#searchingforserendipity25
Note
Happy Tumblr Milestone Saturday, congrats!!!
If you're up for a fic prompt, any thoughts on Maedhros playing a musical instrument?
Yikes so sorry this took three months to get to! Thank you for the prompt friend <3
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“I think,” says Maedhros, “I should learn to play the harp.”
Maglor stops what he is doing and stares at him. “Nelyo.”
“What?” Maedhros says mildly. “It is a key part of my own history.”
Maglor’s face twists in distress. He turns his gaze back to his work, organising the little bottles of medicines and salves on the table.
“The fiddle, otherwise,” Maedhros suggests. “Or the flute?”
Maglor makes a small, unhappy sound, quickly stifled. That is not what Maedhros wanted. There were few memories he dared cling to, in Angband, scared that in turning them over too often he would rub away the details, or else that they would be snatched perforce from his mind; but he does remember the clear bright sound of Maglor’s laugh, which rang so often and easily through the streets of Tirion. He has not heard it once since his return.
Hard enough to realise he does not know himself any longer – but to find his little brother a stranger is nigh unbearable.
“I was joking, Káno,” he says. “I know I cannot play with only one hand.”
“Oh,” says Maglor. He smiles bravely, although his eyes are wet. “I knew that.”
“Come and sit,” Maedhros says, and then flinches – it sounds like an order, and what right has he to give orders?
But Maglor sets aside his fidgeting and sits down in the chair next to Maedhros’ bed. He always balances the distance perfectly, close enough for Maedhros to see him without straining his neck, far enough away that the proximity does not frighten him. Today, however, Maedhros wants his brother near. He reaches out to take Maglor’s hand in his.
“I miss you,” he says, and then, “I miss me.”
“I know, Nelyo,” Maglor breathes.
“Shall it never again be as it was?” Maedhros asks.
“I think not,” says Maglor, “and yet—” He swallows. “I am glad that you are back, Nelyo.” His eyes bleed apologies.
“Sometimes,” Maedhros says dreamily, “I think I am still there, and it was only some facsimile of me that Thorondor bore back.” Maglor takes a breath and Maedhros adds, “I know that it is not true. My old self was lost long before Finno came.”
“Nelyo,” Maglor says miserably.
“Now I have upset you,” Maedhros says. Tentatively, he lifts his hand to Maglor’s cheek, and Maglor does not flinch in disgust from his touch. “And I only wanted to make you laugh.”
Maglor smiles wryly. “Laughter is in rather short supply, these days,” he says.
Maedhros has known that to be true for himself. But he did not think—
"Is the world so changed?" he asks. "Are you so changed, dearest?"
Maglor lowers his gaze. He looks rather ashamed.
"I should not have left you," Maedhros murmurs.
Maglor meets his eyes again, startled. "How you can say that!" he says. "When I—"
Maedhros touches his cheek again. "All the same," he says, "it has been hard for you."
"Nelyo, that is absurd," Maglor says. "You cannot possibly blame yourself that I grieved you – and while you were living all the time!" He smiles again, bitterly.
Was I? thinks Maedhros. But aloud he says, "Káno, I – I barely recognise anything of myself. May I not – at the very least – remain your elder brother?"
"You are always that," Maglor says, blinking away his tears.
"Then come here," says Maedhros, and he pulls Maglor into a hug, and does not shudder to feel his body so close; so there is still this. And if Maglor is a stranger to him now he still lays his head on Maedhros' good shoulder as he used to when he was very small, and they sit that way for a while.
It cannot last forever – Maedhros is too weak to sit upright for long. Eventually, Maglor lowers him carefully down onto his pillows and fetches the evening round of medicines, and once again he becomes the carer and Maedhros the patient. He is still very gentle, as he coaxes the bitter concoctions into Maedhros, and changes the dressings on his wrist. So perhaps the world is not so changed.
***
The next morning, Maglor is carrying his harp when he comes into the tent. He looks pensive, but not unhappy, and he smiles to see Maedhros awake.
"Have you come to play for me?" Maedhros asks.
"Yes, if you would like me to," says Maglor; "but first I thought you could try playing it yourself, if you want to."
Maedhros blinks at him. "Káno, I only have one hand."
"I can teach you some simple melodies," says Maglor, and then he looks uncertain. "But we don't have to – if you would rather I played instead—"
"I'd like you to teach me," Maedhros says gently. (That was interrupting – they will punish him for speaking out of turn – no, it is Maglor, it is Maglor who loves him. Maedhros knows that.)
Maglor brings the harp over to the bed and sits down beside it. He reaches for Maedhros’ hand. “May I?” And when Maedhros nods, he places Maedhros’ fingers on the harp, and teaches him the name of each string in turn.
It turns out to be possible to pluck out a simple little melody on the harp, even with Maedhros’ numb and clumsy fingers. Eventually, Maglor stops guiding his hand and accompanies him instead, smiling encouragingly as he does so; and the sound of the music is very sweet. And when Maedhros deliberately botches the tune, moving his fingers quickly across the strings in a rapid, messy glissando, Maglor's laugh is sweeter yet.
#silmarillion#my fic#maedhros#maglor#asks#searchingforserendipity25#a return to form after the Bad Fic yesterday#(also a way to procrastinate trsb)#also I know nothing about harps apologies
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Hi!! For the kiss asks, Maemags and 'out of love' pls?
Maedhros’ eyes were on him—he could feel them even when he turned upstage. As the last swelling chords rang out to the shiver of the timbrels, Maglor arranged himself in a languid pose, his hair falling riverine over his shoulders.
He had wanted Ossë’s role—it had seemed to him more dramatic and dynamic. Yet Uinen had the better arias, long pieces persuading her beloved to forsake Melkor’s service and return to her side, and so her role was given to him.
Ossë’s actor, a sturdy nís of a stonemason’s family, rushed to him. Maglor threw his bangled arm about her shoulders. Applause burst out, and around them, the silk-simulated seas quieted to stillness. The crystal lamps brightened: the spell was broken.
Turning fractionally, he sought out Maedhros’ gaze and found it at once. His brother’s handsome face stood out in the crowd just as the brightest stars arrested attention amid the firmament. He was still watching. Maglor fought not to smile as he slipped away through a cunning opening in the fabric.
When he stepped out into a Mingling full of iridescent damselflies, Maedhros was waiting for him with an armful of flowers even before he reached the festival’s dressing rooms.
Maglor grinned and ducked inside, knowing Maedhros would follow, and then the flowers—lovely though they were, and fragrant—were forgotten. When they parted, Maedhros’ mouth was smeared reef-turquoise and he bore a hint of Maglor’s amethyst blush upon his high cheekbone.
“Thou wert radiant.”
“Nothing thou hast not heard before,” Maglor demurred. He liked, when he could, to steal away Maedhros to mark the paces of scenes with him. All in the name of practice, of course. “Besides, I still think the harpist should have been replaced in the orchestra. He lagged on each trill.”
Maedhros smiled a small secret smile, the sort that was only for Maglor. Maglor’s heart glowed.
How could what they shared be wrong—if it made him feel thus? He had heard others speak of the joyful instinct that lighted their own fëar, urging their feet towards the path that was right for them. That was Maglor’s only religion, and it guided him in circles ever around and beside and back to the nér he craved.
“Very well,” Maedhros was saying, entertained, “I will tell thee again that thou art beautiful, and a better harper besides.” And he kissed Maglor again, returning the turquoise paint.
Maglor caught at breath, as he often did after Maedhros kissed him. He had blushed at Maedhros’ archness, but Maedhros had kissed even more color into his cheeks. He managed, though, to flutter his lashes. “Oh? Thou wouldst yield to my pleas?”
“Thou knowest me, Káno,” Maedhros said, crowding him against the vanity. “Can I ever deny thee anything?”
#maemags#maglor#maedhros#i know i can't believe it's thee and valinor and i'm not using their quenya names either this one just wanted to be written this way...#maedhros x maglor#maglor x maedhros#etc.#maemag#silmarillion#silmarillion fic#my fic#kiss meme#searchingforserendipity25#i hope you enjoy this one!!!#i don't often hc them having a full on Thing in valinor but i find it very fun when they do#also this brought to u by that elven psychology post going around earlier this week
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Hi! If you're up to the ask meme, Andreth & isolation please? <3
The land of her people was burning.
The flames of Angband climbed from the plain of Ard-galen up the hillsides, leaving them blackened and bare after the flames had passed. Fire leapt from pine to pine, and Dorthonion’s once-mighty northern woods stood wreathed in crowns of flame. Sparks fell among the underbrush and fallen needles and kindled fires about the boles of trees, sending tongues of flame licking up their trunks.
And everywhere was the reek of smoke. Great clouds of it hung heavy over the hillsides, settling upon Ladros in a heavy bulk, and hid the flaming, charred ruin of Ard-galen behind their mass.
Andreth’s eyes burned from the smoke, and her throat felt raw. Wrapping her winter scarf more tightly about her face, she set to stopping her windows and door with old blankets she had dampened in the snow drifts outside her house.
Emeldir, her eyes glittering bright and fierce from between the folds of her scarf and her hair turned grey with fallen ash, had beseeched her to join the other women and children in the Great Hall, but Andreth had deferred. The smoke was too thick to leave her home for more than a few minutes without being racked by coughing fits, and the night was too cold for her joints to endure such a long walk.
Her house was high enough above the fire break that she had no fear of burning within her home, and she was safe as long as the defenders held the northern slopes, though she had no great hope that the defenses would long hold.
Emeldir and the other women meant to barricade themselves within the Great Hall and set a guard about the hall of all of the women of Ladros who could bear sword, spear, or bow, but Andreth knew that such shows of defense were futile. The siege had broken, and all of Angband’s filth had poured forth, and the scouring of the land would not cease until all had fallen to fire or blade.
And so Andreth stopped her windows and drew the curtains tight against the horror of the night. She blew out all of the candles but one and let her fire die down to a faint glow, that the presence of her house might go unnoticed in the mirk of smoke and ash, should Ladros’ defenses be breached and Dorthonion overrun. She wrapped herself in the shawls and blankets that she had left and sat before the lone candle.
And she waited—for dawn, death, or deliverance, she did not know.
Ever her thoughts turned to the defenders: Bregolas and Barahir, her kinsmen, who fought though their fighting years were drawing to an end, and Angrod, and Aegnor most of all.
Aegnor had been certain, as had Angrod and the High King of the Noldor, that this night would come, though the other Elf-lords who held the leaguer had doubted, content with the long peace the siege had brought. This night was why Aegnor had turned away while she was still in her youth and left her grasping across the gulf between their kindreds, seeking a flame forever out of reach.
But too soon in the North wind his flame will go out! I say to thee thou shalt live long in the order of your kind, and he will go forth before thee.
A bitter laugh rose in her chest as she looked upon her hands, creased and knobbed with age. How many years they could have shared together before this night came, before her youth faded like the leaves of autumn and winter stole upon her. Death came for him, Finrod had said, and would find him first, but it dogged her heels just as surely.
With these bitter thoughts, Andreth watched the flicker of the candle’s flame long into the night and into what would have been the grey hours of morning, had the light of morning had the strength to pierce through the mirk of smoke and ash.
When she deemed that morning had come and passed, she pulled more wood inside her house from the pile next to her door, and she dampened her blankets in the snow and prepared for another night of interminable waiting.
The days and nights passed in a dark fog of choking smoke and drifting ashes, and her stores of food and split wood, carefully rationed, drew low. Andreth considered the wisdom of Emeldir’s offer now, knowing that the women of Ladros would have salvaged what they could of the grain stores and would have brought the livestock within the hall with them, to slaughter as needed.
But her heart told her still to remain and to wait.
And so she did. She had not been named “patience” for nothing.
Night came again, perceptible only as a slight deepening of the gloom, and Andreth sat before her candle, watching its flame dance against the dark shadows of her house until the flicker of candlelight filled her gaze. Her mind drifted, conjuring up images and strange forms within the shifting shadows of the flame’s movement, and she lost herself to the bright light of the flame, drawn to it as surely as she had been in her youth.
The howl of sudden wind, strong enough that it shook the timbers of her house, startled her from her trance. Outside, the spruce trees circling her house groaned and cracked, and several branches fell. One struck the corner of her house with a crash that sent her heart leaping like a frightened hare, and she clutched at her chest in fear.
Her candle snuffed out in a thin wisp of smoke.
Cold creeped through Andreth’s chest, and her hands felt suddenly leaden. A great weight seemed to bear down upon her, and she bowed her head from the burden of it, even as the realization of its meaning cut through her consciousness.
Aegnor was gone. The Sharp-flame was no more.
In the darkness, Andreth wept.
crossposted to AO3 | send me a character and a prompt and get a ficlet
#the silmarillion#athrabeth#andreth#aegnor#taking the athrabeth's imagery literally for the sake of More Tragedy#thanks for the ask!!#i'd been meaning to write something like this for a while and this gave me the excuse i needed to make myself write it#asks#searchingforserendipity25#my fic#tolkien fic#silm fic
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hi!! if you're up to it, home and/or comfort for the word ask pls?
Home:
"Home" appears 45 times (!) in my working document for we will make this place our home, so to keep this post a reasonable length I've only included results from one chapter:
"If his hands were still sore by the time we got home he pretended he’d fallen over in the playground."
"She didn’t intend us to know yet, but Fearanya found a note about booking the campsite on her mother’s desk at home and spread it to the entire school (Mrs. Maeriel was not pleased with her)."
"A small part of me – the part that loved adventure stories and exploring in the woods – really wanted to go, but the other part just wanted to stay home where it was safe."
Comfort:
I couldn't find "comfort" on its own, but here's a line from chapter 61:
"The stuffed toys were now gathered under the blankets with us, and Elros was a comforting warmth against my side."
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Sophie Hatter/Howl Pendragon + 45 for the kiss ask pls?
Being raised on fairytales, Howl knew the dangers of kissing cursed women.
Had it stopped him before? No. But there was something about the way Sophie commanded magic without realizing. Her hair shimmered between auburn and gray – usually in moments of self-deprecation, the clothes followed her wordings carefully to ward off dust and tears, inanimate objects like the tea kettle crowed to be near her…
Isn’t she a charming puzzle, Calcifer murmured, interrupting Howl’s growing line of frustrated thoughts. Perhaps a kiss shall set things right? Become a noble hero and set her free.
“Hardly a kiss when I don’t have a heart.”
That would be your own fault, fool.
Howl banished the image of him running down a road in a set of chainmail and armor. He would look ridiculous, and his hair would never be the same because of the blasted helmet.
(After all, what use were holy knights and gallant princes when he could play with the building blocks of the universe?)
Still, he played with the idea of kissing Sophie, wondering if it would be enough, but the space where his heart should be remained as cold as ever.
He asked, “What is a kiss when it is not a kiss?”
Bah! Calcifer spat an ember on the rug. All that power and full of nonsense. Go ask the girl yourself.
"I'm afraid she might pluck my eyes and turn me into a tree."
Calcifer made a contemplative noise. That would be an improvement.
#searchingforserendipity25#hmc#howls moving castle#fic#howl: should i kiss this powerful woman to satisfy my curiosity?#calcifer: lmao i'm not your conscious
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Hi! If you're up to it, 'She kept a blade under her pillow, her father's old sword, and grasped it at time when there was no other hand to hold in the night' for the 5 sentence ask pls?
Big fan of your fics btw! <3
In the day, she bears the blade in one hand, shield in the other, and would have carried a child or elder upon her back if only there was not the risk of attack at any time. Instead she patrols the lines of survivors; instead she smiles for the children; instead she sings for the elders; instead she raises blade and shield against the foes who harry them again and again.
Every death she bears on her heart as if it were her own soul sundered from flesh and not another’s; a new notch on the blade’s hilt; a new verse in the lay of remembrance. Her father will never see the lands she leads his (her) people towards—she will never see his grave. But the sword shall bring them to a new promise, and as she holds the grip, she no longer feels notched wood or leather binding, but his calloused hand in her own.
#silmarillion#tolkien#silm fic#ask game#searchingforserendipity25#stormwritten#yes it's deliberate that this could be about at least a half dozen different women#I was thinking Hiril daughter of Barahir initially but decided to make it vague
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Hi!! 'L' please for the music title ask? I'm looking for new stuff yo listen to!
thanku I hope you like at least some of these! the struggle to make it not solely song titles that start with 'love'...
Love Don't - Nathaniel Rateliff & The Night Sweats
Lucky - Melissa Etheridge
Let 'er Rip - The Chicks
Long Walk Home - Bruce Springsteen
Love You For A Long Time - Maggie Rogers
songs! letters! etc
#i tried to also go for slightly less well known tracks here. hence Lover not being on here#music#asks#searchingforserendipity25#mine
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🌹 🌹 🌹 🌹
Marcus went quiet at once. His eyes squeezed shut. Matthew saw the strain in his face and the way his Adam's apple quivered. He was trying not to panic.
for every “🌹” received in my inbox i’ll post one random sentence of a random WIP i’m currently writing
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Hello! I love your character takes for the bingo, will be thinking of Complicated Míriel and red-headed Celebrimbor today. Do you have any thoughts on Galadriel or Daeron?
ahh i'm glad you enjoyed!! thank you for the ask. <3 here are my takes!
galadriel:
i really like the silver & gold of her hair i think it'd really cool thematically powerful i'm sad when when she's drawn just blond
i think her and celeborn are lesbians. idk what to tell you it's the just the vibes. celeborn's just butch. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
i'm kinda hot & cold on her, i think because i get kind of tired of her characterization being flattened out to "scary lady" and i rarely see characterization i actually like a lot. i think people use can use her as a generic "scary hyper competent queen" stereotype and miss the reasons why she's so uncanny & weird & sad. that being said a well-written galadriel makes me very delighted to see. maybe i should have circled "popular fanon is 100% wrong" now that i think of it
daeron:
i think he's fun & tragic! i like to see him. he delights me as a background character in fic, as a memory of long-gone times, as a warning & and a harbinger. i think he should be a creepy lil woodland guy
that being said i do not tend to seek him out specifically. not too many blorbo feelings for this one
i think he's a drummer. there is no reason for this it just makes me go :) to think about him drumming
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you know i can't resist! Caretaker burnout notes for the ask game please? If that's taken already, the Curvo roleswap......<33
(WIP titles ask game) I answered the caretaker burnout notes here! <3
The Curvo Maglor roleswap is a fill for the Silmarillion Kinkmeme, an AU in which Maglor dies in the Second Kinslaying and Curufin survives. Nobody is particularly happy about this turn of events, so far.
This is another WIP that is still in its early stages, but here's a (rather rough) snippet:
It is Lúthien’s fault, Curufin reminds himself. Lúthien and Dior her shadow-puppet, working her will in the world long after she herself has fled it: and although the boy is slain Lúthien’s line lingers yet, for they did not find the girl-child, Dior’s youngest. Lúthien took Curufin’s son from him, and now Dior has claimed his brother — how much more will they take from him?
Maedhros laughs, the one time he expresses this sentiment. “Tyelko got himself killed,” he says, “with his blind and foolish recklessness — and I did not stop him — and now—”
His face goes white. He gets up suddenly from the dining table and leaves, and does not emerge from his rooms for another week.
In truth Maedhros is going mad. That was the most Curufin had heard him speak in months; when he sits in company he will more often stare blankly at the wall, his eyes hollow, his lips half-parted. Sometimes he turns his head and looks very intently at something that is not there. Curufin has found him wandering the grounds outside the fortress, half-dressed, more than once.
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Hi! Do you have any thoughts on 👑 and 🔥 for the Silm Ask?
🔥 Give us your hottest Silm hot take.
Thingol sucks. By far my least favorite non-villain character. No redeeming qualities. Killed for being racist and deserved it 100%. Doesn't listen to his Maia wife who has foresight powers when she uses the foresight powers. Overall a big dweeb and I'll be first in line to slap him in the face. Go hide in your enchanted forest big boy while we're getting our asses kicked into next week by Morgoth
👑To which High King of the Noldor do you owe your allegiance? Why would you offer them your fealty?
Maedhros...
Because I want to have sex with him .
And I think he would've made a good king
Serious answer is Fingolfin. Because he actually is a good king and I love him. And he's my dad
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Hi! Thanks for participating in the ask game, I'm very curious about so many of these. Do you have any thoughts you'd like to share on 'Raise My Hands, Paint My Spirit Gold'?
Sure! It's a very silly Éomer/Lothíriel WIP that I started writing for the Gates of Summer weekly prompts last year and ran out of steam on, probably because it's fluff and fluff is not my forte at all lol.
Here's a snippet of it:
Éomer rubbed the back of his head and huffed a sigh. His gaze darted from colonnade to colonnade as he stood in the intersection of several streets. A fountain splashed merrily in the center of the intersection, the only sound in the relatively deserted corner of Minas Tirith that he had found himself in. Every street looked the same: imperious, white, and bedecked in floral garlands. He couldn’t even find the ramps that transitioned from one level to another, instead stuck in the maze of hair-like streets that sprung off of the main ways. This one, however, looked to be a relatively important crossing, but there was no telling where all of its arms branched off to.
He sighed again. He was thoroughly lost. What would the people of Minas Tirith think if they knew the king of Rohan was lost in their streets? He doubted he would find his way back to his rooms before the latest feast in the veritable litany of feasts he had been invited to was to begin late in the evening. Already, the sunlight was drawing back from the streets, and shadows were pooling in the doorways and street corners.
He should have accepted Erkenbrand’s offer to accompany him through the streets of Minas Tirith, but he had wanted to go on a solitary walk to clear his head (and to find some nondescript tavern and drink in peace). And Éomer had thought if he had worn simple garb and kept to the quieter streets, he might not risk recognition and attention. He had succeeded in that, at least, even if he had gotten himself utterly lost.
“Forgive my forthrightness, but you seem to be lost,” said a voice behind him.
He turned at once and found that a woman was standing behind him. She looked to be a common woman, perhaps a servant or lady’s maid in a nearby lord’s house, if he guessed his location correctly. Her dress was of plain cut, and, from his vantage point, the veil she wore over her head looked be that of a servant’s, rather than a fine lady’s.
“Terribly so, I’m afraid,” he replied.
She drew closer, and he caught a glimmer of mirth in her grey eyes. “And where were you hoping to go, horselord, before you found yourself lost?”
“A tavern, although it seems I can hardly navigate this city sober. Still, I could use a drink.”
The woman tilted her chin and assessed him with a sweep of her gaze. “I know many of the taverns in this city from having found my brothers unconscious at each of them.”
“Do you know the way to the nearest one?” Perhaps he had a stroke of luck at last.
She gazed at him levelly. “I do, but I can’t abide drunkenness. And I have a better idea. As it happens, I was on my way to a celebration, and it is much better to celebrate with company. What do you say?”
[WIP Titles Game]
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Finrod with a dwarf bf? Maedhros husband: the husbandening?! I'm so curious, please feel welcome to answer either option <3
thank you so much!! 💕💕💕 I answered both of these earlier so I shall link 'em:
finrod dwarf bf
husband maedhros: the husbandening
#answered#searchingforserendipity25#an impersonal response from me but i'm delighted you're interested in them! <3
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Hi <3 For the Fanfic Rec ask game, 3, 13 and 15 please?
😂 A fic that made you laugh out loud
recently, it's jonathan harker's magical mystery funtime ride by Skyuni123. what if jonathan harker met a different type of vampire during his travels, and what is the deal with the totally human bartender who wears jeans?
the fact that it sticks with jonathan's pov makes this fic truly ambitious.
💌 A fic that inspired you to create something for it
@parakeatswrites' Spilled Salt makes me want to write a practical magic au so badly!!! i actually have the start of an outline for an hp fic but gave up because it veered too much into original territory.
📚 A fic you wish you could display on your bookshelf
@xxlittle0birdxx knows. like for many in the fandom, the first day was where we read on ffn back in 2007. it is still my comfort fic for many reasons, more than just nostalgia! i love how lisa kept the focus on inter-personal relationships instead of building a giant adventure. harry has some of my favorite interactions with arthur and molly, providing him a space to heal after everything.
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Hi! Very curious about your Finarfin fic, should you be up to share about it :)
I answered it here. I really wish I had more to share, but that's all I have written at the moment. Hopefully, one day I'll have more :D
Thanks for the ask!
ask game here
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Now rumour came to the camp in Hithlum of the march of Fingolfin and those that followed him, who had crossed the Grinding Ice; and all the world lay then in wonder at the coming of the Moon. But as the host of Fingolfin marched into Mithrim the Sun rose flaming in the West; and Fingolfin unfurled his blue and silver banners, and blew his horns, and flowers sprang beneath his marching feet, and the ages of the stars were ended.
~ "Of the Return of the Noldor", The Silmarillion
a little art throwback for the first day of @march-of-the-noldor
Two beautiful writings were created for this art:
Flowers sprang beneath his marching feet by @that-angry-noldo
Longed-for a poem by @searchingforserendipity25
#fingolfin#helcaraxe#arrival to beleriand#silm art#silm fic#march of the noldor#silmarillion#tolkien#nolofinweans
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