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the-elusive-soleil · 5 months

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our tracks untraceable

For @tolkienfamilyweek Day 6: Ancestors and their legacy

All quoted lyrics from "Sons and Daughters" by The Decemberists

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"When we arrive, sons and daughters," Elros sings under his breath, "we'll make our homes on the water…"

He nearly bumps into Maedhros, who has halted in front of him as they and Elrond and Maglor make their way through the woods. It takes a moment for Maedhros to speak. "Where did you learn that song?" he asks, a little hoarsely.

Elros, confused, says, "Nana sang it to us sometimes…before."

"Ada sang it sometimes, too," Elrond adds. "But the version he knew was in Quenya."

"That makes sense," Maglor says, sounding puzzled. "If it had been passed down through Fingolfin and Turgon… But how would Elwing have known it?"

"She said it was an old family song," Elrond says, just as confused.

***

"We'll build our walls aluminum, we'll fill our mouths with cinnamon," Elwing sings. Music is supposed to be a gift of her family, but she can barely manage this song, words promising a safe and bountiful home, when what they have is this ramshackle haven at the edge of the world.

"These currents pull us 'cross the border," a deeper voice joins in from the doorway. "Steady your boats, arms to shoulder…"

Eärendil enters the twins' room, coming up behind her to slide an arm around her shoulders. "It's a good song," he says quietly, and looks at the babies sleeping in their clumsy bassinet. "Full of hope. They're going to need that."

Then, "I didn't know the Sindar knew that song, though. I thought it was only my family."

Elwing shakes her head. "No, I remember my father singing it…I think."

***

"Take up your arms, sons and daughter," Dior sings, "we will arise from the bunkers…"

He makes sure to sing quietly, not letting his clear tenor carry. These lands are no longer as safe as they were in his own childhood. But he wants to still make this trip as cheerful for his children as possible, under the circumstances.

The circumstances being his grandfather's violent death, and Dior's taking up the kingship.

"Is that one of your Nana's songs?" Elwing asks sleepily. He's carrying her, while the twins walk with Nimloth.

He holds her a little closer. "She did sing it to me, just like this," he says. "And someone else sang it to her before that. All the best songs are like that."

***

"By land, by sea, by dirigible, we'll leave our tracks untraceable now," Lúthien sings playfully, dancing her small son around to the tune and the silly words. It's a good day. Almost every day is a good day on Tol Galen. She has her husband and her son; what more could she want?

"Nana?" Dior interrupts, nose wrinkled, "what's a dirigible?"

Lúthien frowns. "You know, I don't actually know, ion-nin."

"But you know everything. Ada says so."

"Well, that's very sweet of him, but he's not quite right," Lúthien says, tapping his nose affectionately. "It's probably just a made up word. But why don't you ask your grandfather next time you see him? He's the one who taught me the song, so if anyone would know, he would."

***

"When we arrive, sons and daughters," Thingol sings under his breath, "we'll make our lives on the water…"

"What's that song about, Ada?" Lúthien pipes up from where she's skipping at his side. "It's silly. We don't live anywhere near the Sea."

Thingol pauses a moment. He hadn't meant to sing for her to listen to, exactly - it just tends to come out of him wherever he walks a noticeable distance, as they have been this afternoon. But there's no harm in telling her. He just hasn't talked about it much since meeting Melian.

"It's a song from the Journey," he says at length. "Before I met your mother, I and my brother and our people were traveling west to go over the Sea. We sang the song then about what we would find at the end."

"Your brother who went on without you?" Lúthien says inquisitively. She's been going through a phase of being curious about other people's siblings, since she has none of her own. At Thingol's nod of confirmation, she asks, "Do you still miss him?"

His throat suddenly feels thick. "Yes. Yes, I do."

"Did he make up the song?"

"…No." Thingol shakes his head slowly. "It was a…a friend of mine."

***

"We'll build our walls aluminum, we'll fill our mouths with cinnamon…"

"Finwë, what in Arda is that song about?"

Finwë turns and spots his friend Elwë, and grins broadly. "It's to keep our people's spirits up as we travel," he explains. "To take their minds off the hardships of the journey and give them an idea of what awaits us."

Elwë appears to consider this for a moment. "That is all very well," he says, "but why would anyone want to fill their mouth with cinnamon? It is far too strong for such a thing, not to mention the waste."

"Of course it's ridiculous," Finwë agrees readily. "That's the point. There will be so much in Aman, and it will be so safe. It won't matter if we waste things every now and then, or use ridiculous building materials."

Elwë humphs. But he also, a few moments later, says, "Can you teach me the rest of it?"

Finwë can, and does, and soon enough the song rings through the wilderness as both Noldor and Teleri sing in chorus.

***

"When we arrive, sons and daughters…" Atya sings, and then trails off. Fëanáro frowns up at him, not understanding why his father has slowed and is no longer swinging their clasped hands to and fro, why he looks so troubled.

"Atya?" he asks. "What's the matter?"

For a long moment, Atya looks very far away. Then he shakes himself slightly, and looks down at Fëanáro with a smile.

"Nothing to worry about, yonya," he says. "I was just thinking that the song doesn't quite fit us, is all."

Well, of course it doesn't. Fëanáro doesn't have any brothers or sisters; he's Finwë's only son. But that's fine, and the song isn't supposed to be about them anyway - it's about the Great Journey.

"Does it need to?" he says. "We can make up a different one if we need one about us."

That makes Atya smile properly at last. "Maybe so, Náro. Maybe so. But we should find a spot for our picnic first."

***

"Till tides all pull our hull aground, making this cold harbor now home…"

Makalaurë frowns as his father sings under his breath. The song is familiar, but the tone doesn't seem to match it - it's meant to be a happy, excited song, but Atar's making it sound angry and vindictive.

That's pretty much been Atar's sole mood ever since the banishment was announced.

"There!" Atar calls out suddenly, breaking off the song and gesturing up ahead. "That is where we shall build our fortress, the envy of all in Tirion. Curufinwë, with me!"

He sounds more enthusiastic and less bitter than he has in weeks. Perhaps, Makalaurë dares to think as Atar and Curvo ride ahead, this can be a turning point for the better, for all of them.

***

"It's strange that your family would know the song, too," Elros ventures. Elrond knows what he means. They were told for the first six years of their lives that the Fëanorians were monsters, wholly other than them. This odd little point of commonality contrasts sharply with that.

He doesn't want to think too long on that right now, doesn't want to let it pull up all the complicated things between them.

Instead he says, "Perhaps since we do all know it, we can sing it together."

Maedhros looks hesitant. But Maglor, after a moment's hesitation, gives a small nod. "How does it go again? It has been years…we may not remember all of it."

"That's all right, it repeats a lot," Elros shrugs. "Here, I'll start--"

And they continue on through the woods, singing quietly so as not to attract unfriendly attention, but all in tune together.

"Hear all the bombs fade away, hear all the bombs fade away, hear all the bombs fade away…"

#tolkienfamilyweek #silmarillion #elros #elrond #maedhros #maglor #elwing #earendil #dior #luthien #thingol #finwe #feanor #songs that get passed down and reinterpreted differently in different circumstances #the family that sings together stays together #one can only hope

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annoyinglandmagazine · 14 days

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Elrond and Elros Series Ideas 2

For a framing devise, which maybe shouldn’t be revealed until maybe halfway through the first season, I think it’s probably Elrond explaining it to Bilbo as he tries to compile his songs and history extracts of the Old Tales and takes full advantage of any primary sources he can find. The story is interspersed with Elrond packing things away for his journey west, you see things like murials of ships coming to life at the start of an episode and rings being taken out of their boxes suddenly switching to a scene where you can see them on the hands of one of the characters of the show.

As a battle scene with Maedhros taking out an entire battalion of orcs single handedly (pun fully intended) fades out you can see the same sword carefully taken out of its intricate scabbard and despite the layer of dust it is sharp as ever as it is cradled in hands that clearly aren’t the scarred one’s from the scene. The finale absolutely has to end with Elrond balancing on the prow of the ship to Valinor with a soft smile on his face and one tear rolling down his cheek as he gazes at the horizon.

The framing will also serve to explain why most of the first half of the season or so, four or five episodes, are in a more broad strokes epic style with very few little details or casual dialogue, mostly it’s political and military discussions, it comes across as if it’s more a story that’s been passed down because it’s not from Elrond’s point of view. It’s mostly a large scale kind of story with big battle scenes and political drama.

This is juxtaposed with the clips of the twins and their relationship with the Feanorians in the camp and Maglor and Maedhros in which we see Elrond learning how to heal because he’s the only one there that can and there’s loads of really sweet emotional moments where it looks like Maedhros is finally starting to accept them and you get much more dialogue with little bits of humour as well because this is what Elrond remembers.

Basically it feels like an entirely different show about two feared war lords letting down their barriers in order to try and form a tentative bond with these scared children as they grow up and it’s a really moving subplot next to the main plot of armies fighting dragons and Balrogs and kings and lords trying to form stable alliances in the unnavigable situation that is elf politics (especially the Finarfin and Gil Galad High Kingship of The Noldor situation because there is a lot of mileage in that one.)

The first time we see the Third Kinslaying properly is a bit later in the season, there’s vague flashes that allude to it in the twin’s nightmares, is Oropher explaining to Thranduil that they mustn’t fully trust the Noldor which comes on the heels of intense political manoeuvring the entire episode between him and Gil Galad. He refers to how they destroyed two of their people’s cities and ended the line of their royal family in one brutal attack. The way this scene is done should definitely open up with warning bells ringing louder and louder as the camera cuts from Mirkwood to Sirion and the most menacing music possible plays over the Feanorians entering.

It absolutely has to be an intensely brutal scene, maybe not in the graphic violence sense but emotionally the destruction has to be devastating, buildings set on fire, maybe a toy in a child’s limp hand or something like that; it’s horrifying is the point. Elwing flings herself into the sea and it ends with Oropher looking over the burning wreckage from the distance, just a few hours too late, a thriving settlement reduced to nothingness in the space of a day.

The Sindar all believe the twins to be dead and no one ever speaks the name of Elwing’s child or children, it isn’t specified, because it’s such a dreadful tragedy; they don’t show Elrond and Elros as Elwing’s sons until the end of the first season when we see two six year olds hiding in a wardrobe in a burning building and suddenly there’s footsteps and the door is thrown open to reveal Maglor stained with blood.

It’s referenced previously that the twins guardians have a dark reputation and it may have already been said that they are the sons of Feanor who were responsible for the massacre so it’s not a leap for it to be confirmed that they found the twins through dubious means but this is the first time people who don’t have the background knowledge will see where the twins came from.

Elros might brandish a sword at him but Maglor slowly takes off his helmet off and tells him they won’t come to any harm. Eventually he manages to coax them out and takes them in his arms and just as the camera pans out over the wreckage of Sirion once more you can hear the hushed voices of a conversation something like this; Maedhros: Elwing’s sons? Truly Maglor? Maglor: Well who else will take them? We killed their mother after all.

#Silmarillion #tolkienfamilyweek #lotr #elrond peredhel #elros tar minyatur #kidnap fam #maedhros #maglor #bilbo baggins #first age #war of wrath #ereinion gil galad #finarfin #Oropher #thranduil

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tilions · 5 months

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- Sunset (Prof. John D. M. Brown)

→ @tolkienfamilyweek day ii · siblings · findis & lalwen

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tolkienfamilyweek · 1 year

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Hello everyone!

This year we are back with Tolkien Family Week, an event dedicated to showing appreciation for familiar relationships in Tolkien's work - be it The Hobbit, The Lord of the Rings, The Silmarillion or beyond.

Below is a list of non-mandatory prompts to take some inspiration from:

Day One Parent-child relationship - From Lúthien and Dior to Samwise and Elanor, on this day we encourage you to explore the relationships between mothers and fathers and sons and daughters!

Day Two Siblings - Tolkien presents us with many pairs of siblings throughout all the ages of Arda. This day is devoted to relationships between brothers and sisters, such as Fili and Kili or Galadriel and Finrod.

Day three Extended Family - Cousins, uncles, nieces, grandparents. Family trees goes beyond the traditional household members. Finwë with his numerous grandchildren, Théoden with Éomer and Éowyn - this day is dedicated to them.

Day Four Cut Ties - Families can break apart. Disagreements, rivalries, separation, death - their presence is a never-leaving shadow in Arda. One only has to look at the likes of Fëanor and Fingolfin.

Day Five Found Family - Families can break apart, yes, but at other times, they can also be in found in unlikely places. From kidnap fam to adopted distant cousins, this day is for exploring them.

Day Six Ancestors and their Legacy - Every family has its roots somewhere. On this day we look back to where the great families in Tolkien's works came from and what those ancestors left behind for their descendants.

Day Seven Freeform - Did we forget about something or is there a prompt you want to revisit? Feel free to use this day for any family related content!

The week will run during the last seven days of November 2023 - 20th to 26th - and will be hosted by @tilions and @armenelols. We will operate in a mixture of queued posts and direct reblogs.

Some minor clarifications:

Please tag @tolkienfamilyweek and put #tolkienfamilyweek in the first five tags of your post so that we can find it

Feel free to send us an ask should your post not be reblogged

OCs are welcome

All kind of content is appreciated - edits, art, writing, headcanons, analysis, let your imagination run wild

The ask box is open for any remaining questions!

We are looking forward to your creations!

#tolkienfamilyweek #tfw2023 #lord of the rings #silmarillion #the hobbit #tolkien

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babe-bombadil · 5 months

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A Long-Lost Home

Summary: A short story of young Fili and his uncle Thorin

Written for @tolkienfamilyweek Day 3 - Extended Family

Rating: G

Word Count: 1,053

Read on AO3 or below

Thorin kicked off his boots and let out a huff. Winter was coming, and each day the trek from the forge back to the house he shared with his sister became more difficult. He shrugged off his coat and made his way to the kitchen, fully expecting an ambush from his sister-sons at any moment. Young Fili and Kili never seemed to tire of jumping on him as soon as his presence was made known, no matter how difficult his day has been. Eventually, Thorin had learned to accept the inevitable and humor them for a bit before relaxing for the evening. When no tiny arms were flung around him, he cautiously approached the kitchen.

On the counter sat Kili, his tiny mouth and hands covered in pink stains. Dis was furiously rubbing a rag on his face, attempting to scrub some of it off.

“Mum, that huuuurts,” the young dwarf groaned.

“Well, next time maybe you ought to be a little clearer while eating. Or perhaps just stay away from the raspberry bushes altogether!” Dis gave a little shake of her head and dipped the rag into a nearby bowl of water.

“Uncle Forin!!” Kili screamed as he caught sight of him. The boy had recently lost his front teeth and Thorin had to fight a smile anytime his lisp made an appearance. Unfortunately, however, Kili hadn’t yet learned the value of volume control. It seemed he only knew how to yell. The line of Durin’s eardrums sustained continual damage.

The young dwarf reached his hands out to his uncle but before Thorin could lift him off the counter, Dis turned and shot her brother a glare.

“Oh no you don’t! This one’s not going anywhere till I get him cleaned up.” Kili looked back up at his uncle, big brown eyes pleading to be saved. Another time Thorin may have taken the boy’s side, but he knew there was no use provoking Dis when she was already in a sour mood. She too had the legendary Durin temper.

A frustrated shriek and the sound of something crashing echoed down the hall from the direction of the bathroom. Dis, still scrubbing Kili’s face, turned to Thorin with a sigh.

“Would you please go see what that’s about? Fili’s been in there half an hour, doing Durin knows what.” Thorin squeezed his sister’s shoulder and turned in the direction of the commotion.

Fili was standing on a chair and glaring in the mirror. An unfinished plait laid partly done across his scalp. Well, if you could call it a plait. It was more like extra knots added into already very tangled hair.

“Now, now Fili my boy. What’s the matter?”

Fili’s words came out in a rush.

“I was trying to braid my hair but it was so tangled cause me and Kili were playing in the bushes today but I couldn’t brush it out so I just tried braiding it but it won't work and now my arms hurt so bad and-“ Fili let go of his hair and buried his face in his arms with a frustrated huff. Thorin felt a touch of sympathy for his nephew. He very clearly remembered his own frustration when first learning to braid his hair. He laid a hand on Fili’s back.

“I felt the same way when I first learned to braid.”

“You?” Fili turned large eyes up to Thorin. “But you’re good at everything, Uncle!” A gruff chuckle escaped Thorin’s throat.

“Not at first I wasn’t. It took a lot of practice and patience.”

“But I’ve been practicing so long !” Fili cried. “And I’ll never get these tangles out of my hair. I’m doomed to be ugly forever!” Thorin couldn’t stop the corner of his mouth lifting at that. His two nephews quite enjoyed catastrophizing.

“Let me help you then,” Thorin offered. He reached up into one of the shelves and pulled out a brush. Starting at the ends of Fili’s golden locks, he gently worked through each tangle. Fili’s head wasn’t as sensitive as his brother’s, who refused to even have his hair brushed, much less braided. Still, he involuntarily winced a few times when Thorin pulled a little too hard. When the brush finally passed unencumbered through the golden strands, the elder dwarf set it down and began parting the hair. He separated it into five thin bundles and began braiding.

“Um, Uncle?” Fili asked tentatively. Thorin raised an eyebrow.

“Can you tell me some more stories of home?” Thorin paused and looked down, swallowing an unexpected lump in his throat. Fili hadn’t yet been born when the dwarves had fled Erebor. He had never known the kingdom under the mountain. Yet, he still called it home. While Kili often begged his uncle for tales of adventure and bravery, Fili tended to like the tales of the lost kingdom more. The home he had never known.

“Uncle?” Fili’s small voice broke Thorin out of his reverie.

“Oh course, dear nephew.” He took a deep breath. “In the kingdom of Erebor lived a great king…”

Fili leaned into his uncle’s touch as Thorin gently pulled his hair through intricate patterns. While he weaved the hair, he weaved tales of Erebor. He let his love for his homeland shine through the stories. He told of the noble king Thror, whose rule was so great that even the elves paid respects to him. He told of the magnificent statues carved of ancient dwarf kings. He told of the vast riches the treasury held, of the prosperity of his people. He described great feasts held in the mighty halls of Erebor, the sound of laughter echoing off the high ceilings.

He did not speak of Smaug, nor of the gold sickness that took his grandfather. He spoke not of the Pale Orc nor the mines of Moria. Those tales could wait. For now, he would speak of happier times. Of golden days spent in his grandfather’s halls under the mountain.

At that moment, Thorin made an oath. He had always known one day he would reclaim Erebor, but today he promised himself that when he did, his nephews would be right there beside him. The line of Durin would return to their rightful place on the throne, where they would rule for centuries to come.

Thanks to @psyche-the-ya-protagonist for being my awesome beta reader!

Comments and reblogs are always appreciated! Let me know your thoughts or personal headcanons!

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emyn-arnens · 5 months

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The Fading Light

Prompt: Parent-child relationship for @tolkienfamilyweek

Summary: It was the same longing that her father felt and that drew them closer together than any of her siblings. Only Sam could understood that strange, terrible yearning that burned in her heart each time he read from the Red Book to her and her siblings.

When she looked at her father again, she found that his gaze had turned distant, and he looked not unlike Arwen and her brothers, touched with some grief Elanor could not understand.

In which Elanor comes to understand grief and partings beyond the ends of the world.

Rating: G

Word Count: 3.1k

Excerpt: Elanor breathed deeply of the clear night air. It smelled of pine and wood smoke, for though it was spring, it was cooler here in the north than in the Shire, and in the evening fires still burned in the hearths. She sat with her father on the back porch of the guest house the king had prepared for their family. The porch overlooked the twilit waters of Lake Evendim, and a short path ran from the porch to the sandy shore, where the waters of the lake lapped softly. Her siblings had been sent to bed despite many protestations, but Elanor, as the eldest, had been permitted to stay up later than usual, for which she was grateful. Evenings after the younger ones went to bed were the only time she could spend alone with her father, without Frodo and Rose and all the others clamoring for his attention. “Well, Elanorellë, you have seen three Elves now,” her father said, breaking the silence. “What do you think of them?” He lit his pipe and sat back against the porch steps. Elanor thought for a moment, recalling the grace and beauty of the queen and the wisdom and nobility of her brothers, and how their gazes had held the knowledge of centuries and yet their laughter was as merry as children’s.

Read the rest on AO3.

#tolkienfamilyweek #lotr #samwise gamgee #elanor gardner #lotr fic #fotfics #my fic

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valacirya · 5 months

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@tolkienfamilyweek Day 2: Siblings

Arafinwe sat on the throne with an ease that Nolofinwe himself had never felt in all his years as king in Beleriand. He was a good king, perhaps a great one if the loremasters were to be believed, but the crown and the responsibilities that came with it were a relentless pressure. Even as he commanded armies and laid siege to Angband, he struggled with the weight of expectations and the burning need to prove himself. His little brother, on the other hand, did not need to prove himself to anyone. He took after their mother in that way, letting others' judgment flow over him like water poured over a stone.

Nolofinwe cleared his throat and began the customary greeting.

"Hail Arafinwe Ingoldo, High King of the Noldor and victor -"

"Shut up."

"Ingo -"

"I said shut up!"

Nolofinwe obeyed. Arafinwe closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths before standing up and descending the stairs.

"I don't forgive you. I don't forgive you for following Feanaro, or for the Kinslaying, or for that idiotic fight with Morgoth. Maybe someday I will, but not yet."

Arafinwe was in front of him now and at last Nolofinwe could see the love that was still there behind a veil of anger.

"But I am not going to let that stop me from telling you how much I missed you and how thankful I am that you have Returned." Arafinwe's voice wavered, "Not a day went by that I didn't think of you, Kano. Even when I hated you, I wished you were by my side and -"

"Shut up."

"...still an ugly crier, I see."

Nolofinwe snorted out a wet laugh; this really wasn't his most dignified moment. Then again, he never needed to be anyone other than his truest self with Arafinwe. He leaned his forehead against his brother's in the way of the Vanyar and let the depth of his love-regret-pride-joy burst out of him. They'd never required words to truly communicate, and the shine in Arafinwe's eyes showed that he understood.

"We'll have all the time in the world to talk and argue and sob in each others' arms. But right now you are going to make your special strawberry cream cake for me and I will not share a single bite."

"As my king commands."

#tolkienfamilyweek #fingolfin #finarfin #best brothers <3

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between-thepages · 5 months

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For @tolkienfamilyweek

Your Mother's Daughter

A little Gen Fic for Celeborn and Celebrían!

Tags: Horseback Riding, Background Celeborn/Galadriel, Family

Summary: Celebrían goes riding with her father.

#my silm fanfiction #tolkienfamilyweek #celeborn #celebrian

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sallysavestheday · 5 months

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Tolkien Family Week #1

For @tolkienfamilyweek Day 1 (parent-child relationship), have 100 words of Galadriel and Celebrian.

Celebrían’s fingers remind Galadriel of the pale sweets made for harvest festivals in Tirion: tiny cylinders of the most delicate nougat, dusted in sugar. She finds the baby’s little digits as irresistible as those long-ago treats, nibbles them with the same gusto if not as sharp a bite. If she could, she would stuff her daughter entirely into her mouth, she so craves her knobby knees, her trembling chin, her pearly toes! For centuries they have avoided parenthood, wandering and studying and exploring the world. Oh, what hunger has she missed? This child whets her appetite for tenderness, for joy.

#tolkienfamilyweek #celebrian #galadriel #my fics #2023 drabbles

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isilwhore · 5 months

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@tolkienfamilyweek Day 2: Siblings

Just cursed bastard brothers frolicking. Not causing any problems. Briefly unburdened by the doom that lies upon them.

#tolkienfamilyweek #I say let them have some fun in their miserable lives #maedhros #maglor #celegorm #caranthir #curufin #amrod #amras #idgaf I love these idiots #the silmarillion #feanorians #tolkien

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urwendii · 5 months

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For day 7 of @tolkienfamilyweek freeform (in which I totally am not so late for what was supposed to be day 2.)

[ implied Arien x Mairon | Arien & Amarëa (oc daughter) ]

↠ companion artwork

➼ In the sun light, find my love always.

Amarëa was still so tiny, Arien thought when she cradled her against her chest, feeling as if she was about to burst from happiness and love at the sight of her baby daughter quietly sleeping. Laurelin was in full bloom, casting the lovely golden hue over the room Arien was now occupying at Yavanna's behest.

She could stare at her newly born tiny Maia for eternity and find as much joy in it as the first time she felt the echo of her eäla take shape. This was everything she had wished and hoped for, and Arien felt crystals of tears gather at the corner of her eyes.

There was a knock on the door — sharp and precise, revealing whom stood behind it and with a brush of Osanwë, she invited him inside.

Mairon must have been back from the Forges given his appearance, a simple burgundy tunic over brown trousers and his hair braided severely along his neck.

"You know she has a cradle to sleep in." He nodded to the sublime wooden furniture he had crafted, but Arien could not bring herself to let Amarëa go.

"She needs warmth." She replied instead. Not entirely untrue, as newborn Ainu, the small Maia was unable to fully master her control over her fana. Which more than not resulted in her reverting to her spirit form — a harmless endeavour for Arien and Mairon, both fire spirits but one they had to keep on the lookout. A certain incident involving Eönwë had been a source of amusement for Mairon for weeks.

"And you need to tend to your duties."

Mairon was right. Unfortunately.

"Fine." She sighed, not bothering to keep herself from rolling her eyes. "You better not drop her."

The look Mairon gave her was a mix of annoyance and outrage but Arien had long been immune to it and with great care, gently moved her little burden, making sure Amarëa was well covered and still asleep.

"I think I'll manage."

"You better. As much as it would amuse me to see how hot I have to burn to cause physical damage to you, ô Admirable, I'd rather not have Yavanna sue me for damaging her precious golden son." Arien quipped, smirking at him when he gave her an unimpressed look.

"Just go."

"Hush." She bent to drop a light kiss on Amarëa's forehead. "I'll see you soon yēl."

A kiss was given on Mairon's cheek and with another cheery threat to the safety of his existence if anything were to happen to Amarëa, she went off to tend to Tulukhedelgorûs*.

*Valarin for Laurelin

#tolkienfamilyweek #otp: fire on fire #oc: amarëa #arien #mairon #serie: airă'nár

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the-elusive-soleil · 5 months

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love from before still strong

For @tolkienfamilyweek Day 1 - Parent-child relationship

Maglor is shaking as he makes his way through the shadows. His hand is still in searing pain, even though the Silmaril is now at the bottom of the sea. He can see the horrified, startled face of the guard he killed, and the horrible blank emptiness on Maedhros’ face just before he pitched forward and--

He shudders, tries to put it out of his mind.

He needs to get to Elrond. There is no room for a plan or for thoughts of consequences, only for that singular goal.

There’s nothing else left, is the thing. Morgoth is defeated (no thanks to him), all his brothers are dead, the Silmarils are gone and it is probably for the best, and Elros is already gone with the Men from the Host, departed for their new Isle of Gift while Maglor was huddled in the woods trying to come to terms with still being alive.

There is, distantly, the lurking possibility in the back of his mind that that could change. He is trying very hard to not entertain that possibility. There is no good reason for him to be alive when all his brothers are dead, but the situation only becomes more senseless if he throws away the life that only he has been allowed to keep.

So here he is, slipping through the camp of the Host of the West that he fled from, sword dripping blood, only days ago.

Fortunately, he does have some idea where to go in search of Elrond, from when he was here before--not from anything he saw, but rather from where in the camp Gil-Galad was most eager to prevent him and Maedhros from passing. More than that, he knows his son, and it is no stretch of the imagination to suspect that he ought to check the healers’ tents first.

Sure enough, as he approaches the tent at the end of the row, he hears a familiar voice saying, “Is there anything else you need from me tonight, Annehtë?”

It’s Elrond, which is good, but he’s not alone, which could cause problems. Maglor draws close to the side of the tent, the better to listen for an opportunity, and to stay out of sight of anyone passing.

“No, you’ve done all you ought to and more,” says an elf-woman who is presumably Annehtë. Peering through a gap between tent panels, Maglor spots her, a blonde Vanyarin who is probably not that much younger than himself, but whose face bears less stress than any elf of Beleriand’s anymore and makes her look unwontedly young.

Elrond, in plain and serviceable healer’s robes, looking weary but otherwise no worse for wear, is moving towards the tent entrance. “Then I will bid you farewell till morning, for this day has me unusually weary.”

Before he can leave, though, Annehtë calls out, “If you will stay a moment, there is a matter I would speak with you on.”

Maglor stifles a curse, and Elrond looks no less irritated as he turns around--he’s hiding it well enough for dealing with a relative stranger, but Maglor recognizes that set of his shoulders from every time he was made to eat greens he did not want. “What is it?”

“Why don’t we sit down?” Annehtë says, not really making it a suggestion. Elrond complies, mouth pressed into a thin line. “I’ve been meaning to check in on you ever since...well, since the incident a few days ago.”

So that’s what this is about.

Elrond’s face remains a polite mask. “I don’t see how there’s anything to discuss. Unless you suspect me of aiding and abetting them, which King Gil-Galad and King Finarfin have already determined was not the case.”

“Oh, no, of course not.” Annehtë sounds shocked at the very thought. “It’s only that, well, they put you through so much before. You were only just starting to recover, and then to have them come so close again, so violently--you must have been afraid they would come after you and your brother, to take you again.”

“Why would they do that,” Elrond asks quietly and evenly, “when they were the ones who sent us here?”

“I can only guess at how such twisted minds may work,” Annehtë ventures, “but people like that don’t ever really let their victims go, you know. It’s part of the game they play, catch and release.”

“And what exactly would you know about it?” Elrond’s voice is terribly calm and cool. “Having lived all your life in Aman, where supposedly everything is perfect.”

“I have had opportunity to learn from my Sindarin colleagues since arriving here,” Annehtë retorts primly. She reaches out and takes Elrond’s hands in hers. “I understand that you must have felt such a need to be defensive of the Fëanorians when you first came here. You’d never known anything else, so of course you would want to cling to it. But they’re gone now, and it’s safe to let yourself admit that they were cruel to you. They destroyed your home and took you captive, and allowed you to know nothing but their own ways and their rules. They hurt you, and now you don’t have to pretend otherwise anymore just to get by.”

Maglor’s heart pounds in his chest. Not because he believes what the Vanyarin woman is saying in her falsely sweet voice--he knows he and Maedhros parented the twins to the best of their ability, knows that they gave them every scrap of love they had to offer, and is fairly confident that Elrond and Elros held some affection for them in return. But this is exactly what he had feared would happen when they sent their sons away: that the Sindar and Amanyar would teach them to hate the people who had raised them, and would in time so convince the twins that they had been abused that he and Maedhros would never be able to reunite with them again.

He supposes it is only surprising that it took this long for anyone to try.

That does not make it tear at thim any less when Elrond bows his head and admits, “I cannot deny that there is some truth in what you say.”

Maglor cannot stand to listen any further. He came too late and lost his chance, and now his son is slipping away from him. Intervention is impossible, so he does the only thing left to him and flees.

***

Elrond had already had more than enough of Annehtë before she tried to lure him into some kind of soul-baring exercise. The fact that she was delaying him when he could swear he felt the presence of one of his fathers just outside only compounded the irritation. He tried polite evasion, and when that seemed to be waxing ineffective, attempted to feign at least partial agreement in the hopes that she would let him alone.

Instead, his trouble only increased: no sooner had he forced out the words than he felt Maglor’s presence abruptly recede, as if in flight. No, no, this couldn’t happen, he couldn’t have the chance to finally keep hold of someone just slip through his fingers like that.

He itches to leap up and chase after Maglor right then and there, but Annehtë is still there, looking at him expectantly after his most recent statement. Right. He has to deal with this nonsense.

“It is true,” he continues, “that Maedhros and Maglor invaded and destroyed our home when we were children. But that is the only true thing you have said. They were kind to us from the beginning, although it would have been expedient to kill or abandon us. They loved us as their own sons; they only sent us away because they were sending everyone away that they could.”

Annehtë is spluttering. “But--but they were, are kinslayers! They cannot have had kindness in them, or how could they have done all that they did?”

“I do not know,” Elrond says, a little proud of how steady his voice is despite his rage. “I have wrestled with that myself. But there is no doubt in my mind that they loved us, that they gave us all the goodness they could scrape together in themselves, which was no small amount. So you will not say such things to me again--not only because they are false, but because my relationship with my fathers is none of your business.”

Then, finally, he has the opportunity to storm out in the wake of her stunned silence, and the moment he is out of the tent, he breaks into a sprint in the direction he felt Maglor’s presence receding towards.

Fortunately, his foster father does not have much of a head start, and it only takes a few minutes for Elrond to detect that flare of fëa and follow it into the woods. He quickly spots a figure curled in the shadows at the base of a large tree. A couple of paces closer, and he realizes that Maglor is weeping silently.

That does it. He flies across the short remaining distance, dropping to his knees and reaching out. “Atya? Atya! It’s all right, I’m here, I’m sorry...”

Maglor looks up at him, wide-eyed. “Elrond. Is it really you? I thought--”

“If you had stayed only a moment longer, you would have heard me go on to verbally eviscerate her,” Elrond declares. “I felt you outside the tent, I was trying anything I could to get away quickly, but it only led to me having to chase you down. What has happened to you? Where is Atar? Why did you not come to me, or to Elros or both of us, before?”

Maglor shivers. “Maedhros is dead,” he says hoarsely.

Elrond freezes. “What? He cannot be--they told us they had let you both go unharmed, they swore to me--”

“He cast himself into a chasm of fire,” Maglor continues, glorious voice flat and dull. “We took the Silmarils, and they burned us as they burn creatures of evil, and--he could not bear it. They physical wound, yes, but not--and so he ended.”

He looks up at Elrond, meeting his eyes for the first time. “He was gone, and Elros had already left for wherever his Isle of Gift will be, and there was no one else, so I thought to go to you. And then I heard--”

“--possibly the least important part of all that I had to say,” Elrond assures. He cradles Maglor’s hands in his, noting with an inward hiss of dismay the ugly burn upon the right palm. “I did not want to leave you and Atar before; I am certainly not going to let you slip away now.”

“You should,” Maglor says, making a brief abortive movement as if he would pull away but cannot bear to. “I have slain kin again, I am a thief and a murderer and kidnapper, my heels are dogged by a curse--”

“I care for none of that,” Elrond says quietly. “That is, I am not glad that you have killed again, but I don’t think you will do so any more, and I do not think there is any punishment anyone could inflict on you that would be worse than the rejection of the Silmarils and the loss of Atar.”

Maglor is silent, only bowing his head.

“I will not be staying with the Host for much longer,” Elrond forges on determinedly. “Finarfin has been trying to talk me into returning with the Amnyar, but I do not plan to. As soon as I can make that clear without burning any bridges, I will be leaving here--I want to travel, and study the different peoples of Middle-earth, and collect their knowledge. So much has been lost during the wars, but nowperhaps I can seek to preserve.”

A brief hesitation, and then, “If you will only wait here where I can find you until then, you are welcome to join me--no, more than welcome, I would earnestly desire it. We can travel together. First to Elros, I think--he will be glad to see you are alive, and will want to mourn Atar with us.”

There is a terribly long silence before Maglor lifts his head again. “I should not agree. I do not deserve it,” he says. “But I fear I am too weak now to fight against what I want so badly.”

Elrond lets out the breath he didn’t realize he was holding. “Good,” he says, a little unsteadily. He can work with that. Slowly, he drops the rest of the way to the ground and pulls Maglor into a tight, fierce embrace. “That’s good. That’ll be all right.”

#tolkienfamilyweek #silmarillion #maglor #elrond #kidnap fam #post war of wrath #maybe this belonged under the found family day?#but kidnap fam was my silm gateway drug and it's what I think of first when I see “tolkien” and “parents”#archaeologist-anthropologist elrond makes another appearance #so does my favorite genre of “outsider sees kidnap fam and assumes the worst”#soleil writes things #refracted (fanfiction)

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annoyinglandmagazine · 5 months

Text

Years Of Imitating Mastery, Have Only Made Me A Better Thief

Summary: There was a look in his eyes, a sorrowful longing that he was more familiar with than he would like to be. He didn’t look like Nimloth, not really. Or Elrond and Celeborn angst for Day 3: Extended Family @tolkienfamilyweek

Celeborn had avoided him thus far; nothing obvious or malicious, he was always perfectly civil, but over time it was hard to ignore that when they brushed past each other their eyes never met, that he always seemed to filter out of a room when the others present grew too thin to act as buffers between them, that he didn’t seem fully at ease when Elrond’s gaze rested on him on the rare occasions they did exchange pleasantries.

It didn’t bother him. It didn’t. He had dealt with far worse rejection than the polite avoidance of some distant relative he’d never known. It wasn’t as if Celeborn seemed to distrust him, he had never seemed wary when Elrond was to lead beside him in battle (which was more than he could say for certain Sindar). Occasionally disapproving to be sure but that could easily fall into the category of people who questioned the ethics of letting someone his age fight at all, which he did not mind on principle considering those people were probably right.

On one occasion he could have sworn he saw him flinch momentarily at the eight pointed star on the hilt of his sword when Elrond had been sharpening it over his knee; he had a right to that of course, they all did. It was no one’s fault, not really, it just was.

He rifled through his journal, leather dyed forest green with thick swathes of creamy paper, different shades, textures and scents betraying the way he’d been clipping things into it once the original piece had run out some 30 years previously. He’d have started using a new one, he could certainly afford to, but this had been the first thing he’d been given for no ostensible reason other than that he may like it (he’d gone with Maglor to gather some supplies and he’d assumed it was a ledger for official matters yet he’d come home to find it resting on his pillow. It had been seven silver coins, he remembered that still). He liked to have some reason to carry it around with him so he could remind himself that for reasons beyond his understanding he had been loved by those who were not meant to be capable of it.

At present he was searching for a particular section, the notes he had accumulated over a few particular Avari dialects, as if the few minutes before he needed to be the picture of composure and a fountain of diplomatic knowledge by the High King’s side would give him anymore conversational skill in some of the only languages he had never heard spoken. Still he could not take his page of verb conjugations into the banquet so best try while he could.

‘I hope I’m not interrupting?’ Elrond stifled a sigh and shut the journal on his desk, resigned to his fate of not understanding everything said in discussions for the first time since he came into Gil Galad’s service.

He turned to meet the gaze of his visitor ‘Not at all, was there something you needed Lord Celeborn?’

Rather than an answer he got another question, he should have been used to it after living with elves so long but it still grated at his edainic sensibilities. ‘Are you content in Lindon?’

Well what was he to make of that? Could it be political somehow, Celeborn and Galadriel had seemed pleased enough with Gil Galad’s position but who could begin to parse the web of complexities of their manoeuvrings? ‘Very, my lord. Gil Galad has been exceedingly welcoming and there is no one more worthy of my loyalty.’ Perhaps a little on the defensive side but not nearly as confrontational as he had the slight reputation for being at times.

He did not seem to take offence, smiling, ever so slightly unsure, and pausing before speaking again in a tone almost too gentle to be heard, ‘I’m glad to hear it. You remind me greatly of your grandmother, you know.’

There was a look in his eyes, a sorrowful longing that he was more familiar with than he would like to be. He didn’t look like Nimloth, not really. He’d seen paintings of her, talked to others who had met her, never had any similarity been apparent or commented on. Everyone always said the same thing, Luthien dominated leaving only the barest trace of anything else to be found by those who saw only what they wished to see. Elrond decided to be kind and turned to compose himself by fixing the braids bound above his head, hair black as a void, thick and wavy, as far as you could get from the smooth curtain of silver depicted on the statues of Celeborn’s long lost cousin.

He was interrupted out of his musings by Celeborn hesitantly moving forward to stand in front of him. ‘I- thought that you might like to have this. I guessed that you might not have many things from Doriath.’ In his outstretched hand was a hair clasp, beautiful in its elegance, emerald green coloured glass shaping interlocking leaves and blossoms.

He spoke, only confirming what Elrond already knew, ‘It was her’s.’ This was all he had of her and he was giving it away to someone he barely knew, someone who had never met the elleth he was clearly mourning deeply.

‘Really, lord Celeborn, I cannot accept-’

He placed it into his hand and gently closed Elrond’s fingers around it as if they were delicate, more delicate than the glass itself, liable to be snapped if handled too roughly. Celeborn had seen him rip an orc’s arm out of it’s socket once. He got the feeling that he had tried to forget that, it would complicate matters, make it harder to pretend he was that pale silver haired girl laughing among the trees and muddying her dresses by playing in the riverbanks trying to drag him along with her with childish pleading. Elrond wished once again that images and snatches did not cross from others to him so naturally. Without the confirmation he could have pretended as well.

‘Please. It is yours by right.’ They stood there for a moment, both uncertain but Celeborn hiding it a great deal better.

‘Would you like me to show you how to use it?’ Celeborn smiled at him. It was a nice smile, fond and soft, one you would give a favoured nephew of about ten, not an estranged cousin raised by your worst enemies and trained in all manner of brutal warfare. One he might have given an Elrond raised in the Havens of Sirion, a sweet and naive youth who had never come into being. Is that who Celeborn was choosing to see before him? The perfect Sindarin prince who had died many times since the siege of Sirion, who had perhaps never existed in the first place but who could know now?

Elrond nodded slowly and sank down in front of his mirror obediently; Celeborn gently pulled out the gold pins holding his hair in tight braids about his head and found the brush to slowly smooth out the kinks. Did he breathe easier when the Noldorin patterns were no longer visible or was it just Elrond’s imagination prescribing motives to kindness because that at least was familiar to him. He thought he could feel some satisfaction as the last one unwound; the mark of his ‘captors’ gone from an ellyn Celeborn wished to see as one of his own people.

He found himself wishing for one terrible moment that he could be who Celeborn so clearly wanted, that the complexities could be so easily brushed away with fond and comforting strokes. That maybe if he was Celeborn would stay for a few moments longer; he was gathering his hair in his hands and plaiting pieces of it back from his face patiently, genuinely trying to show him how so he could replicate it. He remembered hearing somewhere that Celeborn and Galadriel had a young daughter and thought fancifully if this was how he was with her. He’d had many families already and it seemed unfair to ache for another when all that he touched burned away in his palm. He wanted nonetheless.

It had been long since he’d felt someone smoothing his hair so gently and the warmth of the gesture made him ache and want to claw desperately and seize at this warmth that seemed so close to genuine affection until he looked up at Celeborn’s face and something in his eyes made the hopeful smile growing on his face falter. He had that far off gaze again, the melancholy one he’d known earlier that told him he was not truly here. He was in Doriath or in Sirion, with Nimloth, Luthien, Elwing or perhaps with a son that belonged to Elrond’s mother and no other.

As a solitary tear slipped past Celeborn’s cheek and was quickly brushed away he decided with a growing weariness that Celeborn needed this more than he did. Elrond was kind above all, a conscious decision for kindness’s sake and a selfish, childish impulse that still believed that if he was more obliging, more helpful, more sweet, more loveable they would stop leaving. One day. When Celeborn was visiting he wore his hair like he’d shown him and dressed in flowing silver, grey and white, certain brooches, necklaces, circlets and weapons left pointedly in his chambers.

He spoke Sindarin perfectly of course, when he sung in it there was no trace of who had taught him to do so. Maglor Feanorian was, rather ironically, entirely forgotten when he sang, no one questioned where he might have learned to manipulate the nature and possibly, some murmured, people around him despite how obvious it should have been that there was one particular bard infamous for using those exact techniques. After all with his ebony waves down to his knees, bright eyes and distinct otherness that could only be Maiarin why should his skill at Song be worth commenting on?

He still smiled brightly when Celeborn kissed his forehead in greeting or complimented and offered advice (generally very good when not affiliated with the Kazhad in any way) on his diplomatic endeavours. The snatches of that girl were never far from Celeborn’s mind when Elrond smiled. Was this all he was, a poor substitute for a thousand different people, a corrupted reflection from a mirror of other people’s regrets? Was it even right to resent it when as Celeborn’s hands had started running through his hair for one moment he’d closed his eyes and wished them to be those of a kinslayer? Even as the warmth he craved lingered in his chest it was replaced with a gnawing emptiness, even greater than before. But Elrond was kind so he smiled as if nothing was amiss.

#Tolkienfamilyweek #silmarillion #tolkien #Lotr #lord of the rings #elrond peredhel #celeborn

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