Alqualondë and the surrounding countryside board!

Alqualondë is one of my favorite locations in Valinor to do world building for. My vision of it is a Mediterranean like climate surrounded by citrus groves, orchards and strange meers and springs. The city itself is very open with lots of arches, tiled walls and mosaics, and growing things. I felt bad because I couldn’t find a lot of good pictures that represented my vision of the harbor and boats which is sad because they’re so important to Telerin culture but if I find better photography I can always make another board!

I have more world building posts in my Teleri tag!

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I realized that I did not show my Silmarillion illustrations in this blog😔😔😔

1) "Doriath", "Alqualondë" and "Havens of Sirion"

2) "Losgar", "Helcaraxë"

3) "creation of the sun and moon" and "the path of the sun and moon"

Silmarillion Memes

THE SILMARILLION

I like to think that quenya/sindarin also has the phrase wine-dark seas, with about equal cultural recognition, only it comes from the noldolantë, and the colour it means is to be taken literally.

blood is also the shade of wine, after all

This is my own headcanon.

At the end of the First Age Findarato was released from the halls of Mandos.

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Waves come one after another on a deserted beach north of the Havens of Alqualondë. Noldo is sitting on a lonely boulder, golden hair fluttering in the wind.

He tries to avoid white stone piers. Olwë knows this and prefers not to talk to his grandson about what happened.

_________________________________

– It's been a few years since they left. I had to go with them, stand next to my father.

– Your father would never forgive himself if something happened to you now. And Mom? She wouldn't have survived it a second time. Aren't there any people left here who need you?

Noldo raised his head. He has hardly changed in appearance since his return. Except that the hair has become even brighter. And the eyes, even the Lord of Alqualondë, wise with long centuries, sometimes could not withstand this look.

– Sorry, Grandpa. Sometimes it seems to me that waiting is worse than death.

– Have you lost hope?

– There are two hopes... – the elf said very softly. A smile touched the corners of his lips a little. – I'll sit a little longer, the waves calm me down, – and again with pain he began to peer into the horizon, as if he wanted to see the distant mortal lands where the army had gone.

– Sit down. They'll be back. Just wait, Findarato. Just wait...

Heraldic device for the House of Olwë

Notes:

1. The waves and shades of blue represent the sea and the Teleri's love for it, while the stars represent those that lit their way during the great ocean journey.

2. The gold and the crown represent the royal house.

So, this is my first year participating in TRSB, and it’s been an amazing experience working with my artist Torpi, who inspired me to go outside of my comfort zones and explore some rare pairings, including a main pair so rare that I had to make a new tag for them.

Her lovely art is featured in the first chapter of this fic:

You’ll be able to read the accompanying fic (all 22k+) in under twelve hours following the link below.

Summary to tempt you all:

During the Year of the Trees 1359, Aikanáro, third son of Arafinwë, third son of Finwë, High King of the Ñoldor, and Ëarwen, daughter of Olwë, High King of the Teleri in Aman, prepares to welcome his father’s half brother, Fëanáro, his pregnant wife who is craving sea air and seafood, and their four sons. His only goal is to prevent his eldest brother Ingoldo from embarrassing himself trying to impress their eldest Fëanárion cousin. He soon find that Nelyafinwë is not the Fëanárion about whom he should worry most.

Meanwhile, Tyelkormo is simply excited to explore new territory, learn about new wildlife, and find fresh ways to hunt. Alas for him, he almost immediately starts a minor family feud on his first night in Alqualondë. And that’s just the start of his problems.

For TRSB Slide #5.

Theories

I don't follow what's up with the LotR show because I don't have Amazon Prime and I am uninterested anyway. Despite that, I can't avoid seeing a few things here and there on social medias because I'm mutual with other Tolkien fans (duh).

It came to my knowledge Galadriel has an OC evil brother named 'Adar'. This is Sindarin for Edit: father (singular). Either way, someone tried to pull an awful daddy joke on that brother. Don't wanna know what happened between the two. Kinda reminds me of Egyptian gods, but that's besides the point (or typical Finwëan family drama). Here's what I suspect:

• Finrod wasn't killed by werewolves. He's a dark servant of Sauron. He created lice with Sauron's help; that explains buzzcuts and beardless Dwarves.

• Finarfin is evil, started the kinslaying at Alqualondë, put the blame on Fëanor, got away with it. Prepares his comeback. Asked Melkor to spread lice on Middle Earth.

• Sauron was bored, watched GoT, Adar is in the facts an Orc, and he's messing up with us (what else is there to do when you can't forge evil rings?). Wonky family dynamics.

• The show is Gandalf's trip on whatever weed he's smoking. Fun stuff. Radagast is the dealer.

Arafinwë is sitting on the shore. The grey waves wash his feet idly, his eyes looking at the wast greatness of the Sea.

Lingwilócendil purses his lips.

Arafinwë's face is pale as he looks at him, and Lingwilócendil wants nothing but to spear him with the very same weapon he put through hearts of so many Ñoldor.

"I deemed you brother once," he spits. "Now nothing lays between us, and nothing will rebuild what you put to ashes."

A tear runs down Arafinwë's cheek.

-

"Hey," he says.

The waves whisper in their everlasting, unique rhythm. Arafinwë turns his head.

His eyes are just as big as in their youth.

"Hello," Arafinwë answers. His voice, though bright and melodic, sounds quiet and weak compared to the call of the sea.

Or maybe it is quiet and weak, and Lingwilócendil is just too stubborn to accept it.

"The Ñoldóran was here," his father says, and Lingwilócendil curls his hands into fists, nails biting into flesh. "He asked to see Elulindo."

"I hope you told him exactly where he belongs," he snaps. To think even that that spawn of an urchin would dare to show up here!

His father's face is tired. Lingwilócendil is too angry to notice.

-

Lingwilócendil purses his lips.

Arafinwë looks away. He's hunched, and there's paleness and grief where earlier were laughter and joy.

"I'll go, if you want," Arafinwë mumbles, and tries to stand up. There's a big wave rolling to the shore. Arafinwë sways.

It takes nothing for Lingwilócendil to take a step forward and catch his brother.

"You left him?!"

"He brought it upon himself, Elulindo," Lingwilócendil says, and his voice is cold. Elulindo rises from his place in one rough movement, towering over him in his wrath.

"He's our brother, Nityamaiwë! We called him family! He was one of us, and you forsook him this easily?!"

Lingwilócendil grits his teeth.

-

"I'm sorry," he whispers.

They are sitting on the shore. The waves are rolling to their feet, and Lingwilócendil feels a tear running down his face.

"I'm sorry, too," Arafinwë answers, simply, and Lingwilócendil pulls him into an embrace.

And if his tears stain Arafinwë's shirt, if he cries so hard he feels like he' s a child all over again - it's alright. The Sea keeps its secrets, and Arafinwë doesn't pull back.

Red paint

TW for murder and slight unreality.

She looks at his face, the light in her eyes points of divinity in the dim shine of the fire, and says, "Did you enjoy this?"

Or, Findekáno has a strange conversation with his usually quite distant cousin after spilling blood for the first time.

Findekáno is bleeding.

It shouldn't surprise him, he dimly notes, given how much blood he himself has spilled on this horrible, horrible day, but somehow, it does.

He stares down at his shaking left hand, blood dripping from the fingers like from the pale blade clutched tightly in his right, and at the dark stain on his festival robe where the blood is coming from, just above his hip. It's a new robe, and when he had donned it this morning in the golden light of laurelin, the worst he had imagined might happen to it had been a stain of wine.

Though, he supposes, red is red, even if the former kind wouldn't spread as quickly as this one is. He wonders how much time it will take to clean and repair this robe, if they will bother at all. He hopes they will.

Findekáno is not used to bleeding.

The Teleri weren't either, he realizes, and yet they did, near all of them, lying in a pool of their own blood at his feet, all with a strangely surprised look on their faces. The last elleth who fell on his blade is lying two steps away from him, hands still curled around the wound in a chest that no longer heaves with breath, but still spills red onto the planks of wood beneath her.

Findekáno imagines he hears the drops fall into the angry sea below.

He looks up, for the first time since he has noticed the wound, done to him by an ellon with a kitchen knife (he lies somewhere behind him), and watches as his fellow murderers step over the bodies on the jetty and towards one another, his cousin Tyelkormo grasping his younger brothers arm and saying something that Findekáno cannot understand. He turns, shakily, suddenly overcome with fear that he might find a corpse he recognizes as a close friend if he stares at them for too long, maybe the red of a steady bloodstream mingling with the red of their hair, and meets the gaze of Artanis.

His cousin has not participated in the slaughter like he and his sister have, at least he hasn't seen her amongst them during the battle (though, could it be called that, when their opponents had never looked at a weapon with the intent of harming their kin?), and she regards the corpses with shock on her face, though it does not seem to repel her enough to stop her from walking barefoot through the blood towards him, pushing an arm out of her way with her toes as she does.

"Finno, you are bleeding", she says, and he is so startled by the nickname she has not used for him since they'd both been past sixty years of age that he merely stares dumbly.

"What?"

She presses her hand against the wound, and he gasps, somehow convinced she will press her fingers into it and twist them, but she takes her hand away and licks the blood from it as if it were honey, her eyebrows furrowed and expectant, but she quickly twists up her face and shakes her head, sending her golden curls flying. "No," she murmurs, the torchlight reflecting off her teeth oddly and making them look sharp for a moment as the blood spreads over them slowly before she sucks them clean, "No, not at all."

She looks at his face, the light in her eyes points of divinity in the dim shine of the fire, and says, "Did you enjoy this?"

How does she expect him to answer that question? Here they stand, in a puddle of blood and between corpses partly of his own making, the sea roaring beneath their feet and their fine clothes torn and strange in the unfamiliar light, and she asks if he has enjoyed this? Enjoyed the slaughter of his own kin, if not in blood, then in heart?

Treelight is the last light to fade from an elf's eyes when they die, leaving the irises hollow and unfamiliar, like painted stone in the face of an old statue not cared for, and Findekáno wishes he had never learned this.

There are a lot of things he wishes he had never learned, and when he had awoken this morning and put on his robe, hoping the braids he wore would impress a certain ellon, he had not considered them things one could learn.

Yet here he stands, blood dripping from his body and sword, and his cousin is meeting his gaze calmly, apparently indifferent to the horrible scene they have been caught in, now that she has considered and observed every part of it. Findekáno feels quite the opposite way, like he has been staring at a painting and lost himself so deeply in all the details that he hasn't noticed it swallowing him whole, and is only now coming to his senses.

The flames would be breathtaking, were they captured in thin paint strokes, but here, as they are, they only make him feel small, and uncomfortably aware of how easily his impressive braids might catch fire and burn him to a pile of ash.

"No," he whispers, only noticing that he has been shaking his head since she has asked the question when the word falls past his lips, and she smiles in that odd way of hers, always a little distant, but calm and serious. "No, I didn't."

"Good," she says, and then she takes his hand (the one not still holding onto his sword, his paintbrush of gore), and leads him away.

"Let us tend to your wounds, then."

This is a short one so I'm posting the whole thing here, but you can read it on ao3 as well, if not to tell me what you think then at least to appreciate my brilliant useage of the tagging system.

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I headcanon the Teleri have a yearly festival dedicated to the hatching of sea turtles. I have my introduction to Teleri world building here that briefly mentions it and I want to make a longer post about it but in the meantime here are some headcanons:

-sea turtles are a common motif in Telerin art and lore and are beloved by them. it is considered deeply taboo to hurt one (not that the Noldor and Vanyar are out here trying to hurt sea turtles of course)

-there’s no special dress for the ceremony but nearly everyone is barefoot. 

-it predates the rising of the sun and moon. the turtles would typically hatch when the light of Telperion was waning just as they would later learn to follow the moon towards the ocean

-nests are carefully guarded before the festival, marked by rocks with turtles painted upon them

-Maiar of Ulmo occasionally attend, sometimes among the Teleri sometimes from the ocean, taking the form of a sea turtle, manta ray or other creature and acting as a guide to the hatchlings and a calming force to the ocean itself to protect the turtles 

-the glowing substance on the hands and in the sand and waves in the photographs are bioluminescent algae! it’s not strictly related to the Telerin festival and I actually have more headcanons about bioluminescence as it relates to the Falathrim but I also have thoughts about bioluminescence in Valinor 

-Telerin children like to try and name as many of the hatchlings as they can before they disappear into the waves. it’s an extremely exciting event for them!

-no one swims for about a day after the festival. siblings argue about whether “their” named turtles are further than others

(thank you so much for the interest people showed in this when I first mentioned I was doing this! it made me so so so happy!!!)

note: I made another post about this, there’s more in the Teleri tag!

DIALOQUE BETWEEN FINGOLFIN & FINGON

Fingon sat on the floor against the bed, facing his long dark brown hair to his father. Normally he would entrust anyone from the staff to braid his hair. But this was different, tonight was a new feast, and his love for Maedhros was in bloom. So, he wanted something new to draw Maedhros to his attention. It always has been Maedhros, for as long as he can remember.

Fingolfin loved his children, and even more so to braid their hair. Most of the time it would be Anarie for this task. But this was his excuse to have a more private conversation with them.

He ordered very special golden laces for Fingon’s hair, thin and golden to reflect the light of the Trees. He made sure the they were hand delivered directly to him all the way from Alqualondë.

Fingon smiled as he admired one of the braided locks with the gold shimmering with the reflection of the light from the Trees from the window.

“Do you think he will like it?”

Fingolfin smiled – he could sense his son being so anxious and excited to impress Maedhros, as he focused on braiding carefully, “Why wouldn’t he?”

“I suppose he will, it’s just what if ...what if he doesn’t?”

Fingolfin stopped and leaned in to hug him from behind tightly, the way that would embarrass his children in front of others, especially when they now have grown older.

“From the way he looks at you every time you are near him, I can tell he only has eyes for you” he said, ensuring his son. He continued braiding the laces into his son’s hair, fascinated how it almost glowed through his hair

“Like the way uncle Feanor look at you?” Fingon winced, his words gotten out too quick – too late to stop it. His shoulders were tense, and he held his breath waiting for a response. Fingolfin didn’t expect his son to know about Feanor, not that it was a secret.

Fingolfin froze, his smile died right away, but only his eyes looked up at the back of Fingon, he swallowed thickly.

“That is long over and forgotten” he said as he slowly continued braiding - he felt a void in his heart, a place Anarie were never able to heal or replace.

Fingon opened his mouth, but were unable to find the words – how do anyone respond to answer like that?

But his curiosity was pushing, and it didn’t stop him from asking more questions,

“What about mother?”

Fingolfin sighed “what about her?”

“Did she ever knew about you two?”

“Not entirely, like I said it is in the past” Fingolfin held a long breath - his heart betrayed him in whatever he felt that moment.

“Right”

“Don’t you miss him though?” Fingon said with a careful tone

“It does not matter now does it?” Fingolfin felt his own words hurt more than expected.

Fingon could hear the bitterness in his fathers tone, he turned slowly looking up directly into his father’s eyes worried

Fingolfin could not avoid his son’s eyes, as much they mirrored his – There was a long pause of silence that lingered in the air. A moment with unspoken words.

Tonight, was too important for Fingon. So, he faked a smile. Pretended that everything was alright, everything turned out to the better. Everything beside his longing for Feanor.

“It’s alright – it’s in the past. Beside I have your mother now – I couldn’t be happier” As he turned Fingon to finish the last braiding. He prayed to Eru that his son would be far more fortunate with Maedhros than he ever was with Feanor. That he would not face heartbreak like he did.

None of them were convinced by what Fingolfin said, they both knew, they had to believe this little white lie.

Part 06: Here in Our Frailty

“Let us not perish here in the long darkness,” Balan said softly, crossing back to take one of the waiting wreaths and set it upon his own brow, “these creatures you chose to form. Remember us, here in our frailty.”

It is Yuletide. The Atani and Finrod celebrate throughout the night as they stay awake to greet the dawn after the Longest Night. Balan's people settle into Estolad, Atani traditions abound, and Finrod faces some memories.

“When many years had passed, Ulmo hearkened to the prayers of the Noldor and of Finwë their king, who grieved at their long sundering from the Teleri, and besought him to bring them to Aman, if they would come. And most of them proved now willing indeed;[...].”

-The Silmarillion, OF ELDAMAR AND THE PRINCES OF THE ELDALIË

I know Alqualondë can be a fraught topic in the fandom and I’m not here to play the blame game of ‘who are the innocent victims and who the evil murderers valuing objects over lives’. Instead I just want to point out that I’m a bit surprised how little mention this crucial tibit gets in the discussion surrounding it. That Ulmo’s return for the Teleri who were stranded in Beleriand because they missed the inital island-lift to Valinor was due to the Noldors and Finwë’s intercession on their behalf to the Valar, and what that means for the fallout between Fëanor and Olwë. Who comes to Olwë with the (majority of the) Noldor, who now want to leave Valinor for Beleriand in turn. For a miriad of reasons but one of them that Finwë was murdered and they want to avenge him. And the Teleri, some of which might have been among the ones initially searching for Elwë when he was lost, refuse them aid, be it in teaching the building of ships or the lending of them. Tell Fëanor (who was already banished by them) to heed the counsel of the Valar, instead of potentially adding their voices to the Noldors so they might be allowed a way to leave (that’s not outright suicidal like the Helcaraxë). Obviously Olwë means well. Drawing on his own history one can even argue that he probably thinks some time separated from their intended destination might be good to weed out the ones who truly wish to go and in some decades let’s see again. But given the history between the Teleri and Noldor, specifically in the matter of migration, it’s hard to spin his course and counsel into something that doesn’t come across as leaving the Noldor (quite literally) stranded, as the Teleri once were.