhythm.

“Fuck,” he mutters.

Varda releases him and rises again, her own fana vibrating, as if electrified. She touches herself. Eönwë watches, his eyes clouded with lust and greed. She sees it.

“If I give you the freedom to do so, will you ruin me?”

“In every way possible, mistress.”

It excites Varda even more. Now she is relentless, frantic, wanton. She shook, then drowned in the rapture that rose to consume her. Her fana still rose and fell, not stopping until she heard her name fill the air like a sob, and Eönwë emptied himself inside of her. She collapses against him, still pulsating from the aftershocks that gripped her. Eönwë sighs, satisfied and replete. He barely feels the weight of his queen. His wings rustle beneath him, then stop. He says not a word until Varda opens her eyes and rises to her knees. She smiles at him. He smiles back at her, his eyes mirroring the deep satisfaction he sees. What happened between them was more wondrous than anything he could have dreamed of, and he wondered, What else does his queen have in store for him?

"Stay like that a little longer," Varda gently insists. "Just a little longer, my sweet herald, and I will release you. I hunger to see how well you take me with nothing to hold you back.”

Tags: @asianbutnotjapanese @cilil

#kinktober #kinktober 2023 #Varda #eönwë #Varda x Eönwë #Eönwë smut #Varda smut #The silm #The silm smut #The silm imagine #Varda imagine #Eönwë imagine #💫whimsy's plot bunnies

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mauvearts · 1 year

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#N♥l♥finweans

#at least ¾ of them #aka two show-offs ...and Turukano #fingon #aredhel #turgon #silm #silmarillion #The Silmarillion #tolkien #this started as a doodle just for some outfitconcepts #well... i got carried away #also somehow i nailed the facial features i imagine for them??#if you are wondering - they are dressed up for the starfestival of the Vanyar (annual celebration of Varda and her stars)#everyone is wearing flowy garments made out of soft and sheer white fabric #very little use of bling #but very extravagant makeup including dust of goldleaf around the eyes #as extended family of the vanyarin court Indis' children and grandchildren are always welcome to celebrate #(the feanorians not so much - but Tyelko sneaks in from time to time 8D)#but thats all just headcanon material 😅

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cilil · 1 year

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𝐏𝐨𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐯𝐞!𝐕𝐚𝐥𝐚𝐫 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 - 𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓀𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓎ℴ𝓊 𝒶𝓈 𝓉𝒽ℯ𝒾𝓇𝓈

Characters: Manwë, Varda, Oromë, Námo and Irmo; reader's gender is unspecified - all up to your imagination~

Featuring: Dom/sub dynamics/undertones, predator/prey kink, soul sex

Warnings: Possessive themes, bit of rough foreplay and sex, smut/suggestive

Author's Note: Thanks to everyone who voted on my recent polls. I'll be trying out a bit of a new format, combining headcanons with small scenes/imagines, with this one and hope you'll find it enjoyable. If there are other characters you'd like to see for this, feel free to suggest and keep an eye out for future polls!♡

Manwë

ଘ The Elder King is a romantic lover and enjoys courting you, though even during these early stages he finds ways to subtly claim you for himself: He showers you with gifts like jewellery with sapphires (his signature gemstone), robes in his colours, objects decorated with feathers or bird-shaped items and writes poetry for you which he recites and sings for you both in private and in public.

ଘ Once Manwë has successfully conquered your heart, he makes sure to publicly display his affection for you by making you sit on his lap, kissing you and wrapping his wings around you at every opportunity.

ଘ In the bedroom, little remains of Manwë's calm, serene demeanour. He loves marking your body with his talons, covering you in love bites and engaging in breath play to make you feel just how much you need his element - need him.

ଘ Manwë has a breeding kink that gets particularly strong when he's in heat or nearing it and loves filling you up to make sure that his essence remains inside you as long as possible and his scent stays on you, deterring any other suitors from approaching you.

. . . . . ◟੭. . . . . ◟੭. . . . . ◟੭

Your lips part to release a soft gasp when Manwë pulls you closer and presses open-mouthed kisses to the side of your neck, biting and sucking gently to leave blossoming marks. His mighty talons draw patterns on the naked skin of your back, causing you to arch and lean into his embrace; he is careful not to hurt you, though you already know you will be covered in thin red lines once he's done with you.

"My little dove," Manwë croons between kisses, his voice deceptively soft; he caresses you like a warm, gentle breeze, though you know a mighty storm is slumbering underneath his calm exterior, ready to be unleashed, should anyone else attempt to touch what is his.

"Yours," you whisper. Your hands claws at his robes as Manwë continues to mark you as his for all to see; the Elder King's mate and lover that no other would ever dare to lay claim to.

Varda

✧ The Queen of Stars is often absent from the daily affairs of Valinor in favour of tending to her creations in the depths of Eä, but she makes sure everyone knows exactly who you belong to even when she's not present.

✧ Varda loves giving you pretty necklaces, bracelets and other jewellery adorned with charms that are filled with her starlight, protecting you and burning anyone who attempts to touch you without her permission.

✧ When she makes love to you, she ensures that you will remember her touch and others see the marks she left on you as will - in case anyone was doubting that you are hers - by painting luminous constellations on your skin with her fingers, twinkling little stars reminiscent of notes in a song of her love for you.

✧ Varda also gives you water from her wells to drink, enjoying the thought of her essence filling you and providing you with light and refreshment. She will stop at nothing to make sure the powers of darkness and evil stay far away from you.

. . . . . ◟੭. . . . . ◟੭. . . . . ◟੭

"Hold still, my little light," the Queen orders, pushing you down and into the soft sheets of her bed with gentle authority.

You blink nervously when you see the tip of her index finger glowing with sacred, primordial light, ready to paint the canvas of your bare chest with tiny, glittering stars.

"Will it hurt?"

Varda smiles and leans down to kiss your brow. "Of course not. There is no evil in your heart, dearest; my light would never hurt you."

Her starlit touch is hot, and for a moment you fear it'll sear your skin, but as soon as she begins caressing you, reminiscent of the gentle strokes of a paintbrush, the sensation changes to a comfortable heat. You raise your head to watch as she turns you into another one of her masterpieces, and your beloved Queen looks pleased whenever her nimble fingers elicit small noises from you, her luminous eyes holding your gaze while she slowly works her way lower and lower.

Oromë

♘ Oromë is a hunter with all his heart, so once he has caught you, he certainly won't let anyone take away his favourite prey. He loves giving you trophies from his hunting trips to wear as accessories, a not-so-subtle message to all that you now belong to him.

♘ But that won't satisfy him for too long. The huntsman of the Valar is a wild and passionate lover and covers you in bite and scratch marks every time he takes you, making sure they are visible too.

♘ Oromë loves all sorts of cuddling and physical affection and actively initiates it whenever an opportunity presents itself. While this is certainly done for his and your enjoyment, he also wants others to see that you are his and his alone and ensure that his scent will be all over you even when he isn't around, in order to ward off unwanted attention from other suitors. For the same reason, he also breeds you thoroughly.

♘ If you are a good little pet for him, Oromë will reward you with a lovely collar he made specifically for you, letting everyone know that he has claimed you and intends to keep you.

. . . . . ◟੭. . . . . ◟੭. . . . . ◟੭

Oromë's large hands hold on to your hips with a strong, bruising grip that has you whining into the moss below. You already know not to expect mercy whenever you play his favourite game of hunting and catching his prey, a symbolic earning of his right to claim you.

"What a lovely little deer," Oromë purrs and leans forward to bite the juncture between your neck and shoulder while he enters you with the fierce determination of a feral beast.

Your cries and moans only spur him on to thrust deeper and harder, his hands keeping you in place with the strength and steadiness of an experienced hunter. As far as you know, you two are alone in this part of his woods, yet something tells you that he wouldn't mind if one of the other hunting parties found you – to see him taking you, marking you, filling you with his seed to ensure that his scent you be on you for days to come.

Námo

☯ The mark of a Fëantur may be subtle, though no less intense than those visible on your skin. Once Námo has taken you as his lover, he binds your fëa to his, leaving an echo of his song and a ghost of his touch with you wherever you go. Those proficient in ósanwe and/or attuned to spiritual matters feel the Doomsman's presence wherever you go, no more than one call through your bond away.

☯ Nevertheless, Námo knows that not all Incarnates are able to sense and heed his silent warning, so he also presents you with clothes and jewellery to adorn your body. He likes long, flowing robes in dark colours, veils and little charms shaped like crows and ravens, similar to his own attire, and greatly enjoys seeing you wearing those, an unmistakable sign of belonging to him.

☯ When he isn't present and you are outside of his halls, Námo may occasionally guide your fate in whichever way he sees fit to make sure you return safely. Those who attempt to harm you will face the Doomsman's wrath.

☯ Yet as much as he wishes to protect you, Námo wants nothing more than to own and mark you in the most intimate way possible - which is your fëa. Should you ever be slain, or once his need and longing overwhelm him, he will whisk you away to Mandos, keep you there until the end of the world and fill your spirit with his song and essence time and time again until you know no other than him.

. . . . . ◟੭. . . . . ◟੭. . . . . ◟੭

Cool lips kiss the nape of your neck when Námo takes you, slowly and deliberately, enjoying the way your smaller form trembles in his arms. He's sitting on his throne with you on his lap, your robes covering the illicit image of the Master of Fate penetrating you, yet the small moans falling from your lips and the movement of his hips betray the truth.

"Let me have you," Námo whispers, and you know he wants more than to claim just your body, so you open your mind to him as well.

The sensation of his fëa reaching out to touch and intertwine with yours is just as intense as the joining of your bodily forms. Your helpless noises increase in volume despite your best efforts to hold back, yet Námo doesn't seem to mind – in fact, you begin to suspect that he wants the residents of Mandos to look up at his throne and watch, so they will know who you belong to for all ages to come.

Irmo

☾ No one has escaped the loving arms of the Lord of Dreams without remnants of glittering dream dust on their clothes and skin, and you are certainly no exception, quite the contrary: As Irmo's favourite little butterfly, he makes sure to touch, embrace and cuddle you to his heart's content, and ever since your courtship started, you feel like the dream dust has never left you again. He feigns innocence, yet you suspect that this is very much his intention, so everyone can see his touch upon you even when he isn't around.

☾ Irmo crafts a special dream catcher for you and makes sure you wear it at all times, an unmistakable sign of his love for you. It contains a small part of himself and his power, and he taps into it to ward off nightmares.

☾ He also likes entering your dreams, spending time with you there and, most importantly, ensuring that no other suitors may ever find their way there, because you belong to him and him alone. When you sleep in his gardens, you often wake up feeling his lips and hands kissing and caressing your body, leaving trails of dream dust and, at times, colourful patterns on your skin.

☾ As much as he enjoys claiming your body, he desires nothing more than to possess you in spirit as well, so that the union of your fëar leaves a permanent mark on your very being, filling you with his song and his essence.

. . . . . ◟੭. . . . . ◟੭. . . . . ◟੭

"Here? In the middle of your garden?"

Irmo merely laughs in response and rolls you over on your back to climb on top of you, his iridescent butterfly wings fluttering excitedly.

"Why not, my darling petal? Is our love not the fairest and most beautiful thing my garden has ever seen?"

Glittering dream dust falls from his wings and hair as he leans forward to kiss you, and you soon find yourself feeling both soothed and excited by his presence and the comfortable weight of his fána on top of you.

Sensing your emotions, Irmo's gentle hand sneaks between your legs and finds you willing and eager for him, ready to be taken. He breaks the kiss to gaze at your face, delighting in your blushing cheeks, half-lidded eyes and parted, wet lips, panting softly as you look up at him.

"I will make love to you until you fall asleep in my arms," Irmo whispers, "and when you do, I will continue to make love to you in your dreams."

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meadowlarkx · 11 months

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Daeron/Finrod & 17. to distract

😘

“I have heard a new tale that may interest you.”

“Oh?” Finrod’s quick fingers toyed with the end of Daeron’s braid. “You know how I relish your stories.” He was in fact at work upon a compendium of Iathrim epics for his own reference, though Daeron had laughed to hear of the project and implied such a book would never be of any import while he lived as Menegroth’s loremaster. Of course, now neither of them were at any work at all. They sprawled upon the great mossy limb of a tree the size of a small Teleri lighthouse, and while autumn’s chill already bit at Beleriand, within the Girdle the air was temperate enough that Daeron’s tunic was enticingly open.

“Mmm.” Daeron was smiling. “You will relish this one even more, because it is about you.”

Finrod’s stomach dropped, yet he drew up the corners of his own smile. “I hope the teller has mentioned my wit and verve.”

Daeron laughed. “I will have to write that part in.” He turned lightly upon the bough to better face his companion. “No, dear Findaráto—” he used the Quenya name as a joke and a private boldness “—you are painted drear indeed. Why, your folk are told to have come across the Sea as exiles, thieves, and night-hunters—”

In haste, Finrod grabbed Daeron’s face and kissed him, though lacking the Sinda’s grace in the trees he nearly toppled them both to their deaths. Daeron made a startled noise, which turned into a pleased noise. As Finrod bore him back against the moss-covered bough Daeron flung out an arm to steady them, thus preserving both of the Elves to live out a few more tales. That settled, he relaxed into Finrod’s efforts and made several more melodic sounds. He was very warm and smelled of cedar and something greener, like dewed grass.

“Let me paint you a finer picture,” Finrod said, short of breath and rather flushed. “In a fonder medium.”

Daeron blinked a long moment as though trying to recall what their conversation had been about. His braids were quite askew. Still he waved his free hand with something like elegance. “Please go on.”

#my fic #daeron #finrod #silmarillion fic #silmarillion #daeron x finrod #etc.#polutrope #I HOPE U LIKE THEM #real talk: I like to imagine the rumors told were WILD ranging from 'they were exiled for cannibalism' to 'feanor tried to kidnap varda :('#but for the purposes of this and also me checking and finding thingol did get valuable info from them i went with smth more traditional #kiss meme

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dirty-ainur-confessions · 1 year

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❪ ♡ ❫ ── 𝒗𝒂𝒓𝒅𝒂 , body worship

varda has a thing for body worship. it doesn't matter whether it is verbal or physical, she can never get enough of your body and how perfect you are beneath her, under her touch.

there are times where she lays you down on her grand bed, watching as your form twitches in her dark sheets. how you shyly avert your eyes from her line of vision that gazes over every inch of your nude figure. she adores how you shiver when her tender hands traces down your sides, caressing your chest or cupping your thighs. how pretty your skin looks smudged with her dark purple lipstick.

"you are gorgeous, my starlight,'' she gasps against your skin, smiling at your hushed whimpers in response to her kisses around your neck and her fingers attending to your heat. "so beautiful. . . so perfect. my marvellous star,'' she trails her lips down your skin, fascinated with the goosebumps on your flesh. none of her words fall short, no matter whether her lips press against scars, blemishes or birth marks. even when she has your back arching and your cunt greedily taking in her delicate fingers, her free hand strokes your side. crooning to you in such a soft voice.

"that's it. . . such a good girl. my beautiful little star.''

#·⊰ ꒰🌹꒱ 𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐨𝐭 ៸៸ varda ─ ♡.#varda #varda x reader #varda elentari #tolkien #the silmarillion #silm #ainur #valar #smut #minors dni #imagines

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beyond-far-horizons · 1 year

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🍽️ (for the Silmarillion ask game :) )

Thank you!

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

This is really difficult because you have to think about a) the people you want to meet and b) how would it be to have dinner with them.

With difficulty I'll go with Finrod because he's lovely and I've always wanted to meet him (plus he'll be great smoothing things with the other guests), Fingon because I think he's probably my No1 Noldor crush, Luthien because she's amazing and I want to see what she's actually like. Finally I'd choose Manwe and Varda (!) meaning this is clearly a banquet in Valinor. I want to choose them firstly because I'd love to meet them and witness their magnificence first hand, secondly to tell them how much I and many mortals adore the skies and stars and thirdly to enquire about the mysteries of Arda, Ea and the Divine (as much as they would be willing to tell me) and lastly...when I'd plucked up enough courage I'd ask them if they disliked mortals and why they left us alone with Morgoth and that many mortals would love to meet them and know them like the elves do. This would probably be when I was quite tipsy and the table would go silent but it is something I think the Valar need to hear. What happens after is everyone's guess!

#the silmarillion #tolkien #finrod felagund #fingon #luthien #manwe #varda #Finrod and Luthien would cover for me I know hehe #I first thought Melkor lol #could you imagine???#Banquet at Angband or Utumno!

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fieryphrazes · 1 year

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🎬and song from 1977 and 1982 :)

oooof movies from 1977... so many on my watchlist that i haven't seen yet! so i think i gotta go with the iconic world-changing STAR WARS <3

1982 is a close call between Smithereens & Victor/Victoria but i think i gotta go with that sweet sweet borderline-queercoded james garner & say Victor/Victoria <3

#i imagine that once i see one sings the other doesn't (varda 1977) that may be a new fav. but i haven't yet!

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chronomally · 1 year

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"By the starlit mere of Cuiviénen, Water of Awakening, [the Firstborn] rose from the sleep of Ilúvatar; and while they dwelt yet silent by the Cuiviénen their eyes beheld first of all things the stars of heaven. Therefore they have ever loved the starlight, and have revered Varda Elentári above all the Valar."

#please feel free to ignore this #I'm reading The Silmarillion #There are so many beautiful passages in The Silmarillion but there's something about this #I'm just imagining the first Elves coming out of the water and seeing the stars Varda created just for them

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skyeventide · 2 months

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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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thesummerestsolstice · 4 months

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Underrated Eldritch Peredhel: Earendil. Specifically, I love Earendil because he kind of starts out "normal," just being the child of an elf and a man. But then he marries the part-Maiarin Elwing, who's great-grandmother Melian affected her husband so much that he's described as being like a Maia lord afterwards. He steps foot on Aman, which in some of Tolkien's texts also physically changes him. He murders a giant dragon and doesn't die afterwards. He's nearly constantly exposed to the Silmaril. Like you know how Aman's light is supposed to be too much for mortals. And the SIlmarils have the remnants of Aman's light. And Earendil has mortal blood.

This is more headcanon but I also believe that no incarnate would naturally be able to do what Earendil does, sailing through the sky and void, possibly fighting the unknowable creatures in it. Varda had to give Earendil some power for him to be able to be Gil-Estel. I've also seen something about him being gifted wings but I forget where.

Just, imagine Earendil, the young sailor just setting out from Sirion, a man with elvish grace, or an elf with mannish features. And then imagine Gil-Estel, the warrior clad in dragon-scale armor, who's lived with the Silmaril for so long that the light shines from within him now. Who burns with Varda's hallowed radiance, so much that the creatures of the void can't even bear to look upon him. Who trails stardust and smiles with teeth that are just a bit too sharp. Who looks more in place aside Tilion and Arien than he does among elves or men.

I also firmly believe that Elrond was able to visit Earendil on the Vingelot– visiting a flying ship is much easier when you can turn into a bird, after all– and that the magic there also affected him, but that's a different post...

#silmarillion #earendil #elwing #eldritch peredhel #varda #gil estel #silm meta #so many thoughts about him #you've heard of Varda hallowing the Silmarils now get ready for Varda hallowing an entire half-elf #also yes he killed Ungiolant absolutely #elrond #elrond peredhel

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a-world-of-whimsy-5 · 8 months

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Day 7 of @silmsmutweek

Pairing: Uinen x Varda| Location: Somewhere in the Bay of Eldamar

Themes: Smut (Somewhat graphic) | Alternate universe: Medieval! AU

Warnings/Prompts: Femslash | Kissing | Fingering | Oral | Some explicit language

Word count: 500 words exactly

Summary: Varda and Uinen make the most of a stormy night while traveling by sea.

Rating: 🔥 🔥 | Minors DNI | 18+ | You are responsible for the media you consume.

The waves rose and crashed while those who shared a warm room on board a mighty ship ignored the rising gale.

Two friends, who were more than mere friends, embraced each other in a heated frenzy of lips and tongues. The lady of House Starfield commanded. The lady of House Alqualondë submitted. Fingers entwined while bodies cupped and pressed against each other. Uinen, already a sensitive cluster of nerves, cries out in ecstasy.

Varda coos softly, hushing her with another kiss. The others might hear, she says. Uinen laughs. Varda's fears were unnecessary. The howling winds and roaring waves drowned out everything else. They could be as wanton as they wish, she declares, and no one would hear. Varda considers, then agrees. She dips her head to taste.

Unrestrained moans spilled free. Varda laved and consumed the sweetness that pooled between Uinen's thighs, flicking her eyes and growing drunk on the sight of her companion writhing and heaving. She kissed and feasted, caressed and pressed deep, her nails bruising flesh as soft as silk. Trembling hands delved into shimmering raven hair. Sweet friction unleashed a torrent of unimaginable euphoria. Uinen cried out again, desperately chasing her release.

Varda was not about to deny her. She could not bring herself to deny Uinen anything. It had been like this since the night they first danced and talked and laughed, and an unbreakable bond had formed. And now they were on board this ship, making the most of their time alone.

The room grew warm and heavy. The seas roiled, tossing the ship as if it were nothing more than a toy. Silken sheets twisted and gathered around them in a heap. Varda persisted, slipping a finger inside Uinen's heat while she continued to fuck her with broad strokes with the flat of her tongue. Uinen murmured, her heels scrabbling for purchase against the featherbed. Her body shook and trembled while sparks, thus kindled, grew into white-hot flames that spread beneath her skin. Time itself seemed to drag to a halt. Uinen could not think. She could barely breathe. All she could do was plunge into the darkened waves and arch her back one last time while her release overcame her. Varda was not yet done. She lapped at the essence that poured onto her tongue, feeding flashes of glorious greed, eager to soon drown in the vivid blue of Uinen's eyes.

Uinen trembled, then sighed—a soft, breathy sigh—that blew past her lips when lips pressed over her thighs, and her belly. She greeted Varda with open arms, slipping them around her waist even as she drew her in for another kiss, one that was filled with tenderness instead of fiery passion. They pressed against each other and rested, listening to the chaos of the outside world. Uinen grew bold, throwing Varda onto her back when the waves swelled again. She toyed and teased, and she made many a sinful promise. Varda heartily consented. They lost themselves in each other's flesh again.

Tags: @cilil

#silmsmutweek #Varinen #Varda #Varda smut #Varda imagine #Uinen #Uinen smut #Uinen imagine #Varda x Uinen #The silm #The silm smut #The silm imagine #microfiction

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madwomansapologist · 6 months

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Autumn Thunderstorm | Chapter 8 - A nightingale sang

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series synopsis: Thranduil thought the recent attack of spiders on a periphery village was the only thing deserving of his attencion. If he could've imagined what he would found there, who he would found there, the Elvenking would wait a millenia in front of that river so he could see her sooner. Or: how Gandalf managed to keep a secret for 14 months.

eigth chapter synopsis: A surprising invitation made you discover a different, incredible place hidden in Greenwood. You were glad that Thranduil showed you such a special place. But probably you were even more glad that he was there with you. [3K]

warnings: female!reader. pre-Smaug. cried writing this but this is apparently something that will happens with every chapter so... go hear a nightingale sang in berkeley square. look i am just a sensitive girl in a difficult world, this is straight up murdering you with love.

glossary: Idril: Treasure, sweetheart┆Ellon: Male elf┆

Forests are secrets in themselves. They hide things. That is what they do, their primordial essense. A forest without a secret is a human without a soul, a planet without a star, a mother without her child. That is the real language of the woods.

You knew all the meadow’s secrets in Rivendell. You knew where the sprouts flourished, where the clearing started, where the trees fall after storms. You knew all its secrets, until you did not.

Because in kind places a forest hides wisteria and sage sprouts. In cruel ones it hides wargs and warm blood. And for those who are lucky enough it hides suspended gardens.

Stone pillars, embedded on gold, supported all seven floors. It would already be a beautiful sight, light reflecting in waves of warmth through Greenwood, but the ascending series of tiered gardens above each floor turned it into a paradise. Each specimen from the wide variet of trees, flowers and vines were part of this mountain constructed of golden bricks.

“I got goosebumps,” you whispered. Even the air was different there. It smelled like honey and daisies. If Thranduil told you that daylight comes from that place, you would have believed him. “Why did you hide this place from me!?”

Strangers had been born and buried and their lifetime would be nothing compared to all the time the Elvenking spend on the suspended gardens. And still, looking into your moist eyes, Thranduil discovered a new sort of beauty in this place.

The green of the vines, more verdant. The gold of the pillars, more golden. The pink of the flowers, more rosy. The whole world was brighter. Wind whispering against the autumn leaves, birds flocking, river crashing against stones: the world became a song. Such a beautiful, intricate symphony. One that he never noticed before.

It must be fate. That was meant to be. Since the world was first created and the stars were put into place. For what other reason did he survived this far, if not to admire you admiring the world his ancestors build? For what reason did Thranduil endure this far, if not to be alone in this world with you?

Your eyes glowed, and Thranduil wondered if Varda put her light into them. Into you.

The Elvenking gestured towards the gardens. “Shall we, idril?”

Thranduil watched as you prepared a raspberry pie in silence, which was better than when he tried to make you let someone else finish it. As if it was offensive for you to get your hands dirty. Your last job was to take care of horses. What is a pie compared to that?

Cleaning your hands, you almost could not believe your ears when the invitation came. It was strange of him to have free time during the day. He never had before, not once since you first got in his realm. But you were not the one to remind a king of his duties.

Not when that can take him away from you.

So this time, when Thranduil suggest you to let someone else bake it, you accept it.

“You really should stop doing that,” you continued along the paved way, and Thranduil followed your eager steps. Turning to look at him instead of facing the path, a delicate smile showed you did not meant what you were saying. “Calling me words I do not know.”

“Yet,” Thranduil completed. “Do not know yet.”

On the first floor, you understood that the construction did not matter. Its halls were simple, with long open arches and practically empty except for the occasional sculptures. Anyone there would only have eyes for the gardens, and whoever built it knew that no amount of gold or jewels would ever compete with nature.

Quince flowers draped over the walls, pears were almost to the point of crop. Thranduil showed you almond flowers, his long fingers brushing against the tiny buds. You did not even knew almonds came from flowers.

Climbing the stairs to the second floor, you brushed your hands against the rough trunk of a pistachio tree. “Do you fear birds?” Thranduil looked concerned.

“Definitely no.”

Following throught the halls, you could see the garden suspended over the first floor. Butterflies and bees flew around the almond flowers, which made you speed up the pace. You heard Thranduil laughing, and he only did not heard you complaining because you were too scared that maybe a bee would enter your mouth.

A swallow landed on your hair, and you tried your best to not move so Thranduil would see it too. When he stopped in front of you, Thranduil’s eyes seemed so… calm.

You knew he was tired and worried. That he had much to do, to understand, to protect. In Rivendell people believe that Sauron is gone, but here they have more than faith to prove the contrary. But now Thranduil look so peaceful.

As if nothing bad had ever happened to him.

“A little one mistook you by a tree,” Thranduil stretched a finger towards your hair. You felt the swallow moving, pulling your hair along, and saw it on his ring finger. Such a small thing, with greenish down.

Your smile went wider when you looked into his face.

“And you by a flower.” In his wood crown, butterflies found a new home. “If you pay attention, you really look like a sunflower kind of person,” you used your hands to cover your laugh. “Always smiling, never yelling at anyone.”

Thranduil’s response was to roll his eyes.

On the third floor, you passed through ebony, cedar and rosewood. You told Thranduil how most of the trees surrounding Aerin’s inn are ash trees, and how sad it is that most of the stories you read use them as metaphor for dead things. Thranduil shared a poem about a willow tree.

It surprised you how he recited it from memory.

Junipers were new for you. Never before you heard about them. But myrrh was not. You told Thranduil that Luthien gave you a bottle of its oil and practically ordered you to use it on your shoulder. His peacefulness oscilated for a second, but it appeared again.

The floor with fruits were your favorite one. Thranduil split open a pomegranate, revealing clusters of seeds inside it. You both shared it, eating slowly while watching the sun reflecting upon Greenwood. You took a tangerine from its branch, and gave him half of it. With half of a fresh fig on your hands, you were more interest on plum flowers than on its fruit.

There is something about sharing a fruit with someone that just makes it feel holy. The way Thranduil cut the fig in half. How you cleaned the tangerine. Your fingers brushing against one another to take another seed. It just felt better than eating one alone.

You brushed your fingers against ferns and orchids. Cherry blossoms floated, washing you both upon pink petals. A few got stucked on your hair. A few that Thranduil did not warned you about.

On the last floor, there were tables and chairs made of wood, but what really mattered to you was the view. From up there, you could see everything. Greenwood, every floor and its suspended garden, a flowing river on distance. Once again, goosebumps explored your body.

“A step back,” said Thranduil when he saw you too close from the edge. It may have been a warning, it may have been an order, but you took one either. He sat, observing carefully. “Your fall is not worth the landscape.”

“Do not be affraid. That will not happen,” your eyes locked on a bird flying away. You think it was a nightingale. He was so small, and yet he knew a type of freedom you would never. How must it be to fly? It happened for you to fall from places that made you feel like you were flying, until you met the ground. Does it works the other way around? You imagine so. “You do not need to worry about me.”

“How could I not?” replied Thranduil. “You reign in my mind. It is my duty to worry about your safety and happiness.”

Your mouth went dry. “It was never my intention to make you worry about my safety or my happiness,” your voice was barely a whisper. “Or about me, at all.”

Words, when commonly used, tend to lose their initial meaning. It dissolves, disappears with each repetition, until the word is just a ghost of what it once was. Of what their meaning once was. So many man use love almost as a greeting, but not a ellon. Never a ellon.

Love for a elve is more than just a word. It is not something that happens several times. It happens once in a lifetime, and it last forever and evermore. Only one person can own a elve’s heart, just their half, and they will never trust it to someone else.

Thranduil never thought of himself as someone lucky, but now he knows he is. In such a dangerous world, Thranduil found you. His friend, his confidant, his love. His one and only. Your heart belong with his. Thranduil can wait however long it takes for you to believe in that too.

“I never said it was.”

The silence pierced your mind. His words… Why Thranduil keep on doing this? Why he keep on saying those sweet, toothaching sweet things? Thranduil is so beautiful, and everytime he opens his mouth you get more sure that his heart is just as pretty. If you could open his skull and study his brain, you would.

“Still,” you licked your lips. “I am not falling.”

Thranduil nodded. You came back to watch the sky, mostly because you did not knew what else to do. It was rosy. A breeze made chills go down your spine, and a petal fell from your hair right into your hands. Your caressed it, and moved it closer to your nose.

“Who created this place?” You sniffed it. “They must be so proud.”

Lost on you, Thranduil did not saw a reason to lie. “It was my father.”

That warm feeling spreading into you faded away. He never talked to you about his father before, but you knew that there was only one way for a prince to become a king. What you do not know is how much does it hurt. It must be a lot. Usually things that we love hurt way too much.

Without a ounce of shame, you walked towards Thranduil. The way he made your thoughts hazy did not matter anymore. You pulled yourself a chair, and dragged it until it was right beside him. Thranduil chuckled at the act.

“He must have been really creative,” you told him. “How was he?”

That surprised Thranduil. People never ask things about his father. They only say that they are sorry, that they feel so much, that it must be so difficult. They never talk about Oropher. They always remind Thranduil that he is dead, but they never talk about him.

“Wise,” said Thranduil. With just one word, he already felt that it was so easier to breath. Sometimes it feels like Oropher only lives on his memory. Like there is this unsurmountable weight on his shoulders, one that none can see or help to carry. It felt nice to share. “And ruthless. He was the strongest until the very end.”

You tried to picture Oropher. The king who died too soon. The warrior that led his people against Sauron, and saw his knights falling down. You picture someone that knew the weight of a sword dipped in blood, the sound of a last breath, the rotteness of a dying land. You pictured this person, and then imagined him daydreaming about suspended gardens. Architecting a palace, designing irrigation, choosing seeds.

Oropher sounds like someone that was worth knowing.

Your fingers dipped into your watery dress, and you bit back a smile. You imagine that Thranduil have the same effect on people. That they will heard how he protect his land and his people, and then get amazed about how he can recite poems about a willow tree. At least he has that effect on you.

“And how was him to you? Was he good?”

“Not ruthless,” Thranduil smiled at the memories in hindsight. You could not help but to do the same. “He was gentle and… When I was just a little ellon, I used to not understand when it was time to shut up. Now I see how awful I was, but he always listened to me. He never made me feel like I should remain silent.”

You held his hand, it was so cold. Stroking his delicate skin, you felt a warmth inside you. Something different from anything you ever felt. You felt… not alone.

“I bet Oropher would be proud of you,” the words escaped your mouth. “I know I am. You are good. You are also great, but you are good.”

Somehow, Thranduil understood exactly what you meant. There are so many great people in this world. So many great poets, great warriors, great rulers. But good… Oh, it appears that the world is always lacking people that are good.

People who will discuss with dragons because their friends deserve their home back. People that will cross a continent to destroy a ring simply because someone needs to. People that will lit beacons without permission, that will use helmets to hide the fact that they are a woman, that will fight even as arrows pierce their chest.

“You think I am good?” Thranduil felt his eyes burning. “You really do?”

“Of course, my king.” You intertwined his fingers with yours. It felt right. Like they were made to complement eachother. A sly smirk replaced your genuine smile. “You think I would put up with you if I did not?

Thranduil looked at the horizon, hoping you would not notice the redness of his eyes. He reciprocated your touch, squeezing your hand lightly. Maybe it was the sunset, maybe it was the autumn leaves, but everything felt golden.

Everything felt just fine.

“You are good,” murmured Thranduil. “Is it because of your parents?”

You let go of his hand, and Thranduil felt the sky getting darker. Your colors also faded, as if it was robbed from your skin. “It is getting late,” you told him. You were quick to get up. Quick to lie. Badly. “I should come back.”

“I am sorry. I really am,” Thranduil ignored everything you said. There was no need for him to pretend to fall for your bad lies. He stand, just as fast as you. “But you are not a good liar, idril. I will not force you to say the truth, nor do I wish for you to speak when you do not want to, but you do not need to lie. Not to me. We are friends. You do not need to perform around me.”

You threw yourself onto the chair, without any energy to argue. You watched the horizon, the changing colors of the sky, and tried to ignore the pressure on your chest. “I am sorry.”

“No need to,” Thranduil sat too. He tried to be silent, but something told him that maybe you also had a unsurmountable weight on your shoulders. That maybe you also needed to share it. “Were they not good?”

“Maybe yes, maybe not,” you huffled. You responded right away, so Thranduil assumd he made the right decision. “That is the problem.”

With your eyelids closed, you turned your head to Thranduil. When courage made its way into your chest, you looked at him. Was he going to judge you? To see you as too much of a problem? A part of you feared that he would. The other half thought it was mean to think of him that way.

“I have no memories of them.”

He let you talk. About how you have no memories of parents, of any family, of growing or sharing meals or going to school or learning to read. About how for you it is like you were born during a thunderstorm, then wandered until you found Aerin. You told him everything.

After you rant, his silence came. He breathe in, and you could feel his body getting tense. “No one ever looked for you?” Thranduil finally said something.

You denied. “Do you think I am crazy?”

“I think…”

For Thranduil, now everything makes sense. The way you tend to pretend not to see when Aerin treated you badly. Or how people insisted on not calling you by your name. Why you would have felt bad if you did nothing. The gentleness of your heart. How your intelligence have a touch of naivety.

But it also made him even more intrigued about why you and Gandalf are friends. Does he have any interest on your memories coming back? Is he the reason why they faded? Can you really see him as a friend?

Thranduil never liked those pilgrim wizards, and Gandalf tend to be the one creating more problems for him. If he is right about who betrayed the free people, then maybe you have something to do with it.

He is glad you are away from him. Thranduil does not trust him.

Thranduil licked his lips. “I think you are so unlucky.”

That made you burst into laugh. For a whole minute. You belly hurt, your cheeks burned, your head spin. It was loud and ugly and true. “I… I agree.”

When silence came, it was natural. It was welcomed. You stared into his watery eyes, and decided that you would never try to hide things from Thranduil. It is just not worth the effort, now when he reacts this way. Not when he is so sweet.

“You still want to go back home?” Thranduil whispered. There was simply no need to, but he wanted to. It felt right to.

You inhale. “Not really,” you admitted. You turned your gaze to the sky, and it was on that marvelous moment when it is not day and it is not night. Thranduil did the same as you. “This place feels like a summer dream.”

A nightingale sang that night. Not that you both heard it, since your voices were louder. But it sang, and it still mattered.

AUTUMN THUNDERSTORM: @ferns-fics @notanalienindisguiseblink @rayrlupin @elvyshiarieko @graniairish @whore-of-many-hot-men @h0ly-fire

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@ madwomansapologist.tumblr.

#madwomansapologist #autumn thunderstorm #thranduil fanfiction #thranduil x reader #thranduil #thranduil fanfic #thrandaddy #thranduil oropherion #thranduil headcanon #thranduil of mirkwood #oropher #mirkwood #middle earth #the hobbit x you #the hobbit x reader #the hobbit fanfiction #the hobbit #gandalf

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cilil · 7 months

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cilil's Halloween special

ʚ𖦹ɞ Author's Note: It's that time of the year, revelers and travelers, and I present to you a little something I made to celebrate the season (and another milestone). This is a fun and silly choose your own adventure story with a couple of options and a tiny bit of romance and innuendo sprinkled in. I hope you enjoy (and that tungle doesn't randomly eat posts or links, fingers crossed)! Happy Halloween!

ʚ𖦹ɞ Featuring: Your top choices - Melkor, Mairon, Námo, Oromë, Nienna, Varda and Yavanna

ʚ𖦹ɞ Warnings: / (Just a tiny bit of spooky and the dork lords being their dork lord selves)

ʚ𖦹ɞ Additional mystery: Out of the seven objects described in the first scene, two are in fact real and in my possession right now. Can you guess which ones? (No, there are no hints in the story itself as it isn't about me, but maybe some of you know me or have a hunch. Happy guessing!)

It is not the first time that your fëa has found itself wandering the Path of Dreams in your sleep, though it looks different today. The sky above the great trees and hedges surrounding you is dark, stars twinkling weakly in the distance, and the only light comes from the full moon peeking through ghostly clouds. The gentle breeze carrying formless whispers from the forest is sharper and colder today, and the voices you hear are distorted and erratic.

You wonder if this is Irmo's doing as you hasten along your path, if he has twisted the normally peaceful dream realm into one of nightmares. Or are other spirits out there that were roused by your searching thought, displeased by your presence or perhaps even curious?

Instead of the golden gate and winding paths that would lead you to Lórien, you find a lonely, ancient-looking pavilion. It's overgrown with ivy, nearly covering it in its entirety. You have never heard any tales about such a location existing on the Path of Dreams, but your curiosity compels you to explore.

There is no one inside, nor anywhere nearby. It seems to you as though this pavilion hasn't seen visitors in a long time, yet it isn't empty: Pillows sit on the floor, their vibrant colours faded, surrounding a small table with various objects on it.

You examine the objects. Which one catches your interest?

☞ An old book with a rich emerald cover and silver ornaments. Its pages are yellowed and written in an ancient language you don't understand.

☞ A perfectly cut and polished almond-shaped gem. It seems to be a ruby or opal at first glance, shining with a warm light from the inside.

☞ A bouquet of flowers in a carved pumpkin. The plants all look as if they were freshly cut and harvested, but upon closer examination you see that they were preserved with wax.

☞ A bronze letter opener in the shape of a dagger. When you run your finger across it, the edge and tip of the blade are sharper than expected.

☞ An ancient telescope with strange symbols engraved. It's pointed at the roof of the pavilion, making you wonder what you are supposed to see there.

☞ A simple silver necklace with a pendant shaped like a budding rose. It seems unassuming at first, but the longer you look upon it, the more you feel like it might have been blessed.

☞ A diadem with countless gems and pearls. Once it has drawn your gaze, you are in awe of the way it sparkles and glitters even in the twilight.

If you enjoyed, please consider liking and reblogging!

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searchingforserendipity25 · 2 months

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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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doodle-pops · 2 months

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Hi Mina! I was just curious what you think Úmaiar (fallen Maiar) are like depending on what Valar they used to serve? I saw a HC that Succubi/Incubi are Úmaiar who were formerly under Irmo's domain and that makes ALOT of sense. I also HC that Maiar who follow Varda and Oromë are least susceptible to corruption because Varda is the embodiment of the polar opposite of Melkor and Oromë is also heavily against evil. Other than Aulë, whose Maiar do you think are most susceptible to corruption?

Howdy! I had to put a great deal of thought into answering this question because I've never thought about this before. I couldn't answer them based on who I believe would be easily susceptible to corruption, but rather what the Úmaiar of each of the Valar would be like. Forgive me if it doesn't sound 100% right (they're all mushed).

Irmo:

From what I know, the fallen Maiar were mostly Balrogs and other spirits. You mentioned the Incubi and Succubi as Irmo's fallen Maiar and it sounds about right with that one. There could be those who bring an unnecessary amount of nightmares for terrorising purposes and trap people in the dream realm, those who are the spirits of confusion, and trickster spirits.

Námo:

With Námo, he can have spirits who terrorise both the living and dead; hunt the souls of the recently dead and devour them. Some might commit desecration of the recently dead; messing up their burial sights to prevent the souls from properly crossing over.

Yavanna:

This one is from a headcanon I saw on Yavanna (can't find it), but an Úmaiar of Yavanna can be those who create poisonous plants and those like the Venus Fly Trap. I picture the Valar concept of good/safe to be beautiful creations, so imagine when these corrupted spirits create such beautiful plants but they turn out to be harmful to both people and the environment.

Ulmo:

Ulmo might have sirens or the carnivorous version of his regular merfolks who don't follow the rules of the ocean which is to keep sailors safe. These guys hunt for the flesh of men/elves and cause most of the shipwrecks just to devour sailors. There might be other monstrous sea creatures as well.

Nessa:

This one is a wild thought, but I pictured a corrupted Melian for this one. Since it was she who taught the birds how to sing, I can picture a corrupted version of her singing songs of enchantment to lure travellers into the deep forest and steal the essence from their souls to preserve/strengthen herself.

Oromë:

I can picture some of Oromë's Maiar being corrupted, and I enjoy using references from Ossë who is known for being tempered and was easily persuaded by Melkor. A few of Oromë's hunters and Maiar who take the form of beasts could be a few of the beasts Melkor had created. Also this could be the start of Chimeras appearing in Middle Earth.

Stripping their true form and recreating their darker versions, or those who were willingly corrupted, enjoyed the idea of hunting; the thrill, the chase, and joined Melkor because he offered them the opportunity to hunt without restrictions and bask in the thrill. So now you have these 'hunters' who ride out to capture elves and men.

Manwë:

I assume any Maiar of Manwë would simply become dark versions of themselves. Mostly fighting against the Valar the same way Mairon left Aüle, I picture Eönwë doing the same (I imagine his wings turning black). Perhaps some of Manwë's eagles changed their forms to appear more menacing and become spies. I like to picture some of Melkor's first dragons were the corrupted versions of Manwë's eagles who were caught and tortured.

I couldn't think of any for Tulkas, Nienna, and Ëste. Furthermore, as mentioned, Varda Maiar would be the least susceptible to corruption, and we already have two of Aüle's Maiar dancing the lambada, so there you go.

#irmo #namo #yavanna #ulmo #manwe #nessa #orome #silmarillion headcanons #irmo headcanon #namo headcanon #ulmo headcanon #yavanna headcanon #nessa headcanon #orome headcanon #manwe headcanon #character talks .𑁍༊˚

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warrioreowynofrohan · 4 months

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I want to comment on art in The Tenant of Wildfell Hall and Jane Eyre, because I think it’s an illustrative comparison.

In both books, the heroines have an interest in and a talent for art. I’m a little bhind on Wildfell Weekly, but in chapter 18, “The Miniature”, we see Huntingdon looking at Helen’s art on several occasions. On all of them, he shows no interest in the art itself or Helen’s thoughts as an artist (as with a scene where he calls her away to look at a Van Dyke pa8nting and she’s actually interested in it, but he cuts off her thoughts as he doesn’t care about it and only wanted to get her alone), but only what the art demonstrates about her feelings for him, which please his ego.

On the first occasion, he is looking through Helen’s drawings, but we get none of his comments on them until he is delighted to find a sketch of him favce on the back of one of them, and some etased but still visible attempts at other sketches of him. He is delighted by this, flaunts his power over Helen by ignoring her for the rest of the evening and flirting with another woman, and then kisses her (a very unacceptable advance on a woman you weren’t married or engaged to to at the time, and one which Helen does not consent to).

The next day, he sees Helen working on a detailed painting of a young girl in a glade of the forest looking up at a pair of nesting turtledoves, a symbol of love.

“Very pretty, i’faith!” said he, after attentively regarding it for a few seconds; “and a very fitting study for a young lady. Spring just opening into summer—morning just approaching noon—girlhood just ripening into womanhood, and hope just verging on fruition. She’s a sweet creature! but why didn’t you make her hair black?” [Helen’s hair is dark.]

“I thought light hair would suit her better. You see I have made her blue-eyed and plump, and fair and rosy.”

“Upon my word—a very Hebe! I should fall in love with her if I hadn’t the artist before me. Sweet innocent! she’s thinking there will come a time when she will be wooed and won like that pretty hen-dove by as fond and fervent a lover; and she’s thinking how pleasant it will be, and how tender and faithful he will find her.”

“And perhaps,” suggested I, “how tender and faithful she shall find him.”

“Perhaps—for there is no limit to the wild extravagance of Hope’s imaginings at such an age.”

Helen gets him to walk the last comment back, but his takeaway from the painting - another assurance that she’s in love with him, and he can use that and rely on it without giving anything in return - is, again, one that satisfies his vanity and sense of power. And immediately after, he takes Helen’s works in progress and looks at them, ignoring her refusal, and laughs at finding a miniature of his portrait she has drawn.

This contrasts with a scene in Jane Eyre where Rochester is looking at Jane’s art: he is not interested in what they say about how she feels about him (this is still early in their acquaintanceship), but in what they say about her and her thoughts.

Rochester looks through her portfolio closely and picks out three, all with rather Gothic subjects and tone (in contrast to the more sentimental tone of Helen’s turtledove painting):

one of a shipswreck in storm, with the arm of a drowned woman, and a cormorant holding a jewelled bracelet that the waves had torn from her wrist

the peak of a grassy hill in wind, with a deep blue twilight sky showing the shoulders and head of the figure of a woman with a star on her brow (Silmarillion fans, imagine fanart of Varda and you’ll get the idea)

An iceberg in polar winter, with the northern lights, and a vast, pale-white head in the sky, half- veiled and representing Death.

Even as a narrator of the book, Jane is diffident, saying the pictures are “nothing wonderful”, but she describes them in great detail, and in answer to Rochester’s question of whether she was happy when she painted them, admits that “to paint them was to enjoy one of the keenest pleasures I have ever known”, and that when she painted them she worked on them from morning to night.

That Rochester focused on these three paintings, which are very different from the calm, composed, and dutiful image Jane projects to the outside world, already says a lot about his understanding of her; he is seeing something in her that almost no one else has noticed. He observes, before she has told him anything, that they took “much time, and some thought.” Jane, despite having loved working on them, says in response to his questions that she is dissatisfied with them: “in each case I had imagined something which I was quite powerless to realize.”

Rochester is clearly impressed by both the art and the thoughts, though blunt and not flattering:

“You have secured the shadow of your thought; but no more, probably. You had not enough of the artist’s skill and science to give it full being: yet the drawings are, for a school-girl, peculiar. As to the thoughts, they are elfish. These eyes in the Evening Star you must have seen in a dream. How could you make them loomk so clear, and yet not at all brilliant? for the planet above quells their rays. And what meaning is that in their solemn depth? And who taught you to paint wind? There is a high gale in that sky, and on that hill-top.”

Huntingdon is interested in Helen’s art only insofar as it reveals her attraction to him and flatters his vanity. Rochester is interested in Jane’s art for what it says about her and her thoughts; she is reserved with most people, and he probably gets a better sense of her personality and character - and shows more interest in it - from that one conversation than anyone else has in Jane’s adult life. His questions are blunt, but she answers them with honesty and emotion, like it’s a relief and pleasure to meet someone who wants to know. She wants the side of her revealed in those paintings to be understood, and he’s the only person she’s met who understands it; that’s central to why they fall in love.

#wildfell weekly #helen graham #huntingdon #the tenant of wildfell hall #jane eyre

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