#nolofinweanweek2023
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Aragorn and Arwen Wed
Nolofinwë Week Day Six: Arwen and Aragorn
They love each other
#aragorn elessar#arwen undomiel#tolkien#middle earth#nolofinweanweek#nolofinweanweek2023#lord of the rings#digital art
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Elwing's goodbye, for @nolofinweanweek filling both prompts for Day 4 and for Day 5 (Elwing, Elrond, Elros). Double posting today because I'm working the rest of the weekend and I don't think I'll get around any more prompts this year.
This hurt to paint lol. I need to go lie on a cold floor for a while.
#nolofinweanweek#nolofinweanweek2023#listen i know she left them in a cave or whatever but i made up my hc for sirion wayyyyy before i read that piece of info#and it has stuck with me#in my head Elwing hid them like in a closet or something#there wasn't that kind of prep to leave them outside of the city or somewhere more secluded#and she just told them to wait for her#and then mae and mags found them while searching the house for... whatever#blind oath rage and all that y'know they weren't thinking straight#but i think she was hoping that if she jumped off that cliff they'd jump off after her and drown#and then it would finally be over and Elrond and Elros wouldn't have to deal with this shit#haha...well...#anyway#elrond#elros#elwing#sack of sirion#my art
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Nolofinwë, Irissë and Turukáno with little daughter. Somewhere in Helcaraxë after Elenwë's death.
Do not use without my permission, please!
Больше моих работ по ссылке - не забудь подписаться прежде, чем унести на Пинтерест😉
#firinaira#nolofinweanweek#nolofinweanweek2023#fingolfin#nolofinwe#irisse#aredhel#turukano#turgon#itarille#idril#helcaraxe#silm art#elves#fantasy#tolkien#the silm#the silm fandom#tolkien art#tolkien tag
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For @nolofinweanweek day 3: Aredhel, The long peace
Aredhel out on an orc hunt, stretching as the wind carries a piece of faded string.
In VY the last time Aredhel wore color was when Argon was buried, body bound with the last of colorful cloth their people had to offer. And grief comes, as always, whenever its least expected
#nolofinweanweek2023#nolofinweanweek#valinorian years#silmarillion#silm art#silm headcanons#silm#silmarillion fanart#fanart#aredhel#itarisse#silmarillion headcanon#silm fanart#the silmarillion#silm tag
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Elwing and her Silmaril
Finally managed to do @thelien-art's DTIYS based on their Elwing just in time for the last day of @nolofinweanweek!
Elwing's wings are inspired by the Arctic Tern, the longest-migrating creature on Earth who travels from pole to pole, flying around 25,000 miles each year. It seemed fitting for Elwing's long flight.
#nolofinweanweek2023#day 7#elwing#silmarils#silm fanart#silmarillion#tolkien#nolofinweans#dtiys challenge#artistic nudity
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"Oh, good morning, Elwing."
Eärendil (and Elwing) for @nolofinweanweek! I really wanted to participate in the prompts, and when I saw Eärendil I just couldn't pass up the opportunity to draw him. I've always loved the imagery of Elwing flying out to meet Eärendil as he returns, so here's my take on what that might look like :)
#nolofinweanweek#nolofinweanweek2023#my design for this guy changes every other month (as it does for most silm characters each time I reread it!)#but it's fun to explore#and try new designs#peredhil#earendil#elwing#tolkien art#procreate#the silmarillion
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A Fingolfin for @nolofinweanweek
On the morning of the day he rode off to challenge Morgoth, in my mind.
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Last Day of Happiness - Elwing, Earendil, Elrond & Elros for @nolofinweanweek
It wasn't really what I had in mind for the colors but I got carried away and it turned out super pink.
#nolofinweanweek#nolofinweanweek2023#my art#silmarillion#elwing#earendil#elrond peredhel#elros tar minyatur
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In Due Time
Celebrían/Elrond | G | ~800 words | @nolofinweanweek | AO3
Celebrían, pale in the light of the silver lanterns that hung about their bedchamber, sat silent before Elrond as he treated her wounds. Ever since she had been brought back to Imladris, she had seemed to him ghostly and ephemeral, as if at any moment she might disappear from beneath his hands.
As he smoothed a salve over her lingering wounds, Celebrían made no response, neither crying out in pain nor flinching from his touch. Few of her wounds now remained; most of the wounds that had scored her body had faded to red, puckered scars that ran down her back and limbs like knotted ropes. Those he rubbed a different salve on, one to fade their color and lessen their knotted appearance. His movements as he worked were slow and gentle, soothing.
Celebrían had said little of what had happened to her in the dark dens of the Orcs, but the wounds upon her body and the instruments of torture that Elladan and Elrohir had found when they had hunted down the last remaining Orcs and driven them back to their dens had told the story of her suffering well enough. Her silence had said the rest.
Would that it had been him instead of her who had suffered at the cruel hands of the Orcs.
Elrond brushed Celebrían’s hair, limp and lank, away from her shoulders, tracing the lighter scars that netted her shoulders. These he did not treat; they would fade in time, for the wounds had been shallow.
Time. Every day he felt as if he had less of it, as if their days together were drawing to an end, as surely as winter nipped and howled at the heels of autumn. She would not stay here. Every day he grew more certain of that.
He brushed his thumb over a light scar, then bent and softly kissed her shoulder. Celebrían made no response.
Closing his eyes, Elrond pressed his forehead against the crook of her neck and wrapped his arms around her waist, wishing that if he held her tight enough, she might stay.
If only he could mend hearts and spirits as well as he could mend skin and bone. If only he could reach her and draw her back from the dark places she now walked in her mind.
If only his love were enough.
A tear fell upon his arms, then another, and then another. Elrond wrapped Celebrían tighter in his embrace.
He held her long into the night.
— — —
They were alone at last.
It was now the late watches of the night, for Elrond’s arrival upon the shores of Tol Eressëa had heralded a flurry of long-anticipated reunions and first meetings that had lasted well into the night. So, too, had Galadriel, Mithrandir, and the Ringbearers been greeted with exultation. Avalloné had not seen such gladness and merriment for many long years of the sun, or so Celebrían had told Elrond. He thought perhaps she was exaggerating for his benefit.
Tilion now rode high in the sky, and his silver light fell upon their bed as Celebrían sat before Elrond, her hair pulled over her shoulder as he undid the laces of her gown. His fingers were clumsier at the task than they had once been, having forgotten the motions in their long years apart, but Celebrían sat patiently before him nonetheless.
Elrond slid the gown from her shoulders. The faint scars upon her back gleamed silver in the pale light of their room. He brushed his fingertips over her skin, marvelling. No longer was her skin knotted into red ropes. In their places were faint silver lines, smooth to the touch.
“They are no more,” she said, and Elrond heard the smile in her voice. “I asked Finrod for a salve,” she continued. “He told me that he had lessened his own scars with the use of one, and I thought that I might use it upon mine. It was not as effective as the one you made for me, but it worked well, and the power of this land aided it.”
Elrond smiled softly at her praise. “You have met Finrod?”
“He is even kinder than the old tales said.”
Elrond bent to kiss her shoulder. “You must introduce me,” he murmured.
Celebrían reached up and twisted her hand in his hair, holding him against her. “In due time,” she said.
He hummed against her skin and pressed a kiss to her neck, lingering. “Yes, in due time.”
Celebrían turned her head, smiling, and met his lips with hers.
#nolofinweanweek2023#nolofinweanweek#the silmarillion#lotr#elrond#celebrian#fotfics#my fic#i wouldn't be me if i weren't late to a fandom event
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You promised—
He always liked to think that Earendil hated him. It made it easier, somehow. To push back the grief and the guilt and the filthiness that clung to his bones.
But his nephew was constantly in his presence, laughing and chattering like a little bird.
And Maeglin hated himself all the more for what he had done.
Day 4: Earendil & Maeglin for @nolofinweanweek
#nolofinweanweek#nolofinweanweek2023#the silmarillion#maeglin#earendil#gondolin#my art#tolkien art#decided to use my origin design for maeglin this time#a happier moment before shit went down#i love the idea of earendil calling him uncle and dragging maeglin away from his forges and mines to explore the markets#…#damn it#theres another au rattling around#maeglin escapes angband with a silmaril and returns to gondolin#morgoth sends out his army earlier than expected and gondolin falls without maeglin’s betrayal#he flees the city with the orphaned earendil and the silmaril and they seek asylum with the feanorians/the feanorians hunt them down#maeglin makes himself indispensable with his knowledge of galvorn and becomes their weapons master while raising earendil#single dad maeglin teaching earendil how to forge weapons and to fight#the feanorians sneaking in to throw out advice#knowing me it’d probably end up including maemae lmao#bc maedhros finds competence sexy 😏
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Optional prompt for Ñolofinwëan Week-
Elrond going to Aman and meeting Elwing outside her tower.
Thank you! A day late for @nolofinweanweek but I liked this thought and decided to give it a go. Turned out to be more introspection than actual meeting, partly because I got carried away thinking about this beautiful art by @melestasflight.
400 words, G rating. On AO3.
There was a stained-glass window three times Elrond’s height on the west wall of Rivendell's library, depicting Elwing’s mythical leap into the sea: her naked body arcing to the sky as if in supplication, feathered arms outstretched behind her. At sundown, the clear crystal set where the Silmaril would have rested cast spears of coloured light in all directions.
It had not been like that. Elrond would have remembered that.
All he remembers – truly remembers – is a hollowness.
There are scraps, of course, with which he has filled that hollowness over the years. On Amon Ereb, he and Elros sewed their blurry memories together to create a quilt in which they might swaddle themselves when the vastness of their loneliness became too much to bear. On Balar, others enriched those memories with their own. Círdan told them how her laughter rang like bells, and a memory that seemed his own (he could never be sure) threaded itself through Elrond’s mind. Later, he could not help but collect pieces of Lúthien passed down by Celeborn and Galadriel and, like precious gemstones, set them unartfully in the rough-hewn relief of his mother.
(It was Celeborn, not Elrond, who commissioned the stained glass in the library. He had never known Elwing, and yet his love for her seemed greater than her own son’s.)
By the time Elrond steps aboard the ship that will take him West, Elwing is more an eclectic assortment of baubles and trinkets, most of them broken and without use, than the beautiful woman whose crystallised image Elrond left behind along with all the rest of his former life.
She is not there to greet him at the docks, nor did he expect she would be. Celebrían waits for a quiet moment alone to tell him she is waiting to see him, when he is ready. His beloved's presence lends him the strength he needs to make the journey to that far northern tower.
When a small woman with cropped black hair steps out onto the threshold, smoothing her plain skirts, Elrond’s breath leaps from his lungs.
“Celebrían said you like lemon cake,” she says. “I am afraid I am not much of a baker, but I grew the lemons myself in the solarium. If you’d like to come in, that is.”
“Mother.” Elrond barely stumbles through the word before fat tears fill his eyes. “Of course, I would love to come in.”
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Reunion
Nolofinwë Week Day Seven: Elrond Sailing to Valinor
Hey, I have feelings.
I have this head cannon that as Círdan's ship carried Elrond to Valinor on the sea Vingilot sailed above in the sky. I think Eärendil guided his son home, I think he heralded his arrival to the Undying Lands. I think when Elwing saw her husband's star so low, and close, and bright she knew that finally after over 6,000 years she was going to see one of her sons again, I think Celebrian knew she was going to see her husband again.
I think Elrond and Elros and their legacies were the happy ending to The Silmarillion with all its grief.
Okay I'm done. Back to being completely normal.
(Also, I absolutely borrowed from @thelien-art's very good Elrond design)
#elrond#earendil#vingilot#tolkien#middle earth#nolofinweanweek#nolofinweanweek2023#silmarillion#lord of the rings#digital art
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Fingolfin & Anairë for @nolofinweanweek!
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Fingolfin was hot
#my addition to nolofinwean week 2023#nolofinwean week 2023#Fingolfin#silmarillion#tolkien#nolofinweanweek2023#nolofinweanweek
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Fingolfin|Nolofinwe and Anaire dancing on their first meeting on a terrace in front of Tirion.
(He's already so in love).
For @nolofinweanweek day 1
#nolofinweanweek#nolofinweanweek2023#valinorian years#silmarillion#silm art#silm headcanons#silmarillion fanart#silm#fingolfin#anaire#nolofinwe
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little hurt/comfort snippet for one of my favourite canon couples, for @nolofinweanweek. cw for disordered food habits, past starvation and past enslavement.
Tuor has been smelling the sweet scent of rot for several minutes, and he cannot figure out where it is coming from.
It's nagging at him. He wants Idril to return from the private washroom that adjoins their rooms in Gondolin and join him in bed so they can fall asleep in one another's arms, but the smell is itching at his nose and he doesn't think he'll be able to sleep until he's located the source. And he thinks it'll be good if he can fix the problem before Idril returns. Idril is a princess — a princess who, inexplicably, married him — and she does not deserve to sleep in a bedroom stinking of rot. So he extricates himself from the blankets, smiling at the soft sounds of Idril washing up, and sets out to search the room.
Opening wardrobes and rifling through chests of drawers brings him no closer to the answer -- in fact, the scent seems fainter the further he gets from the bed. So, frowning, he kneels down and ducks his head underneath the bed.
At first, he can't make sense of what he's seeing. His call of "Idril, what --?" slips out almost without realising, but it summons her back to his side almost instantly, wearing only a towel but rabbit-fast on her silver feet.
When she sees what he's looking at, her face drains of all its colour. She sits back, hard, on her heels.
"Tuor --" she says, voice breaking around the word, "I'm so sorry --"
Under the bed is what was probably once an impressive bounty of fruit and vegetables. Piles of grapes, tomatoes, sheaths of corn, red and silver onions lie in various stages of decay, from furred and bruised to liquid and blurring into one another, juices soaking into the carpet.
"I'm so sorry," Idril mumbles again, and then, "please say something."
The thing is, Tuor is aware of Idril's tendency to be a bit funny about food, even if he's never seen it get this bad. Sometimes he wakes at night to an empty bed, and wanders through the empty city to find her pacing the greenhouses, or thumbing through the ledgers in the great kitchens. It makes sense -- for most of her childhood on the Ice, although her father and aunt did their best, she was hungry. It seems that some wounds never quite close, even after hundreds of years.
When Tuor had first discovered the pouches of nuts and wax-wrapped cheese she kept in her dressing table, soon after they'd married, she had laughed self-consciously, saying "you won't starve with me!" -- and then, upon remembering that Tuor had, in fact, starved in the not-distant past, fallen into profuse and completely unnessesary apologies.
So this new development isn't as shocking as it might otherwise be, is the thing. But Idril clearly thinks he's going to be horrified by what he's found -- one hand is pressed over her mouth, and she's crying quietly.
When the Vala of the Oceans isn't speaking through him, Tuor isn't always very good with words. When Lorgan held him, he never spoke to anybody unless he was forced to, and he thinks that at some point he almost forgot how to. But Idril asked him to say something, and he can't sit in silence while his wife is so distressed. So he tucks her into his chest, and strokes a hand over her hair.
"Please don't cry, love. It's alright. I'll get rid of this. It's alright. There's no need to apologise for anything."
"You must be disgusted," she says quietly. "I know this is hardly what you'd expect from Gondolin's princess."
"I could never, ever, be disgusted by you," he says, and means it.
"I don't know what I was even thinking. Grapes and onions... what was I even hoping to do with them? I think there's something really wrong with me."
Tuor just sighs, shakes his head, and holds her tighter. Breathes in the scent of her hair. They sit silently together on the floor beside the bed for -- he doesn't know how long, but his knees eventually begin to ache.
"I do wish you'd told me earlier," he says, "I could have helped, maybe..."
She makes a small noise in response.
"Do you think you could tell me, if you think it's getting bad again in the future? Hiding the food, I mean. I don't know that I'll be able to be any great help, but I promise I'll always listen, and there's nothing you could say that would disgust me, or turn me away from you."
She manages a nod at that. "Alright. I promise I'll try."
He can't really ask for more that. After all, it's not as though he doesn't have memories of his time as Lorgan's captive that he still can't give voice to.
Then Tuor does get rid of the rotten food. Idril shyly points him to places around the room where he finds various other hidden foodstuffs in varying states of freshness, and he throws them out too. He fetches Idril and himself a mug of tea, because if the evening's conversation has left him feeling wrung out and exhausted, then it must be worse for her. And then he puts them both to bed, wrapping himself around her back as though he's trying to make himself into another blanket for her to cloak herself in. Whatever the morning brings, he promises himself that he'll be by Idril's side to face it with her.
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