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a-world-of-whimsy-5 · 1 year

Note

Hi, M!

Congrats on the 500 milestone!

I'd like to request

Orome x fem reader

Prompt list 1 is all so good but I think I'll go with either "Spread your legs wider" or "Show me how much you need me"

Make it extra spicy, please!

Thank you 🫣😋😚

Thank you for the ask! As for your prompt selection, how about we combine both?

Prompts: "Spread your legs wider" and "Show me how much you need me" | Setting: Woods of Oromë

“The chase”

Pairing: Oromë x Fem. reader (Maia | Second person POV)

Themes: Smut | Soft

Word count: 1.3k words

Summary: A game of hide and seek ends up being more than that.

Rating: 🔥🔥| Minors DNI | 18+

Want to be tagged? Want to know the reader request rules? Read all here

Telperion’s pale light lit up the meadow. It was pretty, with a little pond and fireflies all over. Vivid streaks of blue and silver mingled with the gold of the fireflies, making the water sparkle as if a thousand stars blinked beneath the surface. It was most spectacular, but you couldn't stay to enjoy it. Not while the chase was still afoot.

"Where are you, little sparrow?" A deep voice echoed through the woods. "Come out! Come out wherever you are!"

You picked up your skirts and ran, giggling merrily to yourself. Oromë was out there, somewhere, trailing you like the skilled hunter that he was. It was a game the two of you sometimes played, with him tracking you and you hiding from him. And he always found you. No matter where you hid or what you did, Oromë always found you and always claimed his reward. You felt your skin prickle at that thought and wondered how he would claim his reward after catching you this time.

You heard nothing, save for the leaves rustling in the wind and the grass crunching beneath your feet. You saw nothing, save for the trees that stood like silent sentinels and the fireflies flitting about. That was the problem with Oromë, for he was most skilled at concealing himself. He could be a foot behind you, and you wouldn't even notice. Not until he was practically on top of you. You ran and ran, questioning your decision to run around in nothing but a nightgown and a robe. If one of the other Ainur saw you...

"There you are!" Oromë suddenly appeared from behind the trees and tackled you to the ground, bringing you down on the soft spring grass with a low thud.

"My lord," you giggled, breathless and giddy, as he caged you to the ground. "This is most unfair. I can never escape you."

Oromë merely chuckled and kept you pinned beneath him, his arms holding you in a loose embrace. "I thought you never wanted to escape me."

"Fibber," you lied, and rather poorly at that. Deep down, there was a small part of you that longed to be found, to be captured, and these chases were something you always looked forward to.

Oromë laughed this time, the star-like flecks in his inky black eyes gleaming with a light all of their own. "You are in no position to call me a liar," he grinned, his hand already undoing the belt on your robe. "For I can see it in your eyes. Oh yes. Deep down, you want me to find you. And claim you. And have my way with you. Do you deny it?"

You couldn't deny it and shook your head. Oromë grinned, a slow, wicked grin, as he drew away your robe and exposed the wisps that lay beneath. "What is this?" he asked, eyeing the sheer material with darkening eyes.

"A new nightgown," you said, your heart fluttering when his hand glided over the fabric. "One the Eldar prefers. Do you like it?"

"Indeed," Oromë kept looking at the shift, at how it moved beneath his hand, at how the material left little to the imagination, and at how it clung to you with every breath you took. "Such a shame though, to have to rip it all up."

"My lord," you muttered half-heartedly, your defenses slowly crumbling when his hand went lower, tugging at your skirts and hiking them up to your waist so he could run his hand down your thigh. "I cannot go back to the halls in tattered garments! What will everyone think?"

Oromë smirked, his eye glinting wickedly. "I do not care what the others think. And neither should you." He propped himself up on his elbow, his free hand gliding along the inside of your thigh. "Now, I believe it is time for my reward."

Your agreement was drowned in his kiss, one that was hungry and so demanding, his tongue forcing its way past your lips. Oromë growled when your arms twined around his shoulders and your fingers dug into his tunic.

"Go on," he sighed blissfully when you moaned his name. "Show me how much you need me."

That undid you, and you kissed him back with equal fire, your fingers nearly ripping at his clothes. Oromë's hand streaked its way all over your thigh and belly, moving over your shift and yanking down at your collar in a swift but impatient move. There was a sharp rip, and the cloth tore clean down the center. You were past caring at this point, and the cool air dancing over your skin only served to inflame you even more.

"Mmm, little sparrow," Oromë touched you again and again, his hand greedy and possessive, warming your exposed fana wherever it touched. "How I love the sounds you make."

You had been babbling his name, begging him to take you right there on the forest floor. It was so sweet and heady to hear, and Oromë gladly obliged, cupping you first, slowly rubbing his fingers over your slick heat. His touch was slow and rhythmic, stoking the heat already pooling in your belly. Oromë couldn't help but groan when you ground into his hand.

"Soaking wet for me already," he muttered in satisfaction. "Good. I'm going to fuck you until I feel that sweet little cunt of yours clenching around my cock."

"Please, my lord," you mewled helplessly. You felt like you were already burning to your core, your fana aching with growing need. You couldn't wait anymore. You wanted him inside of you now. "Just take me, my lord. Please."

Oromë growled and let go, helping you undo the clasps of his breeches. The two of you were impatient and fumbled, and you giggled at each other's clumsiness. It still served, and his erection soon filled your hand. Oromë closed his eyes as you stroked him, the lewd sounds he made peppering the air repeatedly. The warmth of your touch was not enough for him, and he pushed you onto your back, moaning when your hands delved into his thick black hair.

"Spread your legs wider," he breathed, his voice already rough, his length already piercing your entrance. You rested your legs over his, a deep moan spilling past your lips when he entered you in one thrust, his cock filling the very deepest parts of your throbbing cunt. When your next moan spilled free he moved, fucking you slowly, his lips and teeth already marking the soft flesh around your throat.

His hips ground against the insides of your thighs; his hand gripped hard at your hip, his fingers leaving little crescent-shaped bruises and marring your skin. His moans soon matched yours; his sinful mouth left its mark all over your throat. You encouraged him, to be rougher, to go harder and faster, his thrusts growing more erratic each time he pushed his hips in and pushed you harder against the ground. Your fana tensed as this wave of unimaginable bliss rose higher and higher, pulling you into a dark tunnel of desire. Your hands raked through Oromë's hair, tugging at it and making him moan even more. You were so close, so very close. So was he. When you cried out and your walls clenched around his cock, he surrendered as his orgasm ripped through him. He moaned, a deep, throaty moan, as he spilled his seed, his body slowly coming to rest over yours.

Consciousness came slowly as you blinked and opened your eyes. Oromë was still on top of you, his chest heaving against yours. "My lord," you whispered, smoothing back his hair. The sweet scent of him, that of a pine forest in spring, mixed with the scent of new grass and wildflowers, and you couldn't help but take a deep breath of all of it. "Do we have to go back?"

"We must," Oromë murmured reluctantly, and he moved to his side, taking you with him. "In case someone comes looking for us. You can use my cloak. No one will say anything."

Tags: @cilil @asianbutnotjapanese @fictionfordays @edensrose

#🔥 spicy spring fling 🔥#oromë #Oromë x reader #Oromë smut #Orome smut #The valar #The ainur #reader request #Reader insert #x reader #The silm #the silmarilion #The silm smut #writeblr #💫a world of whimsy writes

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armenelols · 3 years

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The first time I read The Lord of the Rings, I remember thinking 'why is everything so grey?' There was the Grey Company in their grey cloaks, Elrond in his grey mantle and Arwen in her grey dress; grey eyes, silver eyes, symbolism with night and evening and stars. Silver and grey were the colours appearing consistently though the trilogy, most often with the elves and Dúnedain.

So I wondered... Why?

I have said it before and I am saying it again - I am not a big fan of Elrond calling himself a fëanorian, nor am I a fan of him being considered a Noldo.

He is half-elven. It's referred to so often it is impossible to miss. He is called kin of both Elves and Men, and he associates with both.

But if we have to speak of Elrond strictly as of an elf, I do not think Noldor are the way to go.

In The Peoples of Middle-earth, chapter Problem of Ros, we can find this passage:

The names Elros and Elrond that Elwing gave to her sons were held prophetic, as many mother-names among the Eldar. For after the Last Battle and the overthrow of Morgoth, when the Valar gave Elros and Elrond a choice to belong either to the kin of the Eldar or to the king of Men, it was Elros who voyaged over sea to Númenor following the star of Eärendil; whereas Elrond remained among the Elves and carried on the lineage of King Elwë.

Note 19

And also that of Turgon; though he preferred that of Elwë, who was not under the ban that was laid on the Exiles.

It is said Elrond himself preferred his status as the heir of Elwë over Turgon - and while yes, this book isn't exactly full-canon and was posted after Tolkien's death, there are just enough quotes in LotR itself to prove which side of his heritage Elrond preferred.

'... Eärendil was my sire, who was born in Gondolin before its fall; and my mother was Elwing, daughter of Dior, son of Lúthien of Doriath...'

- FotR

Elrond names Eärendil as his father, yes, but that's it - while with Elwing, he names half of his family tree.

More than that, there are the connections of Elrond and his family to the colour gey - the colour of Sindar, Grey-elves, and their king Elu Thingol.

Almost every time a member of the House of Elrond appears, they are wearing grey or are described in relation to the evening, stars, night.

And while stars are associated with all elves, the combination of all those elements is most common with - you guessed it - Sindar.

[of Elrond] His hair was dark as the shadows of twilight, and upon it was set a circlet of silver; his eyes were grey as a clear evening, and in them was a light like the light of stars.

-FotR

[of Arwen] ... and the light of stars was in her bright eyes, grey as a cloudless night; yet queenly she looked, and thought and knowledge were in her glance, as of one who has known many things that the years bring. Above her brow her head was covered with a cap of silver lace netted with small gems, glittering white; but her soft grey raiment had no ornament save a girdle of leaves wrought in silver.

- FotR

[of Elladan and Elrohir] ...two tall men, neither young nor old. So much alike were they, the sons of Elrond, that few could tell them apart; dark-haired, grey-eyed, and their faces elven-fair, clad alike in bright mail beneath cloaks of silver-grey.

- RotK

Elrond wore a mantle of grey and had a star upon his forehead, and a silver was in his hand, and upon his finger was a ring of gold with a great blue stone, Vilya, mightiest of the Three.

- RotK

There are more connections - Elladan and Elrohir bearing a silver banner, the above mentioned Grey Company who are known friends of the House of Elrond, as well as descendants of Númenor, and others.

In Problem of Ros, we also have this bit:

Now Elrond was a word for the firmament, the starry dome as it appeared like a roof to Arda; and it was given by Elwing in memory of the great Hall of the Throne of Elwë in the midst of his stronghold of Menegroth that was called Menelrond, because by the arts and aid of Melian its high arched roof has been adorned with silver and gems set in the order and figures of the stars in the great Dome of Valar in Aman, whence Melian came.

More connection to stars, to Menegroth, to Elwing, to Thingol.

And of course, of Thingol himself:

... Elu Thingol he was called, King Greymantle, in the tongue of his people. They are called the Sindar, Grey-elves, of starlit Beleriand; and although they were Moriquendi, under the lordship of Thingol and the teaching of Melian they became the fairest and the most wise and skillful of all the Elves of Middle-earth.

- The Silmarillion

Greymantle. Grey-elves. Starlit Beleriand. Constant references of Thingol and Sindar being connected to the colour grey, stars. Another interesting thing people seem to forget is that Sindar were wise and skilled and not lesser than Noldor, just different - and even than not much as Noldor and Teleri were told to be alike. Daeron constructed Cirth and was a bard of great renown; Lúthien was... Lúthien, which I don't think needs an elaboration; Mablung and Beleg were respected outside of Doriath; Celeborn, called the Wise; Thranduil, a Sinda who would not fight a war over gold (which is always a smart decision); Elwing who was brave and did the best she could (and before anyone goes at me about Elwing, I recommend this post and reading the notes on it).

Outside of them, it is the House of Elrond and Dúnedain who gets connected to the colour grey the most. I don't think it is a stretch to say that of his elven ancestry, he prefers the heritage from his mother.

In the end I see him as a Sinda-Númenorean who has just enough eldtrichness to show he is a descendant of Melian - and maybe a bit more of it when needed. However, he respects all sides of his heritage - and despite me saying he doesn't see himself as a Noldo, he doesn't have any problem with Noldor, nor does he ignore or dislikes that side of his heritage. He is proud of it and bears many Noldorin traits. He taught his children to be the same. It just isn't the most prominent part of him.

I think his tendency to stand in the background rather than lead himself is also a trait more of Sindar than Noldor, for... Obvious reasons. Most of the Noldor in the First Age fought a battle after a battle, rushed into reckless valiant acts. But if we see Sindar in battle, it's most often because they were attacked first; as a last resort; unexpected kicking ass in Lúthien style; because they see no better option.

And in the end, grey is not exactly a distinctive colour - it tends to fade into the background, but is no less than important.

Just like Elrond. Just like Sindar.

#elrond #thingol #sindar #peredhil #tolkien #ALSO #gil-galad ruled over both noldor and sindar #as did other high kings before him #so elrond being his herald doesn't erase his sindarin part of identity #anyway #if you feel about this differently? cool we all have our opinions #i am screaming about mostky sindarin-númenorean eldritch adventurer elrond who acquired way too many family members and friends and accepts #*mostly #i don't dislike noldorin elrond (nor his kids being noldorin)#i just see them as... well... half-elves leaning towards certain parts of their heritage but respecting all #no i didn't proof-read this and it shows

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warrioreowynofrohan · 4 years

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Vice and Virtue in Tolkien’s Works

I’ve been rereading Dante’s Purgatorio (easily my favourite of the three sections, both for having a very satisfying structure and for its themes of repentance and reform), and the structure inspired this post. Each level of purgatory has images, words, or both, associated with the vice being reformed and its corresponding virtue (the examples being drawn both from the Bible and Greco-Roman history and mythology) and it gave me ideas for a discussion of similar themes in Tolkien’s works.

The structure is: 1) Pride/Humility; 2) Envy/Generosity of Spirit; 3) Wrath/Charity; 4) Sloth/Zeal); 5) Avarice/Simplicity; 6) Gluttony/Abstinence; 7) Lust/Romantic Love.

1) Pride/Humility

Saruman: Our time is at hand: the world of Men, which we must rule. But we must have power, power to order all things as we will, for that good which only the Wise can see.

Frodo: I will take the Ring, though I do not know the way.

This is easily the primary emphasis in Tolkien’s works. The fall of all his main villains (Morgoth, Sauron, Fëanor, the Númenoreans, Saruman) and as well as other non-villainous tragic characters (Túrin, Thingol, Turgon, Thorin, Denethor) is characterized by pride - the desire to be the one calling the shots, the desire for greatness and others’ recognition of that greatness, the refusal to listen to the advice or views of others.

It’s there in Melkor’s desire for his theme to be the only one heard in the Music; in Sauron’s desire to rule the world and arrange everything as he thinks best; in Fëanor’s determination to take any advice, correction, or disagreement as a personal attack, his desire for rulership in Middle-earth, and his attitude that the Silmarils are more important than anything anyone else has done or created; the late-stage Númenoreans’ campaign of imperialist conquest. It’s there in Túrin’s, Thingol’s, and Turgon’s rejection of good advice; in Thingol’s attitude towards other peoples, whether it’s Beren or the dwarves; in Denethor’s conviction that Gondor is the only place and people of any account in the war against Sauron.

Humility, in contrast, is mainly seen in the form of hobbits. None of them have any idea what they’re doing when they leave Rivendell (Sam and Pippin don’t even know where Mordor is), and they know they’ve got no idea. They’re not going because they see themselves as specially skilled or qualified, but because it needs to be done. And that’s the very reason Frodo can resist the Ring so long, and Sam can resist it, because they don’t have any grand ideas of themselves.

The ability to say I don’t know what I’m doing, but I’ll try to do what’s right is pretty crucial to humility; even members of the Fellowship who are far more experienced, skilled and knowledgeable than the hobbits show it. Aragorn says it, in the search for Merry and Pippin when they’re captured by orcs. Pride could easily say I need to go with the Ring-bearer, that’s the most important task or I need to go to Gondor and lead the war against Sauron as their King. But Aragorn lets himself trust in other people doing their parts, and focuses on rescuing his companions - the thing that no one else is a available to do - even as the chase seems increasingly hopeless. It’s also seen in Gandalf, who openly admitted he was scared to go when the Valar first sent him, and wandered around as an old man in a battered cloak and hat, talking with everyone, rather than setting himself up as a Respectable Dignified Authority Figure the way Saruman did.

The Silmarillion has fewer examples of humility than LOTR (perhaps why things turn out so much worse there) but there are a few in the Leithian. Lúthien is another case of saying I don’t know what I’m doing, but I’ll do it because no one else will when she sets off to rescue Beren. Finrod walks away from his crown and realm to help a friend.

2) Envy/Generosity of Spirit

Denethor: I will not step down to be the dotatd chamberlain of an upstart.

Faramir: My lord, you called me. I come. What does the king command?

Envy is akin to pride, but I’m characterizing it as being specifically the resentment of being surpassed (or even equalled) by another.

Fëanor is again a major example of this, specifically in his resentment of Fingolfin and of the descendents of Indis more generally. Peoples of Middle-earth notes that he resented the name Nolofinwë (Fingolfin’s Quenya name, roughly means ‘wise-Finwë or ‘learned-Finwë’) due to regarding himself as not only the most skilled of the Noldor at craftwork (which he was), but also the most skilled at lore/scholarship (which he wasn’t), and likewise resented the name Arafinwë (Finarfin’s Quenya name). He’s in a mental place of resenting anything positive that can be said about his brothers as if it inherently detracts from him. And he takes the same attitude towards Men (‘No other race shall oust us!’), treating their very existence as a threat to the Eldar. Losgar is the peak of this: he’s willing to sabotage his own war effort to prevent Fingolfin from participating. This is contasted with Maedhros’ attitude after being rescued by Fingon, when he willingly gives up the crown and, later, moves across Beleriand to the most exposed section of the northern border to avoid conflict. His own status isn’t his priority; peace with his family and the best interests of the war against Morgoth are his priorities.

Denethor is another major example, seeing both Aragorn’s return and Faramir’s respect for Gandalf as personal affronts to himself. (Gandalf points out that the literal job description of a steward is to be in charge until the king returns. When the king comes back, that means you’ve done your job, not that you’re being demoted. Denethor is not interested in hearing this.) He’s also mentioned in the Appendices to have resented the respect and admiration recieved by Thorongil [i.e. Aragorn in disguise] during the days of their youth. In very similar ways, Saruman resented the high regard that some (like Galadriel) had for Gandalf, and saw Gandalf as a rival. Thorongil and Gandalf were not interested in rivalry; they were more interested in what was achieved than in who was achieving it. Faramir is the contrast here - he is interested in the good of Gondor, not his own status, and has no jealousy of Aragorn.

3. Wrath/Charity

Fëanor: See, half-brother! This is sharper than thy tongue. Try but once more to usurp my place and the love of my father, and maybe it will rid the Noldor of one who seeks to be the master of thralls.

Gandalf: It was Pity that stayed Bilbo’s hand; Pity, and Mercy, not to strike without need.

I would say that this is the third-most-emphasized of the vices in Tolkien’s works, after pride and avarice. And, of course, another Fëanor example: both his threat on Fingolfin’s life and his actions during the Return of the Noldor, the latter being driven by wrath primarily against Morgoth and secondarily against everyone else in his vicinity (Valar! Teleri! Fingolfin and anyone who supports him!). It’s the spillover that’s the problem, and the self-centredness; hating Morgoth isn’t a problem in and of itself, but Fëanor’s taking the fight against evil and turning it into a personal vendetta, with disastrous consequences.

Túrin is another example, most particularly in three events: causing the death of Saeros, burning the hall of Brodda in Dor-lómin, and killing Brandir. The former two are provoked, the latter isn’t, but all of them are sudden deeds of anger that only serve to make matters worse.

The contrasting virtue is charity, mercy shown to people that you have good reason to be hostile towards. Fingon’s rescue of Maedhros. Lúthien’s sparing of Curufin when he and Celegorm attacked her and Beren. Frodo sparing Gollum and treating him with kindness and compassion.

4. Sloth/Zeal

Guard Hobbit: It won’t do no good talking that way. He’ll get to hear of it. And if you make so much noise, you’ll wake the Chief’s Big Man.

Merry: Shire-folk have been so comfortable so long they don’t know what to do. They just want a match, though, and they’ll go up in fire.

This is comparatively less of an emphasis in Tolkien’s works than some of the other pairings, but I can think of some examples. The best one is Saruman’s takeover of the Shire and the subsequent liberation. Sloth is the characteristic hobbit vice (not gluttony; I’ll get to that); they tend towards being comfortable and complacent and don’t like being bestirred. Even Frodo dawdled around for half a year after learning about the Ring, mostly because he was reluctant to go. And under first Lotho and then Saruman, everyone (except Tooks) more or less puts up with an abuses because they don’t want the trouble or danger of standing up against them. It’s the return of Merry, Pippin, Sam, and Frodo, who have experience fighting evil on a much larger scale (and who can organize things) that spurs them to stand up for themselves and their home.

5. Avarice/Simplicity

Celegorm: For the Silmarils we alone claim, until the world ends.

Gandalf: I wonder what has become of [the mithril-shirt]? Gathering dust still in Michel Delving Mathom-house, I suppose.

Avarice is, I would say, the second-most-emphasized vice in Tolkien’s works, after pride. The central conflicts in both The Silmarillion and The Lord of the Rings are objects (they’re in the titles!): the Silmarils and the Ring. The Oath is almost the strongest possible expression of avarice, the most extreme statement of this is mine that a person can make; The Ring is an even more extreme expression, as Sauron makes an object that is literally part of himself. And both conflicts are resolved through the renunciation of claim on these objects, in Eärendil’s journey to Valinor (and the Silmaril becoming a star that is seen by everyone and owned by no one) and Frodo and Sam’s mission to destroy the Ring.

The Silmarils themselves are not evil; they are good and hallowed objects, and fights between elves, dwarves, and men are the result of the Oath (the kinslayings) and the connection with the dragon-contaminated and Mîm-cursed treasure of Nargothrond (Thingol and the dwarves of Nogrod). The Ring is evil, and inducing avarice is its most basic power, even among people like Sméagol and Déagol who could never actually wield it; letting it go is incredibly difficult, and Bilbo and Sam are the only people in the history of the Ring ever to do it.

Avarice is also a central theme in The Hobbit, and dragon-treasure is specifically noted as provoking avarice in people who are in any way inclined towards that vice. Smaug is practically a physical manifestation of avarice in his rage over losing one small cup that he has no use for from an immense hoard, and both Thorin and the master of Lake-town fall prey to the dragon-sickness.

I’ve given ‘simplicity’ as the antonym, and I thought of ‘generosity’ as well, but neither of those is quite right. The opposite of avarice is holding lightly to things, and it’s a particular virtue of hobbits. This is seen both in their birthday parties (the tradition of giving away possessions) and the Michel Delving Mathom-house, a museum for old heirlooms that people feel they don’t need to have around. The most beautiful example is Bilbo’s mithril-shirt (worth more than the entire Shire!) spending some time sitting around there.

It’s worth nothing that the vice of avarice in Tolkien’s works isn’t associated with having stuff, just with holding to stuff. Bag End being comfortable isn’t a problem. The Noldor having piles of jewels isn’t a problem provided that they’re sharing them and letting them go, as in the Noontide of Valinor (gemstones scattered on the seashore!) or Finrod giving them away in Middle-earth. The issue comes when the owning becomes what a person values; the signal that Fëanor is becoming too tied to the Silmarils is when he prefers to lock them away so no one else can see them.

6. Gluttony/Abstinence

Gollum: He’ll eat us all, if he gets it, eat all the world!

The lembas had a virtue without which they would long ago have laid down to die. It did not satisfy desire...and yet this waybread of the Elves had a potency that increased as travellers relied on it alone and did not mingle it with other foods. It fed the will, and gave strength to endure...

Gluttony is distinguished from avarice as the desire to consume things, not merely accumulate them. This is an interesting one, because Tolkien has no issue with the consuption of large amounts of food for enjoyment (which hobbits do frequently and enthusiastically!). As with possessions, enjoyment of physical things isn’t seen as problematic. The enjoyment of everyday pleasures is specifically discussed as morally desirable in a way that contrasts with avaricious accumulation (“If more of us valued food and cheer and song above hoarded gold, it would be a merrier world.”)

However, there is one large (very, very large) example of the concept of gluttony as unlimited consumption and appetite: Ungoliant. Ungoliant represents not the hoarding of things, but their destruction, and is continually described with very physical terms of appetite and devouring. Shelob and the spiders of Mirkwood are lesser versions of the same concept. There are other mosters in the same vein: Sauron’s werewolves and Carcharoth. On of the names for Carcharoth is Anfauglir, the Jaws of Thirst, specifically invoking the idea of insatiable consumption.

And gluttony can be described more broadly as an form of overconsumption which uses up or destroys things; pollution could be a modern-day example. Looked at in that way, gluttony can be considered the end-stage of all evil in Tolkien, in the same way that pride is its beginning-stage. The ruin of the Anfauglith, the Desolation of the Morannon, the trees of Fangorn used to feed the fires of Isengard or hacked down for no purpose (and even Losgar, if you like) are all its work. Gollum (heavily driven by mundane hunger) grasps this when he fears Sauron regaining the Ring: “He’ll eat us all, if he gets it, eat all the world!” Ungoliant is the final stage of all evil.

In the same way that hobbits enjoying ample meals isn’t treated as a moral flaw, abstinence isn’t particularly notable as a virtue. However, it does come up in forms like Sam noting that lembas provides more endurance as the hobbits rely on it solely in their final journey to Mordor. This indicates that Tolkien regards the ability to go without physical pleasures when necessary as a virtue (also symbolized by Sam’s heartrending decision to give up his cooking gear!) but doesn’t place value on ascetism for its own sake.

If we want to expand on the metaphorical idea of gluttony as overconsumption/destruction, then we can also see healing/restoration as its opposing virtue, in forms like the box of soil that Galadriel gives Sam, which he uses to restore the trees of the Shire.

7. Lust/Romantic Love

Celegorm became enamoured of [Lúthien]...they purposed to let the King perish, and to keep Lúthien, and force Thingol to give her hand to Celegorm.

Beren: Though all to ruin fell the world, and were dissolved and backward hurled, unmade into the old abyss, yet were its making good, for this - the dusk, the dawn, the earth, the sea - that Lúthien for a time should be.

Lust is often regarded simply as a term for physical attraction, and its condemnation as a type of prudishness, but I’m going to present a different take, one that draws on its connection with the two preceding vices (the three are consistently grouped together by Dante). Lust is when the two previous desires, of ownership and consumption/use, are applied not to objects but to a person.

It’s an extremely rare vice among elves, with only a few examples in Elvish history: Celegorm, Eöl, Maeglin. In all cases, there is sexual desire combined with the desire for control, turning to violence when that control is thwarted: Celegorm’s imprisonment of Lúthien in the attempt to force her to marry him, and the later assault on her and Beren; Eöl’s restrictions on Aredhel and murder of her when she leaves him; Maeglin’s attempt to kidnap Idril during the Fall of Gondolin.

In contrast, the examples of romantic love, which are primarily the elf-human couples and especially Beren and Lúthien, combine desire with value for the freedom and identity of the beloved, and with self-sacrifice (or willingness to take on risks) for their sake. Beren’s song before setting out for Angband is a celebration of Lúthien’s existence, irrespective of what may happen to him. Lúthien counters with the expression that she does not want to exist apart from him, and purpose of lovers is to act together and to guard and support each other. Elwing runs through the waves to Eärendil on the shores of Valinor because she would rather face the same risks he does than be safe apart from him. Eärendil accepts immortality for love of Elwing. Arwen accepts death for love of Aragorn.

#tolkien #the silmarillion #the lord of the rings #christianity #ethics #moral philosophy #fëanor #frodo #gandalf #sauron #beren #lúthien #ëarendil #elwing #celegorm #sam gamgee #denethor #faramir #saruman

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zelenacat · 3 years

Text

When We Were Young- Chapter 7- An Obitine Story

Four days later, the throne room of the Sundari Summer Palace was filled to the brim with decorum. Mandalore had many clans, but when referring to “the clans” in noble presence, one meant the High Clans that had governed the Mandalore System for over a millenia. Satine could see the set up in her mind. The throne room was long, and she would be seated at the head. In front of her, there would be eight thrones in two columns. One chair for each clan. Currently, the duchess of Mandalore was waiting behind a set of curtains, watching as the front doors were opened. A barrage of guards led eight Mandalorian leaders dressed in their finest into the room.

Fesma and Khaami came up beside her and Satine snuck down in front of the back door.

“Her Grace, the Duchess Satine Kryze of Mandalore, Second of her Name and Lady Krewella, accompanied by the Lady Fesma and the Lady Khaami.”

Satine could hear her footsteps as she entered the throne room and sat on her grand chair, all eyes were on her, not all of them warm. One man stepped forward.

“His Excellency, the Count Kyrel Awuad, head of Clan Awuad,” the announcer told the room.

“Your Grace.” bowed Count Awuad.

“Thank you for coming, Your Excellency,” Satine put on her best smile and gestured, “please take a seat.”

Next, a woman stepped forward.

“Her Excellency, the Countess Shewa Bralor, head of Clan Bralor.”

“Your Grace.” she curtsied.

“It is an honor to have you, Countess Bralor,” Satine straightened, “I hope I can be of much help to you and your kind.”

After a polite nod, she sat down.

“Her Excellency, the Countess Yara Eldar, head of Clan Eldar.”

Countess Yara stepped forward and showed her respect to the Duchess.

“I am grateful to have an audience with Your Grace.” she stated.

“Your kindness is most revered, Your Excellency.” Satine replied.

A man stepped forward.

“His Excellency, the Count Raren Mudhorn, head of Clan Mudhorn.”

“Clan Mudhorn thanks you, Your Grace, for your generosity towards our needs.” bowed the count.

“I am most happy to oblige, Your Excellency.” Satine responded politely.

“His Excellency, the Count Obren Rook, head of Clan Rook.”

Obren Rook gave an impressive bow.

“Your Grace is most magnificent in your eloquence and indulgence.”

Satine almost giggled at the compliment.

“Well, I hope I can live up to your standards, Your Excellency.”

A woman stepped forward and curtsied.

“Her Excellency, the Countess Aara Saxon, head of Clan Saxon.”

“It is a blessing to be in Your Grace’s presence.” said she.

“I hope to do good by your people, Countess.” Satine replied.

The next man was someone the Duchess recognized.

“His Excellency, the Count Tarrei Vizsla, head of Clan Vizsla.”

The Count stood with a tight-lipped smile, “It is quite the opportunity to have the chance to discuss policy with Mandalore’s She-Wolf.”

“I only hope I can hold up to the name, Your Excellency.” the Duchess responded.

The final clan leader was the youngest of the bunch, slightly older than Satine herself.

“Her Excellency, the Countess Ursa Wren, head of Clan Wren.”

Ursa curtsied, “The palace is resplendent, Your Grace, as always.”

“Thank you, Your Excellency,” Satine gestured to the remaining seat, “you are very obliging.”

Once Countess Wren took her seat, the Duchess spoke.

“I have invited you here today to discuss the implementation of the government programs that are improving our society,” Satine clasped her hands, trying not to fiddle, “please tell me whether or not they have been effective, and if there is anything else this government can do to help its people.”

Some of the clan leaders looked at each other and raised their eyebrows, but Ursa Wren stood, unafraid.

“There is the beginning of a food shortage in my province,” she stated, “many are robbing grain or threatening for fruit.”

Satine snapped and Fesma handed her a notebook.

“Is anyone else having this problem?” the Duchess questioned.

The Countess Saxon and Count Awuad stated they were.

“Perhaps an incentive, such as federal funding, would be appreciated by these farmers.” Satine suggested.

“And what of the aggression?” asked Countess Saxon.

“Outlandish fines or jail time could be prescribed as punishment for robbery,” the Duchess suggested, “and we could deploy a quarter of the national guard to be of assistance in your provinces.”

“That would be very helpful, Your Grace,” Count Awaud nodded, “is there any way we could implement a ration system with what we currently have?”

“A favorable solution indeed I think,” Satine scribbled down notes to herself, “we must have enough food to free our people.”

Some of the nobility shared glances, only Count Vizsla seemed unimpressed.

“My province is struggling with gangs, Your Grace,” Count Rook confessed, “we have tried incentives to de escalate violence, but matters have not subsided.”

“We should put their skills to use,” the Duchess decided, “perhaps offering jobs in the national guard would be beneficial?”

“We’ve tried to interest them in civil society, Your Grace,” Count Mudhorn interjected, “at least we’ve done so in my province, but many of these former warriors long for blood.”

The Duchess grew pensive.

“There has been some talk among my advisors,” she said suddenly, “that we should consider sending the most vile of our former warriors to Concordia, in exile.”

Count Vizsla’s face grew dark, and the Duchess addressed the second part of her comment to him.

“I suggest we take this route with only the most repulsive, that after offering them jobs in the national guard or public sport, should they decline, then they shall be sent to our most distant moon.”

The clan leaders agreed that this would be the kindest route to take, and Satine scribbled down her notes.

“What about our troubles with trash disposal and sewage,” asked the Countess Bralor, “I know it’s hardly a polite topic, but it must be discussed.”

“I agree,” Countess Eldar stated, “we have been having some trouble with this in my province as well.”

“The transportation aspect?” Satine questioned to clarify.

“Yes, Your Grace,” Countess Bralor answered, “the plants were not destroyed during the war, but they were abandoned.”

The Duchess nodded, “Would a government funded program be of assistance in this sense?”

“What exactly would this program entail?” Countess Eldar asked.

“Construction training and researchers,” Satine answered, “to help reinstate the process with those able to help improve the system.”

The Countesses actually smiled, and after a brief look, Countess Bralor answered.

“Yes, Your Grace, that would be most kind.”

For the first time, Count Vizsla spoke, “Are you sure these goals are reasonable, Your Grace?”

“Yes,” Satine said with resolve, “just as certainly as the restoration of our System is reasonable.”

Silence flooded the hall.

“Your Grace,” Countess Wren spoke up suddenly, “there has been a mutant of an old disease found in my province, how shall we begin to combat this?”

At this, Satine actually smiled, “Naboo and Cerea have been kind enough to loan us credits for the construction on schools and hospitals. I will tell the hospital committee to begin work in your province, and begin recruiting doctors and scientists for caution.”

Countess Wren’s shoulders eased, “Thank you, Your Grace.”

Satine scribbled down the remainder of her notes and addressed the congregation one more time.

“If that is all, do know that my chefs have prepared an exquisite luncheon, but I know there is much to attend to, and you are under no obligation to stay if business bides you leave.”

Count Vizsla said he was honored, but he had a meeting with the governor of Concordia later this afternoon. Count Rook and Count Mudhorn also politely declined, citing former engagements as well, but the Countess Saxon said she would be glad to know her Duchess better. Countess Eldar decided to stay as well, as did Countess Bralor. Count Awaud apologized, saying that he had a former engagement with the Prime Minister. Countess Wren decided to stay.

Lunch was onion soup, an ancient Mandalorian delicacy, and the Countesses seemed pleased. Satine sat at the head of the table, with Countess Bralor and Saxon on either side of her. Fesma and Khaami were in between them and the other Countesses. It was a quiet lunch, with topics never straying from polite manners and gentle society. Everyone was friendly enough, but Satinie felt she’d accomplished almost nothing by adding the lunch. That was until, Countess Bralor commented on her respect for the Duchess, saying that she conducted herself with an air of grace native to her clan.

“You are most kind, Your Excellency,” Satine actually blushed, “I truly hope I can emulate the traits of a great Duchess.”

“You certainly are far ahead for one so young.” commented Countess Eldar.

“You flatter me, Countess,” Satine smiled, “I owe much of my success to the people around me.”

The chatter resumed, but the Duchess felt a warm glow in her chest for the rest of the meal. The Countesses Saxon and Eldar left together, claiming retail therapy as they’re goal. Countess Bralor, being the older woman she was, went in search of a nap. Fesma began clearing the table.

“I hope you don’t mind, My Lady,” Countess Wren put her hand on Khaami’s arm, “but could you show me to the fresher?”

“I’ll take you,” Satine stood, “Khaami, help Fesma.”

Countess Wren blushed, “I don’t mean to be any trouble, Your Grace.”

“Nonesene,” the Duchess gestured, “I’m heading in that direction anyway.”

On the way to the fresher, Satine noticed the Countess’ strained face and stiff movements. She was going to ask if Her Excellency was well, but she knew that to be a silly question.

“Behind the mirror,” the Duchess whispered as they approached the fresher, “you’ll find what you need.”

Countess Wren nodded, “Thank you, Your Grace.”

Satine was about to leave, deciding against waiting for the Countess outside her door, when she heard a terrible wail from inside.

“Your Excellency?”

“I,” she gasped, “I’m sorry, your Grace, I, I think I need a maid.”

Satine pressed her comm and called for Fesma.

“Is there anything I can help you with?” Satine blurbed before she could stop herself.

“No,” the Countess' voice broke, “I just, I really thought it would happen this time.”

The Duchess was going to ask what would happen, but Fesma arrived, and when she opened the door, Satine saw a bloody crime scene.

Satine pressed her comm just as the door closed, “Khaami, I need you, get a maid to clean up.”

“Let’s get you cleaned up.” Fesma said sadly.

“I prayed so hard,” Countess Wren sobbed, “yet every month it’s the same.”

Satine’s eyes widened, and immediately she felt sorry for Ursa Wren. The Countess obviously needed heirs, and not everyone was as fortunate, or unfortunate, as she had been.

Khaami peeked her head around the corner, “Satine?”

“Prepare my parlor,” the Duchess leveled her lady a look, “chocolate, cookies, and tea.”

Khaami nodded and left.

Satine knocked on the fresher door, “Fesma, how are things going?”

The Countess swallowed, “I’m going to be alright.”

Satine was silent for a moment, “Ursa, come upstairs with me, we’ll give you something to change into.”

“Your Grace-”

“I insist,” Satine said gently, “it’s only right.”

When Fesma and Ursa Wren emerged, Satine led the women through the servants’ halls and into her room.

“Fesma,” Satine turned, “pick out something comfortable for Ursa.”

The lady squeezed the Countess’ hand before going into the closet.

“Ursa,” the Duchess straightened, “there’s something I want to talk to about, something personal.”

The Countess tilted her head, “About you or me?”

“Both of us.” Satine answered.

After Ursa changed, the trio entered the Duchess’ personal parlor, where a cozy spread of food awaited them. Satine sat down on a couch and gestured for Ursa to sit across from her, Fesma and Khaami sat in the two remaining chairs.

Pushing down her nerves, Satine inhaled.

“Your Grace?”

“How badly do you want a child?”

Ursa blinked, shocked.

“I can make it happen,” Satine said earnestly, “I know of a baby that will need a home.”

It took the Countess a second, but her eyes eventually darted between the Duchess’ face and stomach.

“The doctor said I won’t have a baby without scientific assistance,” Ursa explained, “but I would be glad to help you, Satine.”

Tears sprung into the Duchess’ eyes, “Please stay as my personal companion, we’ll need time to work out the details.”

“You’re ladies know,” Ursa asked, “and are you okay with this?”

“We know.” Khaami assured.

“I can’t bring myself to terminate the child of the man I love,” Satine confessed, “but I can’t raise the child as my own.”

Ursa nodded, “I will send a message back to my husband telling him to come visit the capitol.”

“That will be helpful,” Fesma stated, “the Duchess doesn’t trust comms.”

“Neither would I in this situation.” Ursa smiled sadly.

Satine turned to Khaami, “Could you have a room near mine readied for Countess Wren?”

“Of course.” the lady stood.

Satine took a cookie, waiting for Khaami to close the door behind her, “You and your husband must understand that no one can know.”

“Naturally.” Ursa nodded.

“I would like you to help me with some of the procedures we’ll have to go through,” the Duchess leveled Ursa a look, “such as the financial assistance we’ll need for false DNA tests and birth certificates.”

The Countess’ eyes went wide.

“We keep the real documents hidden,” Fesma clarified, “the false ones go where the children do, you shall keep the document belonging to this child.”

Ursa nodded, “You are experienced.”

“Yes,” Satine frowned, “I am.”

Ursa was silent until Khaami returned.

“We should swear an oath.” the Countess stated finally.

“I agree.” the Duchess conferred, nodding to her ladies.

An oath on Mandalore was a very big deal, it was as ancient as swearing on the primitive holy books yet still practiced in value. The only difference is that the searing was done in the Mandalorian style, with blood. The swearing took place in Satine’s personal parlor two days later, with the Count and Countess Wren on one side, and the Duchess on the other. Khaami read from the ancient Mandalorian texts as Fesma lit the candles. Then, as Khaami kept reading, Fesma took a knife and slit all six palms of the oath swearers, who dropped blood into a metal bowl.

“I, Satine Kryze, Duchess of Mandalore,” Satine began, “head of Clan Kryze, Second of my Name, and Lady Krewella, do so charge you with the care of my child.”

The Count and Countess knelt and placed their slit hands above their hearts.

“I, Ursa Wren, Countess Wren, head of Clan Wren, do fully accept this responsibility,” Ursa stared into Satine’s eyes, “and swear my soul to secrecy.”

The Count Wren did the same, and then both drank from the bowl, then the Duchess did, and the oath was sealed.

“This oath is binding.” Khaami finished.

The room was quiet for a long time.

“Thank you, Satine,” Ursa swallowed, “thank you for making our dreams come true.”

As the months went by, Satine’s stomach grew under her corset, but the Duchess’ personal companion, the Countess Ursa Wren, stated that she noticed nothing strange. This time, Satine was prepared, at the first sign of contractions, she and Ursa headed down into the basement.

“Khaami, Fesma,” Satine huffed into her comm, “it’s happening.”

A few minutes later, Satine’s ladies came with warm towels, pain relieving medication, water, and many many holo print papers to clean up the mess.

“Dear God,” Satine’s breathing became labored, and she leaned on Ursa behind her, “it didn’t happen this fast last time.”

Khaami turned on the droid and locked the door.

“Hello, I am Oiyo, how can I help you today?”

“My baby is coming,” Satine gasped, “hurry!”

“Are you a human female?” the droid asked.

Satine nodded and spread her legs, Fesma readied herself at the foot of the bed. A clicking noise whirred and the droid produced some strange tool. The Duchess shuddered.

“You’ll be alright, Satine,” Ursa whispered, “the droid knows what it’s doing.”

“Thank you for being here,” Satine looked around the room, “thank you all.”

Khaami smiled, “There’s no where we’d rather be.”

In response, the Duchess yelled.

“Now is the time to start pushing. Oiyo beeped.

Satine’s breaths came out in short puffs.

“Keep calm.” the droid advised.

Khaami took Satine’s free hand. Fesma and Oiyo shared a look.

“Push.” the lady told her mistress.

Satine did, screaming her lungs out.

“Squeeze my hand.” Khaami offered.

Satine did, a cry pierced the silence that followed.

“It’s half out, Satine,” Fesma stated urgently, “keep going!”

With a wail and balling her eyes out, the Duchess pushed.

“It’s a boy!”

Satine gasped and leaned into Ursa.

“A boy, Satine,” the Countess’ eyes watered, “you’ve given me a son.”

“What name did you decide on?” Khaami asked, taking the baby in her arms.

Satine and Ursa smiled at one another, “Tristan.”

“Tristan?”

“After the valiant knight of old,” Ursa explained, “and I like the way it sounds.”

The Duchess held her child first, and kissed him.

“Be good for your mother, Tristan,” Satine’s eyes watered, “she’s going to raise you, you know.”

“Oh, Satine.” “Be good for me as well,” Satine’s voice quivered, “be good for Mandalore.”

Then she handed the baby to Ursa, who stood up and began rocking Tristan.

“Can I have the birth certificate?” the Duchess asked.

Khaami handed her the paper.

Oiyo whirred, “Your son was born at three fifty-five on the second of Marsh.”

Name: Tristan Kryze Date of Birth: 2, Marsh, 37 BBY Birth Time: 3:55

Home Planet: Mandalore Mother: Satine Kryze Father: ___________________

As soon as she filled out the paper, Satine began to cry.

“Satine-”

“Take him and go, Ursa,” she sobbed, “take him and go!”

The Duchess buried her head into her knees, pain throbbing, nonetheless, she felt Ursa kiss her cheek.

“Thank you, Satine.”

Ten minutes after Ursa was gone, Satine was rocked with more pain.

“Please don’t let this happen again,” she begged, “no, please no.”

Immediately, Fesma turned Oiyo back on.

“Hello, I am-”

“Check if I’m having another baby!” Satine ordered.

The droid did.

“Your contractions are starting up again,” it stated, “yes. You are having another baby.”

Satine screamed, this time from anger.

“Are you alright in there?” a voice asked from outside.

The Duchess’ eyes went wide.

“Yes,” Fesma answered, “just need a little cooling off.”

“Oh,” the voice sounded unsure, “alright.”

Khaami passed Satine a towel as the footsteps receded, she stuck it in her mouth and wailed. Khaami then shoved towels under the door before climbing behind Satine to support her.

“This is happening quickly.” Fesma observed.

Satine felt it wasn’t happening fast enough. She shivered as another wave of pain racked her body.

“Push now.” Oiyo beeped.

The Duchess didn’t need to be told twice, God, how she hated this. Twice now, nature had surprised her with double what she thought she was getting.

“I see the head, Satine,” Fesma said calmly, “please keep going.”

Two contractions later, the Duchess had given birth to her second daughter. Fesma announced this and wrapped the baby up in a towel, Khaami got ready to receive the birth certificate.

“What will you call her?” Khaami asked, picking up a pen.

Satine looked at her baby’s face, she had tufts of red hair and plush cheeks.

“Mara, after my ancestor, the first Queen.”

“Beautiful.” Fesma smiled.

As the Duchess fed her baby, a deep melancholy overwhelmed her.

“Tristan-”

“I know.” Fesma sighed.

“And this one-”

“I know.”

Exhaling loudly, the Duchess asked to see the birth certificate.

Name: Mara Kryze Date of Birth: 2, Marsh, 37 BBY Birth Time: 4:32

Home Planet: Mandalore Mother: Satine Kryze Father: ___________________

“Perfect.” she smiled sadly.

Khaami helped Satine upstairs while Fesma cleaned up, only this time, Parna was waiting in the Duchess’ bedroom.

Her eyes went wide when she saw Satine, “Your Grace?”

“You mustn’t tell anyone,” the Duchess growled, “or I will have you and your entire family exiled.”

Parna gaped, “Your Grace, I would never.”

With visible weariness, Satine sank into her bed, holding Mara in her arms.

“Khaami, will you bring-”

A strange sensation filled Satine, and she looked down, realizing with horror that she was floating. Her eyes fell to Mara’s outstretched fingers.

“Oh, Mara,” the Duchess’ eyes dripped, “please don’t let this be true.”

“I know someone, Your Grace,” Parna stated, “my brother knows a little of the force’s ways.”

Satine looked up.

“Of course,” Parna blushed, “he doesn’t use it for savory purposes.”

By the time Fesma returned, a plan had been laid out. Parna’s brother would come to visit her at the palace, and she would hand him the baby and a bag of jewels for false documents. This would all take place tomorrow, so Satine had a night with the baby. She spent most of that night on a holo call with Ursa.

“How-”

“He’s perfect,” Ursa answered with a smile, “everyone loves and thinks we adopted him. They believed the documents.”

“That’s good to hear.” Satine remarked.

“And,” Ursa paused, “you’re okay with this?”

“Yes,” the Duchess nodded, “and I had another baby.”

“What?”

“A girl,” Satine held Mara up to the camera, “Parna’s brother is going to take her.”

“The brother of a maid,” Ursa questioned, “why?”

“He can look after her,” Satine assured mostly herself, “Parna is going to take a few days off to see them settled.”

“Good.”

Satine swallowed, “Thank you again, Ursa.”

“Thank you, Satine,” Ursa lowered her head, “he’s truly a prince among Mandalorians.”

“That he is.”

#duchess satine #satine kryze #satine x obiwan #korkie kenobi #obi wan kenobi #obitine #vizsla

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aipilosse · 3 years

Text

Darkness Inescapable

Written for @fortuitousraven; I hope you enjoy! Also on AO3.

Summary: Elrond dreams of Númenor.

Darkness Inescapable

Elrond gazed down at his feet. The road he was walking on was perfectly even, each stone fit exactly the edge of its neighbor. A cart that was pulled along this road would feel as smooth as a boat rowed out in a placid pond.

As he walked, he lifted his eyes to the magnificence around him. Marble buildings rose around him, pillars supporting lofty roofs, and domes built upon domes. The stone was gleaming white, swirling pink, and cloudbursts of green and blue.

His feet were drawn inexorably forward, up the hill that rose before him. Around him men, women, and children thronged, going about their daily business, laughing, arguing, and gesturing in the warm sunlit streets. It was utterly silent.

The roof of the temple ahead gleamed silver, and smoke issued from its peak. The wind was picking up, scattering the thick smoke from the temple. The banners and flags hanging from the buildings around began to snap in the wind, unfurling to show silver stars on a black background.

At the top of the steps, Elrond stopped to study the tomb in front of him. For a reason he couldn’t put his finger on, he didn’t think the tomb belonged there. The star carved upon it was a different style than those on the flags around them, and the stonework seemed more ancient than the unworn edges on the temple before him. He became aware of a distant roaring somewhere to the west.

I have heard that sound before, he thought, but he couldn’t place it, nor could he answer why it filled him with fear.

He remained standing, one hand on the tomb, trying to decide if he wanted to enter. Someone was waiting for him inside, someone he knew very well.

“Have we not had enough of each other?” Elrond said aloud.

Delaying the decision, he turned and looked out from the hill he was standing on. The magnificent city stretched before him, and rolling green fields beyond the bounds of the city. In the distance, the gleaming sea beat upon the shore. Towering dark clouds were speeding towards him, born on the ever rising wind.

He glanced back at the temple; He was still waiting inside. The roof looked black under the darkening skies. When Elrond turned back towards the city, the sea was closer, rushing towards him like the storm. Or was the land running into the sea?

“This was not how it was supposed to go.” The towering figure stood on the other side of the tomb, His black robes whipping in the wind.

“No, it wasn’t.”

“Is this how it ends?” The figure was shrinking, now shorter than Elrond.

“It’s ended already,” Elrond said. “And the end was set in motion long before you came here. They were my brother’s people, and so, in a way, my own. Now again they are my people through my daughter. Will their ending be the same?”

The dark figure next to him was shrinking further. He was saying something, but his voice was lost in the roar of the mountainous sea.

The sea was very close now, swallowing the city below him. The ocean was not rising; rather everything in its path was being sucked below. The rift opened below, blue into black into depths beyond what the mind could comprehend.

Elrond staggered back, gripping the stone next to him. He thought he had escaped this doom. Foolish. The sea would cover all eventually, the water rising and the bottom falling out of the world. He turned to run into the temple, but it was too late. The sea was sucking at his legs, his feet lifted from the ground, and he was pulled under to join all the other remnants of the First Age and his brother’s people.

He awoke slowly, the black of the cabin around him taking shape, and the inky frozen darkness of the sea receding. His blanket was on the ground.

Elrond sat up, not wanting to stay in the small room, but knowing that nothing but ocean awaited him outside. He went outside anyway.

The sea stretched out for miles in every direction, but it was not the dark abyss that haunted his dreams. It glittered in the starlight, even waves hitting the ship as they cut through the night.

A small figure stood along the starboard side, not looking out across the waves, but instead looking down. Elrond joined Frodo at the railing, staring at the dancing water next to the ship.

“Do you ever wonder what’s down there?” Frodo asked.

“Yes,” Elrond answered, thinking about the sunken city that might be below them even now and a sealed tomb that surely was now empty, even of dust.

“I was just thinking, we travel to Valinor, where the people of legend live. Heroes from before the sun, whose deeds are made into a thousand songs.” Frodo, himself already the hero of many songs, looked up from the water and craned his neck to gaze at Eärendil as the star made its way across the heavens.

“But it seems to me the sea could tell just as many stories. More lies beneath these waves than ever was brought back to the Blessed Realm.”

“It lives on still among those who witnessed the deeds,” Elrond said, thinking of the many dead that he was witness to.

“Right, sometimes it's easy to forget that we have eye witnesses!” Frodo said. He was beginning to sound excited, the pensive air that had held him for years already beginning to dispel.

“‘Our great talent is in memory,” Elrond said, as much a reassurance to himself as it was a fact for Frodo.

“In some ways, that sounds lovely. I needed to leave Middle-Earth, but thinking how the memories of the Shire will fade along with the faces and voices of those dear to me brings me great sadness.” For a moment, Elrond was pulled out of his grief as he thought of all Frodo was losing. “But it seems to me that a great talent for memory could also be a heavy burden,” Frodo continued.

“I think those of us Eldar in Middle Earth tend to regret rather than to joy. I do not know if it is the same in Valinor.”

“It shall be a new adventure for both of us,” said Frodo. He didn’t try to cheer Elrond any further, but remained by his side, looking out over the water.

The sea stretched out before him, the unfathomable depths hidden by the foam, but Elrond could not stop thinking about great distances. Time marched ever forward, separating him from Elros, his life a ribbon that started and ended and now was being pulled farther and farther away from him as they left the circles of the world. And now the same would happen for Arwen; just as he sped away from her over the sea, the time that held her existence would spin away from him.

He righted his heart away from the pull of the Deep and the tug of the West reemerged, the old mix of fear and longing taking hold again. If Arwen was now the foremother of a dynasty that would turn to shadow again, that was not for him to see. The patterns of rising and falling had worn him down, and though the world still required healing, Aragorn was more than capable of teaching that skill.

More was waiting for him in Valinor than old heroes and dusty history; Celebrían was waiting for him, and many other friends who had tired of Middle-Earth through the long defeat. Elrond took a deep breath and released it, letting go of the remnants of his dream. It was time for him to be one and whole again after many years split asunder by separation and holding what he could for the last heirs of Númenor. As Eärendil set, Elrond began to think of the reunions to come.

He chose immortality for a reason, the memory of the Eldar and hope for the future.

#tss2020 #fortuitousraven #elrond #sauron #frodo #numenor #gen #fanfic #my fic

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arofili · 4 years

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Well if you're looking for prompts again, 33 + Feanor/Nerdanel

33. “Prove it,” she had challenged him, and he’d grinned, because of course he could. He was Fëanáro Curufinwë, and nothing was impossible if he applied himself.

So the very next morning he brought her what she’d asked for: a perfectly round stone he had polished until it shone, and which sang to her on command, if only she said the password (his name, of course). She stared at his gift, and then him, grudgingly impressed, but that was—of course!—not the end.

“Alright, you’ve showed you have talent in your craft,” she said, “but what about mine?”

“I can make anything you can,” he boasted, “just as well.”

“Prove it.” She smirked, and he remembered just how lifelike half her statues were, and then how utterly enchantingly abstract the other half were, and he pondered how to do so.

“Give me a year,” he said, “and I will carve your likeness into stone so that you would think you looked upon yourself in a mirror.”

In the end, it took more than a year to accomplish that feat, but his first attempt was passable enough to win her assistance in learning her craft. By the time she judged his statue of her worthy of his boast, her own skill had far outstripped his, but he had learned to be content with that. She was a sculptor, he a jewelsmith; they would never match each other in their primary pursuits. But in all other things...

“Fëanáro, I...” She looked up at him with a fire in her eyes that rivalled his own. “Of course I want you. Of course I adore you. And I believe you when you say you feel the same. But if we are to marry, I need more.”

“Whatever you want from me,” he said earnestly, because she had become his world, and he could not imagine a life without her in it.

“Not just from you. From myself, also.” She grasped his hand. “I need to know you love me, Fëanáro, in the eternal, endless way we Eldar love.”

“I can prove that,” he whispered, and promised to both her and himself that he would spend the rest of his life proving it if he needed to.

And he did: even as storm and fire raged within him, destroyed his people, sundered them with a sea and a doom so wide and deep he thought he would never see her again, he proved it. Because in the end he came back to her, and he promised her again, and again, and again, and despite their tumultuous lives together his love was always there.

“Must I prove myself to you again?” he asked, kneeling before her after he was granted a new life, a new chance. “I will. I always will.”

But to his astonishment the woman he married raised his chin and kissed him softly upon the lips.

“You already have,” Nerdanel whispered. “Now come, Fëanáro, and let me prove I still believe in you.”

#silmarillion #feanor #nerdanel #feanel #my writing #my fic #silm #tefain nin #ask games #thanks anon!#anon #answers #hand and heart

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arrivisting · 3 years

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Can I request the part that starts with "Thats a fine ring you wear, my friend" from A wandering fire for the author commentary?

Let's do this! Sorry it's so belated - I wrote half an answer on my laptop but I don't have it with me today, so I'm starting afresh. I apologise for my natural tendency to talktalktalk! You can see why I had to write this on a computer, not my phone.

Anyway, I thought it was very interesting you picked that bit! That's the bit I had in mind most strongly in the first flash of inspiration. I will show you my first notes (which were mixed up with those for the dawn from on high, since they began as the same idea):

I just had this strong, clear idea of Cirdan watching the first people come from the West, and then watching the ship leave at the end of the Third Age (which I wanted to have Maglor on - the idea that Cirdan had seen him come and finally go, and everything in-between).

I didn't keep to the notes - I forgot that I meant them to talk about beards ("Gandalf taken a note from Mahtan"), and for Cirdan to look at his humble guise and think that the Eldar would never again trust a stranger arrayed in silks and jewels, never again after Sauron as beautiful as the morning at the gates of Ost-in-Edhil.

Anyway! Obviously the Maglor and Gandalf stuff split off into the dawn from on high, and what was left of the bookend-idea - the ships arriving - went into a file I didn't touch again for over a year. All there was of what became a wandering fire (which was the original title of the dawn from on high) was the beginning - from 'Fëanor and his seven sons and their followers had arrived in their stolen white ships at what had seemed Beleriand’s darkest hour, and their arrival had come as a great balefire' to 'Help had come from the West at last: but not in time for Beleriand'; and then part of the conversation you asked for commentary on.

The joy of scribbling on my phone and across various computers and Gdocs is that I can pull up the original version (and oh, right, I've just reminded myself that this story was originally to be called a fire in the heart):

“It was never made for my hand,” Cirdan said. “I have been holding it in trust and in safety. Celebrimbor meant to wear it himself. If it was in Feanor that the spirit of fire burned most fiercely, and in Feanor’s voice that the power to move others to action was strongest, it lingered to the end in his line; although fire had ceased to be a friend to them long before.”

Olorin looked at him under his white brows. “The power of Feanor is no gift to wield lightly.”

“Celebrimbor was many things, and not all of them were wisely chosen, but he meant the Ring to be something far subtler than Curufinwe Feanaro ever was. The Ring of Fire will not kindle a sudden flame in men quickly, and burn as quickly to ashes; it is a coal, burning not brightly but long, to warm hearts and not to scald them.”

“I regret that I am come too late to know him,” Olorin said. “Too late for Celebrimbor of Eregion, and too late for Ereinion Gil-gilad; but in good time, I fear, to face again the shadow that was their doom when it gathers itself in might once more.

This is the oldest bit of the whole two-fics mess, back to 2019. It needed a little refitting to go into the dawn from on high, not least that I took away Gandalf's name. Let's (finally!) look at the published version (everything not quoted above being new, only written this April):

“That is a fine ring you wear, my friend.”

It had taken the stranger many weeks to speak of it. Círdan turned his hand over to regard Narya as though for the first time. Such gem-work did not kindle his blood. He bore it only for Gil-galad, who he had loved as his own son, though he had known better than to give his heart to any of that line. He had seen them all come from the West, and he had seen them all die. All but Eärendil, who had been translated beyond the world, and who had deserved a warmer honour.

Because this was always meant to be about beginnings/endings, arrivals/departures, I didn't go a lot into the meat of Cirdan's life, although a proper Cirdan-story, in the way I wrote an Elwing-story and a Finduilas-story, would do that; I would have written much more about his time in Beleriand-under-stars, and building the Falas with Finrod, and his feelings about Thingol, and much much much more about Gil-galad and Earendil, and the kind of life they managed on Balar and at the mouth of the Sirion! It really had to be compressed into a few lines here, though a lot of the material about fallen Lindon and Cirdan's watch there is really about his sublimated feelings for Gil-galad, and I got in a bit in other paragraphs:

Eärendil, who Círdan had loved, and taught, had sailed away in the ship they had built together, a desperate hope hurled into that same impossibility.

and

As though the great ships from Númenor might arrive again on the horizon with their holds full of strange things and strange stories! As though Aldarion might once more swing down from the deck of one, laughing, the image of Eärendil with his tousled blond head and his bright blue eyes, bellowing already for Gil-galad. As though Gil-galad himself still held court in Lindon’s empty halls, filled again with life and music; as though he would ever again put aside his work for this newest and youngest of cousins, and come sweeping down the halls in his robes of state to greet him, his eyes shining and his dark hair a floating banner under his silver crown and Elrond on his heels…

Oh, my Second Age feelings, and my curiosity about that world caught between apocalypses, and my wondering about what the fall of Numenor meant to that world, and to those who had known Elros, and many of his line.

We know Cirdan taught Earendil to build Vingilot, that Earendil was part of some of his swift ship attacks up and down the coast towards the end of the First Age: I wonder what it means to him to know that Earendil sacrificed everything for them, to watch him sail the heavens every night? I've said here he was translated beyond the world, 'and deserved a warmer honour', and my reading of canon is that Earendil is indeed beyond the world; that Elwing may fly to him, night after night, but that he himself never sets foot on land again. I hate that reading, though. I think it's in the text(s), but in my personal accounting Earendil is living his best life - sailing the skies, exploring the world from afar, and at times fighting bristling things in the Void - and still able to spend a day shift with his wife, in her Tower, and to see his family, to have a few snatched mortal joys. But I don't think that's what Tolkien meant for him.

Narya was always warm. It glowered in its golden setting, a clot of blood in a slice of sunlight.

What's funny is that this is a story about the Ring of Fire, but I got a lot of my Ring-feelings out after this idea, but before I posted this fic, in last love song for now. My stories are never in the same continuity unless I explicitly say so, put them into a series - I don't have the temperament for committing to a single reading of a scene or a character etc, not when there's so much room for play - but my Ring-feelings are pretty continuous. I think of Narya as Celebrimbor's ring, linked with fire-Feanor-heat, and I always have; though Tolkien never tells us it was meant by him for his own.

“It was never meant for my hand,” he said. “I believe Celebrimbor meant to wear it himself. It may have been in Fëanor that fire burned most fiercely, and in Fëanor’s voice that the power to move others to action was strongest, but those gifts lingered to the end in his line; although fire ceased to be a friend to them long before.”

You know, I think I like the original version better! Not all rewriting is good.

The Messenger’s brows rose in respect, and there was none of the usual flinching at the name. “The power of Fëanor is no gift to wield lightly.”

I wanted Gandalf to respond to this: I think this is a constellation of facts I'm pulling together here. Gandalf inherited the Ring of Fire, and wielded it; Gandalf spoke of Feanor's skill with real regret and wonder, with that catch-in-the-heart Tolkien quality that refuses black|white lines and sees the glory of the morning even after night has fallen; that remembers who Feanor was and who he could have been, and grieves for it:

‘No,’ said Gandalf. ‘Nor by Saruman. It is beyond his art, and beyond Sauron’s too. The palantíri came from beyond Westernesse, from Eldamar. The Noldor made them. Fëanor himself, maybe, wrought them, in days so long ago that the time cannot be measured in years.

and

"Have I not felt it? Even now my heart desires to test my will upon it, to see if I could not wrench it from him and turn it where I would—to look across the wide seas of water and of time to Tirion the Fair, and perceive the unimaginable hand and mind of Fëanor at their work, while both the White Tree and the Golden were in flower!’

You give Gandalf the power to look back in time, and he would want to see Feanor at work! That's the most wonderful thing out of his grasp that he could imagine! That is I think part of the bond between Gandalf and Galadriel; who is in some ways what Feanor could have, should have, could never have been. I would have loved for Gandalf to meet Celebrimbor - not as much as he would have, though - and I think that is a huge motivation behind this scene.

“Celebrimbor was many things,” said Círdan, “and not all of them were wisely chosen. Yet he meant the Ring of Fire to be something far subtler than Fëanor Finwë’s son ever was. Narya will not kindle a sudden flame in others too swiftly, nor burn them as quickly to ashes; it is a coal, burning not brightly but long, made to warm hearts and not to scald them.”

Me, beating my drum: justice for Celebrimbor!!!!

I do think of Celebrimbor's life, up until the moment of his death, as such a willed decision to not be Feanor. To turn against his father and uncles; to open the doors of Ost-in-Edhil and to share skill with those who came; to share artistic credit: to refuse kingship, to share lordship. To be trusting rather than suspicious, open-handed rather than jealous. It is such a tragedy that living his life in that way - unpicking all the old patterns and turning them inside out - didn't help him; only brought him to his hideous death, only gave him fatal vulnerabilities through which darkness could enter. But I think that choice to open doors and hands and heart, to be vulnerable, was nevertheless an important one. Wise? Perhaps not. But sometimes there are more important things than wisdom. (Another reason I would have liked Gandalf and Celebrimbor to meet).

Is this story really an elegy for everything and everyone lost in the First and Second Ages? Yes; and Celebrimbor not least. Anyway, I think of the Ring here as a desire to perfect Feanor's skills; to crystallise that ability to rouse hearts and minds as he did in the Great Square after the death of Finwe, and to use it for good. To warm rather than burn. In the Appendices, indeed, that seems to be its function:

Take this ring, master, [...] for your labours will be heavy; but it will support you in the weariness that you have taken upon yourself. For this is the Ring of Fire, and with it you may rekindle hearts in a world that grows chill.

That's what makes Narya such a good match for Gandalf, for me: that link to what the Feanorians could have been, that refining of what was worthy in them that Celebrimbor strained from the ashes, kept in trust until it could be given to someone who understood that too.

The Grey One bend (that should be BENT, I must go edit) his head. “I regret I am too late to know its maker,” he said. “To know those already lost. Still I come in good time, I fear, to face again the shadow that was his doom as it gathers itself in might once more.”

I regret it too!!! Always too late, the Shining Ones; at least in my reading.

Círdan had known it when the ships from the West began to arrive, though they came so quietly, with none of Eonwë’s trumpets. He had known even as he had seen Isildur turn over the ring of Sauron in his bloody fingers.

Oh, Thingol; dear his lord, whose silver blood from before the coming of the sun still ran in the mortal veins of fallen Númenor’s children. Who had died for peerless and perilous Noldor gem-work, when he might have instead lived all the Ages of the World with Melian beside him. That Doom, it seemed, was not yet done.

I really like the idea of that dilute Maia blood spreading out through all of Elros's line, filtering in lesser and greater degrees through innumerable daughters and second and third sons of that house; otherwise how else do you get the tall, beautiful, dark-haired and grey-eyed Numenoreans? The Hadorians were blond; the Haladin a middling brown; the Beorians were dark, but the Beorians were almost wiped out. There were few of that House left when Elros founded Numenor with the Three Houses of the Edain. I like the idea of seeing Numenor as a personal, familial loss: I know part of the oddness of its fall, in a Doylist sense, is Tolkien working backwards to insert it into Middle-earth when it was separately conceived, but for me: how do the Eldar live with it? These are the great-great-great(-greats) grandchildren of Elros himself: these are the descendants of Earendil and Elwing, of Turgon and Fingolfin, of Beren and Luthien, of Thingol and Melian, Finwe and Indis.

Okay, yes, some of them have joined a goth death-cult and they're getting into human sacrifice and are all ungrateful and slamming their doors and saying they don't love you anymore (adolescence is rough), but how do you watch a continent get fed to the sea and live with that? When you're Cirdan, and these are all still Thingol's children from afar, when you've watched the generations turn and loved some of them (Elros, Aldarion) dearly?

I also like the idea of dying for sparkly jewellery being an inherited doom, from Thingol's side as well as Earendil's, not to be worked out of the line until Aragorn refuses the Ring.

Three times he had seen an Age die, and yet his own work was not ended, and neither was the loss.

“How long do we have?”

The Grey Messenger spread his hands. “I cannot say. It is only a shadow and a whisper even yet, even in the sight and mind of those whose power and wisdom far exceeds my own. But shadows grow, and whispers swell. As you know, my friend.”

why do I like Gandalf calling people my friend so much? anyway, even the Valar are fallible. That's why they're bearable. If they could see all of Eru's design, if they were all-powerful and all-knowing, I would have to hate them for what they do and fail to do; but because they are not, I can see them as very alien but well-intentioned powers, doing their best, and sometimes doing ill. Intention means a lot; and I do think there's a lot about the Children they do not and cannot grasp, which is why you get things that are clearly going to lead to great disaster or pain, like Finwe's remarriage, or Ulmo telling Feanor he is part of the dissonance in the Song, or Feanor getting exiled, or the Doom; or Earendil, fixed in the heavens, or the cruel choice of the Peredhel -

He had known in his heart when he had set eyes on the Grey Stranger and seen that strange knotting of mortal and immortal in him. He had seen Nienna’s servant, come in humbleness rather than glory, to help and to weep together. He had watched him delight in his first biscuit, and he had known what to do when the shadow came again.

It is important to me that Gandalf learned much from Nienna. I do think it's why he wears grey. I like to think of him as her avatar, walking where she cannot, offering grace and mercy where she/he may. That is what makes Gandalf so successful an Istar; when so many other Maiar we see go wrong. Not that Melian herself is wrong, but she is almost too close to the Children (especially since Eru tells the Ainu that they are not to consider themselves the Children's parents; Melian literally becomes such), so much so that she is damaged terribly by the loss of Thingol, and her flight wounds Doriath. What happens to the Blue Wizards? We don't know; but not what should. The Brown Wizard hews too closely to Yavanna's creatures. The White goes too far in the other direction, in the path already beaten by Sauron and his Ainu kin before him: to power, and to might, and to ignoring Eru's will for their relation to his Children. I see Eonwe as too glorious and too distant for real connection. But Gandalf is neither too close nor too far: he is kind, and he can be powerful; he has humour, and a delight in small things. Age and experience have drawn him close. It hurts a little that his rebirth as the White takes a little of that humanity from him and replaces it with majesty, but the essentials are still there.

Anyway, that's why I wanted him already to be quite proud of his beard, and trying biscuits, and being delighted by them.

He slid Narya from his finger and watched surprise wash like morning light over the Messenger’s face.

This is a call back to the line "Too late, when great white Swan-ships arrived at last with the Valar’s blessings from the West, their white sails washed yellow-gold with the dawn." That was at the end of the First Age; now, at the beginning of the Third, we have another morning, and another start, and the Valar have refined their touch upon the world; it is much more careful, and their proxies (or at least Gandalf) better fitted to help Middle-earth save itself than Eonwe and his host of Vanyar were.

“It was made to be wielded by a counsellor,” Círdan warned. “Not a king. Never a king! Celebrimbor knew better than that. It was intended for guidance and for wisdom - in war, and in dark times.”

This is part of my thinking from last love song for now: that the most powerful ring was meant to be Vilya, and that the choice to associate fire (/Feanor) with a lesser ring was meaningful, and part of Celebrimbor's overall purpose. And again working with what little we know of Narya from canon: For this is the Ring of Fire, and with it you may rekindle hearts in a world that grows chill.

The Grey One did not reach for it, though one hand had risen from his lap, age-spotted and painfully Mannish, and hovered in the air. “I am not of the Eldar,” he said. “It was not meant for me.”

“I have seen kings and lords enough rise and fall to know that the right to an inherited Doom is no recommendation. I have seen every arrival from the West since Fëanor, who came blazing and ended in darkness; and in Narya, you see certain of his gifts as they might have been. It belongs, I think, to the hope from the West that he should have been; to one who might use it to bring light to the darkness of this land where the Valar themselves will not come.”

Oh, so this is all newer stuff - and the right to refuse an inherited doom is meant to call to another new bit (Elrond refusing to be Gil-galad's heir in the mold of the High Kings). And you see again me beating the Feanor as he might have been; Feanor's skill at kindling hearts used wisely, sparingly drum. Oh, I'm subtle!*

*I am not

This is also a little bitterness that I don't know I necessarily think Cirdan feels - what patience there is in his long service! - but I have built in this a case for a little bitterness, at this moment, at the end of the Second Age. (To lose everything in one Age is accident; in two, incompetence!!). When the loss of Gil-galad et al is so recent, and so too is the loss of Numenor. If one is ever to feel anger at the Valar for their oscillating pattern of non-interference/over-interference, it is now.

“Cannot come,” said Nienna’s servant, and took the flower of so much Noldor genius and pain from Círdan, who had never wanted it. “They do what they can, Lord of the Havens. As do we all.”

But Gandalf is here! They've got the balance right, in him! He is going to warm the chill in your heart, Cirdan, and give you the strength to face yet one more long Age of slow bleeding-out and loss; and you will see an end to it. And again you see me beating my 'the Valar have good intentions, but imperfect knowledge and understanding, but they're trying' drum.

Sorry again this was so late!

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elesianne · 4 years

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A Silmarillion fanfic, chapter one of three(?) – Carnistir/Tuilindien

Chapter length: ~2,400 words; Story rating: Teenage audiences

Some keywords: Pregnancy, Babies, Romance, Family, Angst and fluff

Summary: Caranthir and his wife expect and welcome an addition to their family. Tuilindien's joy is greater than her exhaustion, but Caranthir's happiness is shadowed by Míriel's fate.

A/N: This continues where This life that we've created ended. The first chapter is the angstiest: the fic gets progressively happier.

At the end of the chapter, there is discussion on how I incorporate Tolkien's writings on the effects of childbearing for elven women in this fic.

Warnings for the whole fic: Pregnancy, obviously; very few physical details, but there is some discussion of how bearing a child mentally feels to an elven woman. Childbirth happens in the fic, but there is no description of it.

Fëa = spirit, soul; hröa = body

AO3 LINK

Chapter I // The shadow behind his shoulder

After the first day when she cries of joy several times when she realises that she is expecting, Tuilindien does not cry during her pregnancy. She is ecstatically happy, so happy that even days of feeling exhausted and unwell do little to dampen her mood.

'Do not worry', she tells Carnistir when he looks almost scared when he comes home and finds her resting on a settee again, for the fourth day in a row. 'This is completely normal.'

He pulls a chair next to her. There is nervousness, still, in his eyes; Tuilindien knows it is there because of Míriel. Though Fëanáro and Nerdanel had seven children, and Nerdanel is hale and well, there is still a fear in the hearts of Fëanáro and his sons that other Eldar do not have to bear.

Tuilindien takes Carnistir's hand. 'All will be well', she assures him. 'For me, and for Netyarë. You and Curvo worry for naught.'

'It didn't occur to my grandfather to worry, and he should have', is all that Carnistir says, though the dark clouds in him seem to subside a little.

'Your worrying will not help me, not that I need help in anything but in the completely normal process of us both supporting our child as they grow', Tuilindien says, for she thinks that in this matter as in many others it is best not to indulge his dark mood overmuch. She sits up. 'Come sit by me, my love, and talk to me without words, and I will speak to our child's fëa on your behalf.'

He comes, and holds her close. As their hearts beat together and their spirits hold conference, he rumbles aloud, 'I wish I could feel them already.'

Tuilindien smiles against his shoulder. Her hasty Noldo; but this time, she completely understands the impatience.

'Soon', she comforts him. 'By all accounts you'll feel them soon.'

'Have you felt anything new today?'

He asks that every day. Tuilindien hides another smile in the fine linen of his tunic. 'Not really', she says. 'There is little of anything definite to feel yet, anyway. Only very general sensations of… growth, and a will to grow and live. And some confusion. Netyarë told me she feels the same things.'

(Netyarë realised she was pregnant only seven weeks before Tuilindien. It has already brought the two of them much closer than before, talking about the strangeness and wonder of being with child, and all their hopes and expectations.)

'It must be confusing, being a fëa inside another's hröa', Carnistir muses. 'It is for the best that we don't remember it when we grow older.'

'Yes.' Finding herself too tired to think of things to say aloud, Tuilindien leans against her beloved and sends images and thoughts of love to him and their child alike.

She does not worry that anything unusual or dangerous will happen to her; she is too happy to worry, and besides, most women get through their pregnancy perfectly fine.

But behind Carnistir's shoulder there looms a silver-haired shadow Tuilindien doesn't know how to banish.

Tuilindien tries to make things for her child. Even though she has now lived for years among the Noldor who all seem to be talented in several crafts, she does not usually mind that she doesn't know how to do many tangible things beoynd basic baking, needlework and gardening.

Now it bothers her. She wants to be able to have her child surrounded by things of her own making, like they will be by the work of Carnistir's hands.

He started making furniture for the baby as soon as she told her of her pregnancy.

'I didn't know that you knew how to make so many kinds of furniture, too', she says as she watches him sketch a cradle, a special chair for the baby, and a rocking chair.

'I don't really', he says, frowning in concentration as he writes down measurements and materials. 'I'm extrapolating from what I know, just like Curufinwë is. Uncle Carion taught us both carpentry. I made a chair and a cabinet with him but I never studied it, really.'

He knows enough of the making of various sorts of things with wood and metal and stone, and has the right kind of mind to indeed extrapolate more, that he soon has the baby's room filled with furniture that Tuilindien finds quite well-made even if he sees many imperfections in them.

'The finish is uneven', he mutters to himself as he runs his hand over the rocking chair.

'It is beautiful', Tuilindien says firmly, sitting in it. 'And comfortable. Do not be so strict on yourself and your creations, Carnistir, my love.'

But she does not need to be strict with herself to see that whatever she tries to make for her child is no good at all.

First she tries to sew a little shirt. But though she manages to make her stitches good enough that they'll certainly hold, she estimates the proportions of a baby all wrong and when she, desolate, shows the shirt to Carnistir, he turns crimson from the effort it takes for him not to laugh.

'Perhaps it will fit Snowdrop or Cinder', he says, his mouth twitching, and then kisses her gently when she drops the shirt and sighs.

'Do not fret, my dear', he comforts her with an arm around her shoulders. 'You do not need to make clothes for the baby for them to know that you love them with all your heart. I'm sure that they know it already.'

'I do tell them hourly.' Tuilindien sighs again and leans on him unashamedly. Carnistir never minds it when she does, and she has all the right now that their child grows inside her and draws their strength from her.

'I'm going to try crocheting next', she decides. 'Netyarë's mother taught her. I'm sure Netyarë will be glad to teach me how to make a blanket.'

'Or you could just go to a tailor and seamstress, and whatever shops sell baby things, and order everything that our baby will need', Carnistir says.

But Tuilindien has it in her to be a little stubborn in this matter. 'I will try crocheting', she repeats.

Netyarë is glad to teach her, and Tuilindien does manage all right as long as they sit side by side and she can follow what Netyarë's nimble fingers are doing. As soon as she goes home and tries to continue on her own, her creation turns into a tangled mess.

Tuilindien sighs deep again, and does give the mangled mess of a tiny blanket to their cats to play with or just destroy.

To Netyarë she says, 'I must give up on these pursuits before my in-laws who are skilled and talented in so many things get too much cause to make fun of me. But I enjoyed spending afternoons with you; could we continue it?'

Netyarë smiles her bright smile. 'By all means, let us continue', she says. 'I have enjoyed it, too, getting to know you better and spending time with you. It is silly that it took being with child at the same time for us to become friends.'

'It is', Tuilindien agrees. 'I am very glad that we have. I would be much more nervous if I did not have someone going through this at the same time as I am.'

Netyarë lays a hand on her stomach, visibly larger now. Tuilindien's is still almost hidden by her flowy dresses.

'It is very strange, isn't it?' Netyarë says. She smiles, twinkling, mischievous. 'You must not tell Curufinwë that I told you first, he would be very upset, but – I think I know now that I am going to have a boy.'

'Really?' Tuilindien's cheeks hurt with how wide she smiles. 'That is wonderful, Netyarë.' For her sister-in-law is obviously pleased.

'I am certain that Curvo is going to think it very wonderful, too', Netyarë says drily, but smiles still. 'I am going to tell him today, though I am not yet absolutely sure.'

'How could you be?' Tuilindien says. 'As you said, it is all so very strange to feel.'

'The strangest thing I have ever felt in my body', Netyarë agrees.

Tuilindien cannot wait to share the strange feelings with Carnistir; for him to feel their little one's fëa too.

The day he does, one morning when they are lying in bed late as usual, talking quietly, he goes pale and then red, and is silent for a long time. Tuilindien lays carefully still, her head on his bicep, his hand on her stomach.

This is stranger than anything before, she thinks as she lies there and tries to relax. She cannot directly feel, or hear, Carnistir listening to and reaching out to the baby's fëa.

But she can feel Carnistir's mood and the surface of his shifting, growing emotions in the connection of their spirits, as usual; he is not hiding it from her. He barely ever does.

And she can feel their child's fëa inside her reacting to something that isn't herself for the first time, pulsing with that small strength and bright light that Tuilindien can somehow see even though she of course cannot.

'Tuilindien', is all that Carnistir says, wonder in his low, cracked voice.

Tuilindien turns her head to his chest and kisses him there, telling him without words how much she loves her, and how glad she is that he can finally feel the little spirit, too, and talk to them and support them as they grow.

She lies there and feels the warmth of her husband and her child, the pale golden light of the morning from the large windows surrounding them all, and she thinks that she could never have asked for more happiness than this.

Unfortunately feeling the spirit of their child doesn't lessen Carnistir's worry about Tuilindien. His face and mood still darken whenever he finds her resting, not angry but so worried that the concern often turns to impotent anger at not being able to help – not being able to guarantee her safety. He is ferocious even in his worry.

When she does something a little bit strenuous and doesn't go to rest right after, he hovers around her like a stormy-browed mother hen until she does.

'You know that I never mind lying in your arms, my love, but you did not need to coax me to bed just because I went riding outside the city with the twins', she tells him one day, exasperated. 'We did not even go far.'

He holds onto her tighter, his forehead against hers in a gentle touch as they lie on their sides in bed, facing each other, breathing the same air, their thoughts mingling.

'Just until dinner', Carnistir says, voice quieter than his spirit.

She indulges him, resting there with him as long as he wants. It is good for all three of them to rest together like this, though lately Tuilindien feels like she does little else besides rest.

Carnistir's worrying gets tiresome on some days but there has not been an expecting mother better taken care of by her husband than she is, Tuilindien is certain. He plans their days around her comfort, fetches her things and makes sure she has the food she likes best and takes care of as many of her errands as he can; and he sends her constant love and comfort with such force that her spirit sings with it.

She does not worry about her strength running out, even though she is more tired than ever. She has him, and so much joy in their little one already. They sustain her.

Yet Carnistir seems unable to believe it, to trust in her strength, no matter how much she tries to reassure him.

'Do you think that I am weak?' she asks quietly as they lie there in the silvering light. 'You worry much more about me than Curufinwë appears to worry about Netyarë. Do you think that because I am gentle and… not so fire-hearted, not so passionate or opinionated as your family, or Netyarë, that bearing a child might take too much out of me?'

'Even if Curvo was deathly afraid, he would show little of it.' That is Carnistir's only reply.

Tuilindien feels tendrils of dark shame from him, either because he does think her weak or because he is refusing to answer her question for some other reason.

'It is not like you to avoid answering my questions', she tells him gently, though her patience is fraying.

He kisses her forehead in apology. Confusing thoughts flows from him to her as he thinks on his answer, attempting to tame the confusion.

'I do not think that you are weak, Tuilë', he begins, and thankfully it is easy for her to hear the truth in that. 'But you are like Míriel in some ways. My grandfather describes her as gentle, though also swift in her speech and her craft, and obstinate even against the exhortations of the Valar.'

'Of those I am only gentle', Tuilindien says.

'You can be obstinate', her beloved argues. 'In your own, quiet way. Míriel was like that too.'

It is strange, hearing someone spoken of in the past tense like that, knowing that they will not come back, that there is no future tense because they are refusing re-embodiment. Tuilindien's frustration melts at that reminder of the strange fate of Carnistir's grandmother – the strangeness, uniqueness of his family – and she sighs against his warm skin.

'I may be like Míriel, then, but I cannot imagine wanting to leave you', she whispers, something constricting painfully around her heart. 'Or our child whom I already love so much that it hurts. I cannot imagine it, however much I try. That is why I have no fear.'

Carnistir is quiet for a moment, a miasma of emotions swirling in him and to her. 'I doubt Míriel had either.'

'I promise, Carnistir, I promise, I will not leave you', and to her own ears she sounds desperate and not the least bit reassuring, and she clings to him with body and spirit. But he seems to breathe easier after that, and slips to a restful state before she does.

Apparently making a promise that she thought did not need to be spoken aloud because it is so obvious to her was exactly what he needed to find peace.

Tuilindien rests better, too, for having him calm in her arms, and the little fëa inside her rests too.

A/N: *apologetically mumbles something about being constitutionally unable of not writing something slightly ominous about Fëanorians and promises in every other fic*

Note on canon for this fic: For the most part, in this fic series, I am faithful to Tolkien's canon. However in this fic I deviate from some of the things Tolkien wrote down in his essay Laws and Customs among the Eldar (published in History of Middle-Earth X: Morgoth's Ring).

This is because I dislike the extent of how spiritually taxing Tolkien writes the bearing of a child being on elven mothers. Because of Míriel being such close kin to Carnistir and a spectre that haunts him during Tuilindien's pregnancy, I've incorporated some aspects of it in this fic – but not all.

What I dislike, and do not include in my 'fic-verse', is that the power of creation in elven women goes mainly into their children while men create more other things. I take the view that yes, having a child is more spiritually draining for elven mothers than it is for humans, but they recover from it and they can create just as much beautiful art and music and works of science and whatever as men, even after having many children. So the mother's fëa is not partially spent or exhausted on her children, except Míriel's who is an exception in this matter.

Thank you for reading! I would love hearing what you think of this fic.

#silmarillion fanfiction #tolkien fanfiction #caranthir #caranthir's wife #tuilindien #of míriel's line #my fics #elesianne's fics #cw: pregnancy

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37-children-of-the-dreams · 3 years

Text

Day #25: I'm A Mess

I can't write smut/NSFW, or sweet innocent romance. Hence the title. Sorry folks.

-------------

Lagos was running wildly from the hanger. From Korkie. From his traitorous relationship with that bastard clone. It doesn't make any sense to her why he chose a clone. Yes, he said he has a liking to men, but clones are not people. They're clones and they were only made for war. War that took away Mandalore from Korkie and his future. He shouldn't love a clone who help steal his future. He would be betraying everything he was taught to be as a Kryze. Especially if those ideas came from Satine.

"Poor Satine," Lagos thought. "If she was alive, she'd stop Korkie from being with that clone."

Lagos ran and ran until she was caught by Amis. Soniee was the one who saw her running and told Amis to catch her because Lagos didn't look well. Amis held her down and lead them to the nearest sitting area. Lagos was too busy crying to make any words. Soniee went next to her left and calmed her down enough to have a conversation.

"He really is married," Lagos lamented. "I saw him. I saw Korkie being highly intimate with that clone."

"Please tell us you did not interrupt them?" Soniee asked. "Korkie has the rights to show affection to his man."

"And that clone? Crosshair?" Amis chimed in. "He looked like he hates being interrupted by anyone."

"Do not call that clone by its name!" Lagos cried. "He corrupted Korkie and made him willing to have sex in public. I saw Korkie being undressed by it and he didn't do anything. The worst part? That clone saw me and just smirked."

"Lagos," Soniee said. "Why did you even think going to Korkie was a good idea? He didn't want to be with us anymore."

"Especially if he's in love," Amis agreed. " Lagos. We can't get him anymore. He's not a Kryze anymore if he's married and took his husband's last name."

"Clone do not have last or clans," Lagos argued. "He's throwing away everything he knows. We need him to see he made a mistake and leave with us for Mandalore."

"By mistake you mean... Korkie has to divorce his own husband?" Amis gasped.

"Lagos! NO!" Soniee protested. "You know what will happen to him if he does. High ranking Kryzes don't get divorces and even if he secretly did divorce him, someone will know. And if someone knows, Korkie would either exile himself again, or commit suicide."

Lagos looked at her friends. She knows the whole "Kryzes-can't-remarry" idea. But, that was only if the Kryze divorces someone. Not if their spouse had died.

"What if he died?" Lagos asked.

"Lagos, think clearly," Soniee said. "I know Clan Eldar kept pushing the idea that you would become Korkie's wife one day, but that was when Mandalore wasn't being ruined by Death Watch and Maul. This world is changing and once Bo-Katan figures out that she had hurt her own nephew by not letting him fighting for his home, don't you think she won't let him be married to someone he never wanted? She loved her family and Korkie is the last person she has a link of Satine. And we all know why Satine never married."

"But a clone?"

"Isn't as worse as being in love with a Jedi. They might not live long, but don't Jedis live hard lives also? I mean remember how much Korkie studied about the Jedi and the clones? He saw them not as ancient enemies or the slaves of our old enemies. He saw them as people who could listen to the ideas of peace."

"He still chose to be a bounty hunter. Didn't Satine almost died by those every single time?"

"True," Amis agreed. "But think about it. He's Mandalorian. We might have been pacifist for years, but no one forgets how we still have warrior bloodlines. Mandalorians and bounty hunting do seem to go together at times."

"This is still messed up. We need to stop Korkie before he gets to comfortable with this lifestyle."

"He's already comfortable. Didn't you see the puck in his hand? He hid it before you part him from the husband."

Lagos stood up. "He had a puck? We need to find another one, the same one he had."

Soniee and Amis shook their heads. They really didn't want to be in a bounty, and they were afraid of Crosshair and his apprentice. They looked like they could shoot them both dead in seconds. Yet, Lagos was insistent and they followed her for her safety. They went to the hanger to find the trio of bounty hunters ready to do their jobs. Two speeder were at the entrance.

"Two?" Korkie asked.

"There was a problem with another group destroying one speeder earlier," Fennec explained.

"You think people wouldn't be so reckless with speeders in this planet."

"Well at least one of them has enough space for one in the back," Crosshair comforted. "Which means you can watch Fennec in the back."

"Really? Watching Fennec for safety?"

"You never know," Fennec chimed. "I'm just starting to be a good sniper."

Korkie sighed as he sat behind Crosshair for safety. Fennec went off before them laughing.

"I told you she didn't need my protection!" Korkie cried as they left.

Lagos, Soniee and Amis ran after them and found a taxi cab.

"Sorry," Soniee apologized. "But we need you to follow those speeders."

The cab driver wasn't willing to do anything until he saw the amount of credits Lagos flashed. They were off finding the trio when the cab stopped.

"Why did you stop?" Lagos asked.

"Sorry girlie," the cab driver said. "But that's gang territory and I'm not welcomed there."

Lagos gave the cab driver half of the credits he saw and the Mandalorians left. They saw the speeders Korkie and his crew came in and walked to find them. What they saw wasn't the best. Korkie had a hostage in sword point as Crosshair was surrounded by still bodies and a lone man was begging at Fennec's feet.

"Please," the man begged. "I know I've wronged you before, but aren't we family?"

"Family?" Fennec spat. "You stole from my mother and left her dying in debt. I lost my old home because of you. I couldn't believe my luck when I saw you were a bounty."

"The stars were basically smiling at her," Crosshair congratulated. "I mean, Fennec lived the harsh life and was basically in the dumps when we took her in."

"I kept asking her if she wanted some new clothes," Korkie complained. "But her past made her think she never deserved the good stuff. So, be a good bounty, or this one dies."

"Which reminds me," Fennec said. "Which woman is this? I mean, you dumped my surrogate aunt for some reason."

The target whimpered until he saw the three Mandalorians. He took a shot at them with a grenade. Lagos screamed at the sight of the grenade and ran away. The commotion gave the man enough time to run as Lagos, Amis and Soniee stopped running. They saw the smoke and gasped.

"We just let Korkie die by grenade," Lagos sobbed.

She didn't mean for anything like that to happen and cried. She just wanted Korkie back and their lives back to what it was before losing Mandalore. She cried with Amis and Soniee comforting her until an angry growl was heard.

They saw Crosshair holding Korkie in a protective arm sling. Korkie was the one growling as Fennec coughed some ash. Korkie pushed away from Crosshair as pointed his fingers at them in anger.

"We had that man," Korkie bawled. "What is your problem? Why are making thing harder for me? I had caused multiple problems for Crosshair during a ton of our bounties and I just had enough of making him overwork his skills and being useless!"

Crosshair put a hand on Korkie's shoulder. But Korkie kept going.

"I know you're so mad about me being in love with a man Lagos, but why can't you understand that you might not be in a good relationship with me? That maybe it's not worth the pain of a bad marriage? That I might secretly be giving my heart to someone else if we're married because I never had the choice to be with my soulmate?"

"Korkie," Lagos whimpered.

"No. Lagos. I'm sorry, but I'm not really married to Crosshair. Nanny Rana only said that because she knew I'd fall for someone who might actually see me for my worth and he does every time I need to hear it. I am intimate with him, but we're just figuring out if we would love to marry each other. Please, just leave me alone with him and Fennec. These people are my new family. A family that didn't abandon me to mourn my mother alone without the correct mourning rites."

Lagos wanted to say more, but she didn't. See finally saw Korkie. The new Korkie as he is. He was stronger, more defiant and a fighter. He was freer than the Korkie she knew. He was finally showing his true emotions and being with someone he loves.

Lagos nodded. "I'm really sorry for not seeing you as you are now. I'm just stuck in the past because I'm scared of the future."

"Well stop being afraid. There is someone out there who might actually love you, and he might be better than me."

Korkie left his former friends with Crosshair holding him steady for his sanity and the tears flowing from his eyes. Fennec went up to the Mandalorians as they left.

"When I met those two," Fennec said. "Korkie just found his father, who was a Jedi. Crosshair didn't want to be my mentor, but Korkie made him rethink his decision. They make each other a better person and they make a strong team. Please let them be. Korkie's still a good person, and Crosshair makes sure of it. He might be a bit rude now, but you did push his buttons."

Fennec left them to think about her words.

"Lagos?" Amis called.

"Are you okay?" Soniee asked.

"Yeah," Lagos said. "I'm just wondering how to move on like he did. He really isn't the Korkie we knew, he's a warrior now and he's got someone who completes him. The way I could never."

Lagos, Amis and Soniee left the gang area as they saw two speeder bikes run out from the area they were placed. Korkie was hugging Crosshair in the back as his former friends saw what might be the last time they see of the former duke.

"They really do fit," Lagos whispered. "I can see the love in their eyes."

#korkie kryze #korkie kenobi #crosshair #clone trooper crosshair #fennec shand #the bad batch #star wars #amis #lagos #soniee

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segersgia · 4 years

Text

Looking Back Part 6: Drukhari

Xenos got scraps when it came to releases, but if you’d ask me which race got it the worst this edition, then it would be the Dark Eldar.

Yes, Tyranids didn’t get anything this edition, and other races like the T’au and the Harlequins got like one new miniature, but at least the stuff they did get looked good.

The Dark Eldar have been a faction that I like aesthetically, yet I am constantly baffled at some of the design choices Games Workshop makes when making a new iteration of their models. For Example the Archon and the Succubus. Their 5th edition models looked absolutely gorgeous, with the Archon being an absolute badass helm and posture and the Succubus looking like an absolute Amazonian warrior. When they got redesigned in seventh, the Succubs gained a dynamic pose, but lost its buffness. The Archon became something even worse, instead of a helmet, he got a bare head that looks like a mixture between hugo weaving and Darth Maul, but without the charisma of both. It looks absolutely terrible.

Incubi:

Incubi are some of the most powerful Dark Eldar warriors that you could ever encounter on the battlefield. However, they aren’t part of the Drukhari military, for they do’t show any allegiance towards anyone save their shrine and their Dark Father. Instead, they sell their services as mercenaries towards anyone willing enough to pay for them. They mostly serve as bodyguards to Archons.

To become an Incubus is a very perilous and difficult task. The training that an Aeldari needs to do is very straining on their bodies and those that do not succeed are sacrificially executed at a Khainite Shrine. The trick to mastering Incubi training is to bassically be a prodigy that learns their teachings at a unnatural pace. One of the final parts of their training involves killing an Aspect Warrior and turning their Soulstone in a Psychic torture device.

Unlike most Drukhari, who want to backstab each other at every ripe opportunity, the Incubi show restraint and once paid for, will hold their end of the bargain up like a life-oath. This is why they are so sought after in Drukhari society, since you can trust your life upon an Incubus.

Incubi wield Klaives, which are Power Swords capable of cleaving through Space Marine armour. Their armour is also equal to that of Space Marine armour; the Incubus warsuit grants the same amount of protection without inhibiting the wearers dexterity.

While the overall design of the Incubi is good, and the amount of little details, such as trophies, is very nice, I don’t particularly like this iteration, because the posing is bland. It is fine, but not something I particularly find very interesting. My main problem with these models is the size of their heads, which are way too big. The Banshees didn’t have this problem and the older models didn’t either. I also wished the horns were way shorter, instead withholding the longer horns for Klaivexes.

I do once again like the little shrine object they have. It does however look like a striking scorpion (which might hint at their origins.)

6/10

Klaivex:

A Klaivex is the Incubi equivalent of the Archon. They are the leaders of their group and their skill with the Klaive is unparallelled. An Incubi becomes a Klaivex through a trial that proves their absolute mastery of the blade, often through some horrid ritual. Of course, failing this trial will result in the aspiring Klaivex to be killed.

They carry Demiklaives, which they weild in two hands and can be connected together to create a massive Klaive.

Once again they have an unhelmeted version that indicates the Klaivex being part of the Ynnari. If the masks of the incubi are similar to that of aspect warriors, than it would make sense that the ynnari didn’t wear them.

Almost everything about the Incubi can be applied to the Klaivex; a cool looking model with nice details made unflattering due to the size of the head and their posing. I really don’t like the pose on this.one, and I wish he had a way more stationary or restraint pose. The Bare head looks bad, because no Drukhari looks good when they have the same hairstyle as Abbadon.

5/10

Drazhar:

Drazhar is the champion of the Incubi Order. He is the executioner of the Incubi and his services are sought out by anyone willing to pay the fine. He, like the rest of the Incubi, wears the Incubus warsuit, and it is rumoured that he wears the original template of the gear. He goes into battle carrying Demiklaives and uses them like a whirlwind. He is taller than his brethren and way faster in both speed and in combat.

Much rumours surround Drazhar. It is said that he was once Ahra, the Phoenix Lord of the Striking Scorpions, and that within the suit is nothing but dust. This would become confirmed during the Psychic Awakening.

During Phoenix Rising, Drazhar was hired by Asdrubael Vect to kill Yvraine. He failed to do that, but he was able to kill Jain Zar in the process. However, Jain Zar got ressurected by Ynnead and Drazhar went back to try to kill her again. Instead, he got killed. Yet this wasn’t the end for Drazhar. A Klaivex found his armour and put it on, and as you would expect, the Klaivex got posessed by the spirit of Drazhar. Thus Drazhar was reborn again.

The model looks good. Yet I absolutely am dissapointed at how it looks.

Why?

Because I’ve seen what could’ve been. Look at this artwork of him in the early days.

He looks like a Tyranid Lictor and it looks absolutely awsome. I would’ve loved it if he still had those weapons and posing. He would’ve looked way more menacing and unique.

Instead, He is just a larger and more detailed Klaivex on a scenic base. He looks so boring and generic because of it.

I was so dissapointed with this. Give him the Lictor Look and he would look so much better.

3/10

——–

I was really dissapointed with the Drukhari releases. It didn’t help that they got hyped to a ridiculous degree. They teased us so badly that everyone was expecting more, and Games Workshop didn’t deliver.

I am cautiously excited though for what 9th edition might bring us. We have been teased a new and Improved Lelith Hesperax Model. One that also gives her some pants finally.

I’m hoping that it will look as good if not better than her previous iteration. I am a staunch believer that Lelith’s current model is one of the best looking sculpts that Games Workshop has done.

It will be a while before I’m posting again. I will be working at a summer camp, teaching children the basics of digital art and digital painting. So wish me luck on that.

Next up: Primaris vehicles and Walkers.

previous posts: Primaris Mainline Infantry, Death Guard Infantry, Craftworld Aeldari, Primaris Vanguard Infantry, Chaos Space Marine Infantry/terrain

#warhammer 40k #warhammer 40000 #Drukhari #Incubi #Drazhar #Klaivex #Range Overview #rating

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a-world-of-whimsy-5 · 1 year

Note

Hello 👋 I believe your requests are still opened? If they are, may I request a Calamórë fic (Manwë + Námo) with ❛no ones here. we can be as loud as we want.❜ with a night at the beach as the setting?

Thank you and I hope you have fun writing it 🌻

Hi! Thank you for the request! And another Calamórë one shot? I hope you like this!

“Escape”

Prompts: "No one’s here. We can be as loud as we want.” Setting: A beach at night/ Valinor

Pairing: Calamörë (Manwë x Námo)

Themes: Smut | Soft

Warnings: Kissing | Some foreplay | Biting / Marking | Hand job

Word count: 1.1K words

Summary: The Elder King escapes to the beach near the halls of Mandos, where he does more than just talk and stargaze with Námo.

Rating: 🔥 | Minors DNI | 18+

Want to be tagged? Want to know the reader request rules? Read all here

Author's notes: Girdle of Varda - Similar to our Milky Way.

The sky over the Ekkaia was a canvas of black and the deepest, darkest blues. The stars were plentiful and bright, and the waves sparkled while they lapped at the sand, their sounds no louder than a soft murmur. It was a perfect time to gaze into the horizon and reflect, and it was here that Námo found him during his wanderings.

Manwë had been waiting for him. The Elder King would come here whenever his duties grew too burdensome and he needed a brief respite.

"Escaping one’s duties is most unbecoming, my lord," he said and walked up to his king, his lips curling up into a smile.

Manwë smiled up at him before turning his attention back to the stars. The Girdle of Varda shone brilliantly now, its thick clusters of stars stretching from one end of the sky to the other. It was a most beautiful sight, and he was slowly starting to see why the Eldar composed some of the most heartbreakingly beautiful poetry about it.

"Even kings need an escape from it all, lest they go mad after always denying themselves the chance to rest." Manwë held out his hand, sighing sweetly when his companion took it.

"I do understand, better than anyone," Námo thought of the fëar in his halls, the ones awaiting judgment, those that struggled with their allotted times of cleansing and self-reflection and cried out for comfort. Sometimes it became unbearable, and there were times when even he, the Doomsman of the Valar, needed to be away from it all, even for a little while. He was content to sit next to the king and watch the brilliant display in the sky.

After what seemed like an eternity, Manwë finally turned to him and said, "Have your wanderings rewarded you with anything, little raven?"

Námo showed the smooth gray pebble he had picked up along the way, one that would have been ignored had it not been for its unusual shape.

"A wing," Manwë took it and held it up to take a better look at it. The pebble was indeed shaped like a wing and had little indents that bore a faint resemblance to feathers. A most unusual find, he thought, even here, along the beaches of Valinor.

"I thought it would please you, so I saved it for the next time we met." Námo beamed as Manwë kept admiring the stone. Even he could not believe his luck when he stumbled upon it and was quick to claim it before the waves carried it back into the sea.

Manwë handled it with great care before slipping it into a little pouch fixed to his sash. "I will treasure it always. Thank you, little raven."

He leaned in and kissed Námo. It was meant to be brief, but they had been apart for so long, he could not help himself. His arms slid around his companion, and he pulled Námo to him, kissing him hungrily. Námo reciprocated with equal passion, his hand reaching around Manwë’s waist to brush up against his wing. It started to rustle, already sensitive to his touch. The king struggled greatly to bury a deep moan, but skilled fingers brushing over soft feathers made it nigh impossible to do so.

"No one is here," Námo promised, his words as soft as his lips. His halls were on these lands; no one arrived or departed without his leave. And at the present moment there was no one around for many leagues. They were completely and utterly alone. "We can be as loud as we want."

"Kiss me then, little raven," Manwë ordered. He lay back against the sand and sighed, his hands finding themselves tangled in hair that gleamed like molten silver under the light of the stars. Námo gladly obeyed, his kisses searing, his touch making the king feel like his entire fana was aflame. No one is here, Námo had said. There was no one around, no one who could see them or disturb them. His sense of propriety crumbled, and he moaned, long and deep, when Námo stroked his wings again.

Filled with dark and sinful thoughts, Námo let his hand explore, propping himself on his other hand so he could watch the king and see what pleasure looked like on him. He made quick work of undoing the clasps on the simple blue and white tunic Manwë wore, and soon, flesh the colour of the palest ash glided over ivory. Námo touched and teased, leaving Manwë’s fana trembling in some instances and throbbing in other instances. He leaned down, his lips softly brushing over Manwë’s brow, his eyelids, and his lips.

"Does this please you?" He dipped and nibbled at an earlobe, growling when hands raked into his hair.

"Yes, little raven! More! Please!" Manwë moaned even louder now when Námo moved lower, his teeth leaving their mark all over the king’s throat. Námo moved lower still, turning the exposed parts of Manwë’s fana into a canvas covered in deep reds and purples. The king could not help but raise his head to look, to see how silvery hair fanned over his flesh, how lips softly kissed, and how teeth marred. On his urging, Námo undid the lacings in his breeches, a wolfish grin spreading over his countenance when the king moaned his name and uttered sweet, whispered endearments. Manwë could do nothing but lay back, roughly tugging at Námo’s hair when he took his length into his hands. Words slowly died away, and there was nothing but touch now. Touch and feel.

They had been apart for far too long. Far too long. Manwë’s fana tightened like a bowstring. Soon. He was going to feel his release soon. Waves of pure ecstasy washed over him whenever Námo tightened and released, tightened and released. His hand was surprisingly warm and, as always, so deft and gentle. When the king’s breathing grew ragged and harsh, when moans turned into desperate pleas, when beautiful wings kept rustling against the grass, Námo stroked even faster, his own pleasure slowly growing. When Manwë could hold out no longer, his mouth parted in a silent cry, his fana trembling violently even as warmth spilled onto his belly. He whimpered when Námo kissed him again, swallowing the last of his moans.

"That…" Manwë struggled for words, as nothing could have truly described the bliss he had experienced a few moments ago. He blinked and opened his eyes, and he found Námo’s filled with burning, unmet need. "That was wonderful, little raven. So wonderful."

He pulled Námo in for a kiss, craftily maneuvering them both so that he was on top. "And now, sweet raven, I believe it is my turn to satisfy you."

Tags: @asianbutnotjapanese @fictionfordays @cilil @edensrose

#Calamórë #🔥 spicy spring fling 🔥#manwë x námo #manwë súlimo #Manwë #Námo #námo mandos #the silm #the silm smut #the silmarillion #writeblr #💫a world of whimsy writes

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witches-and-weirdos · 4 years

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Info Page: Irilla (WH40K)

“She came and asked for our help. Troops and supplies. We knew what that meant, and the general only asked how many. We marched within the hour.“ - Imperial Guardsman

Brief Introduction

Irilla Lavellan, also called The Purgator is a female human-eldar hybrid (a Dalen) from planet Atephis III, at the edge of the Imperium

She is a potent psyker with the ability to banish demons and create or seal warp rifts. In the past few years, she amassed enough followers to form an independent faction (The Purge) and lead it against the growing forces of chaos in the region.

Residence: On her ship, The Salvation

Goals/Motivations: - To stop chaos, whatever it takes - She is a kindhearted person and helps those she can

16 personality types test: -

Irilla is 78 years old, the rough equivalent of being 23 for a Dalen. She is slightly taller than the average human woman.

Irilla is bisexual, with a strong preference for people of extraordinary intellect

[Link to playlist]

Some Facts

Irilla is a powerful psyker, most skilled in destruction, but still possessing some talent for protection and divination. Her ability to banish demons and to easily seal or tear holes into the veil between reality and the warp is a unique talent, but apparently one that can be taught to a select few, and she does all in her power to do just that

Not every entity from the warp is malevolent, and the Dalish know this well. Their ancient eldar ancestors once knew the way to create their own gods, and their exodite forefathers used such knowledge to make benevolent demons. Though the Dalish had long forgotten such powerful ways, they still benefit from the aftermath of all this, and thus Irilla knows and employs a small number of demons that the Dalen call spirits, and she wields a mighty demon sword that amplifies her psychic powers and ignores most forms of defense, appearing as a hilt that conjures its own blade of pure warp energy only when needed.

Irilla’s determination to stop chaos far exceeds what anyone should expect from her, for even though she herself suffered little from it, her visions showed her a future where the taint had won and turned the world into the most abhorrent of abominations. She will make any sacrifice she has to in order to prevent that.

“A man once said: ‘Never let your sense of morals prevent you from doing what is right.’ And he was wise.“

The Purge

The Purge is an independent faction that formed around Irilla, following her into the fight against chaos in the absence of imperial help. They are a growing mass of people from all possible backgrounds, trained by each other and supplied by all those who sympathize with their goals.

At this point in time, they had became influential enough to play a strong role in the neighboring dozen planets’ political decisions and to have the rights to demand supplies and simply take by force what is denied of them. No one is trying to stop them except the servants of chaos, for they are the only truly effective force in the region that stands against the darkness.

Lore-building

Her kind is known as the Dalen, an oppressed race that originates from nearly 4 millennia of breeding between a feral planet’s human settlers and eldar exodites. Upon Slaanesh’s birth, the exodite eldar perished in the psychic ripple that tore through the galaxy, yet the Dalen survived and lived on among humanity.

Eventually, the Imperium reclaimed the planet, and though the Dalen’s lives were largely spared, they became little more than a tightly controlled servant class in the humans’ reforming society, and lived as such ever since. Such a life quickly became despised by most, and those who refused to suffer it had fled into the untamed wilds, and marked themselves Dalish, preservers of freedom who formed self-sustaining nomadic tribes, becoming yet another deadly threat to all who dared enter the vast jungles of Atephis III, and an intolerable enemy to the humans’ ruling class

Rise of The Purgator

“Come, stand with us and fight this madness! We need not perish alone!“

#info page #Irilla

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fullymechanized-consoomer · 5 years

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40K factions and you

Space Marines:

Your favorite flavor of ice cream is vanilla, but occasionally you might try some Neapolitan, if you’re feeling dangerous. You’re faction’s lore is designed from the ground up to accept your self-inserts, and the models are some of the easiest to paint in the entire range. None of this matters because no matter how unique you think your super-cool “realistic marines who use real tactics maaaaan” are they’ll always come out looking like a slight variation of the ones below

8th edition has finally allowed you to feel a tiny sliver of the unbalanced and over-costed hell other factions have been stuck in for years, but unlike them, daddy GW is more than willing to spend a little extra on his bulky good bois so they still get all the coolest gear and lore. Like vanilla, small children love them, but they grow out of both eventually.

edit: it was only a matter of time before GW stamped its foot down and made the inevitable decision that its favorite kid needs to be busted again. Then again in all fairness they toned down their overpoweredness from “godlike” to merely “demi-godlike”

Imperial Guard:

You’re a big “history fan”. You’ve seen Enemy at the Gates, watched some history channel shows about Nazi wonder weapons, and make 54 karma post on r/history_memes recycling debunked Eastern Front jokes. Only your intelligent eye is able to conflate this factions obvious Metal Slug levels of cartoonish design and tactics with realism, and you make sure to remind everyone else of said realism by comparing your tabletop exploits to your military experience in the reserves. Everyone used to like you back when the faction was actually made up of underdogs and under appreciated, but the Guant’s Ghosts references have gotten kinda stale, and no one appreciates the brass balls of these Starship Trooper knockoffs now that 8th edition supports and rewards the very same mindless horde tactics the Guard used to be mocked for in Lore. Despite having some of the most tried and true designs in the game, as well as an incredible amount of options, you will quickly find how limiting the only “realistic” army is in terms of customization and paint schemes, as anything but camo, grey, or tan looks goofy and reveals how silly this faction actually is.

edit: If your army consists of wrapping 30 guardsmen around basilisks I recommend you take a short fall down a long flight of stairs. Fuck you, Evan.

Eldar:

You’re a real shooter. You know what you like and you stick with it, cause lets face it, it takes a lot of loyalty to stick with these arrogant pricks. Their designs are unique but dated, their lore is a uneven mishmash of 40k grimdark schmultz Tolkien telephone, and Oliver Twist-esque whipping bois for whenever GW writers need to remind us how cool Space Marines are. But none of that matters because you know the truth: Eldar can kick tons of ass on the board, and look good doing it, as their unique designs lends them to all sorts of brilliant color combinations

And unlike other armies their rare design updates improve on their aesthetic while keeping their 40k-ness, something that is becoming increasingly rare in this era of Tacticool marines and Fantasy-creep. Just don’t expect to be taken seriously by anyone but the old-heads.

Edit: Leave it to the whipping bois to be outshined in their own event and get a single model update. Thanks GW, very cool.

Dark Eldar

You are one of two people: a meta hopping smooth brain who only jumped ship once these guys got one of the best updates in 40k history, or a true intellectual who understood their hidden merit all along. Other faction players like to make fun of you for being edgy, when in reality you know that the Dark Eldar are just a bunch of sociopathic theater kids. They, like you, know how fucked from top to bottom this universe is, and instead of getting depressed they exclaimed “how can we be the best cartoon villains we can be?”. Despite having a relatively bare army list, the fact that these d-bags come in 3 flavors of crazy in a single army offers a ton of variety: the mustache twirling villainy of the Kabals, the crazy bloodstained snuff-stars of the Wych cults, and the BDSM horror show of the Covens. All three offer substantial benefits and drawbacks and must be played carefully in order t-

Who am I kidding? You’re just gonna stuff a bunch of Kabal warriors into Venoms and zoom around the map, aren’t you? Enjoy that speed, because your abysmal save stats wont protect you anything more than a furiously thrown walnut. At least your corpses will look rad clad in some of the grimest armor and gear in the game.

edit: no longer anywhere near as dominent as they were in the earlier years of 8th, but they still look slick as hell and play great.

Orks

Your IQ randomly jumps from 20 to 200 throughout the day. There is no predicting this, no planning around this, no stopping this. You’re best bet is just to go along with it, and that’s why you play Orks. Orks are roudy good-time buddies who love slapstick slaughter, not having thoughts, and occasionally pulling of cunning plans that human savants would struggle to comprehend. Orks seem to be the only faction that know what joy is, which is why you as a player spread it to everyone else. Yes, the memes and screaming can be a bit much to others sometimes, but like with any other mentally handicapped child everyone around just grits their teeth through your bad episodes if it means not upsetting your unique sensibilities. And considering that this army’s aesthetic revolves around cobbled together nonsense, you have a lot of uniqueness to give. Orks are easily the most creative faction in the game when it comes to conversions. Nothing is too goofy, too dumb, or too silly to scrap together. As for performance on the tabletop? Go ham. This is an army that rewards merry bullshit and randomness. Remember, you didn’t pick Orks to win, you picked them to have fun.

edit: So are Orks actually getting anything or what? GW’s plans for this faction is as chaotic as the minds of the ADHD scrambled minds who play them

Necrons

You have a very specific taste in... funky weird-science space Egyptians. Seriously, these guys are practically a completely different army to what they were a decade ago. Gone are the terminator references and eldritch lore nonsense, and here to stay is senility and glyphs. You lie to yourself, saying that you’re not really sure why you chose Necrons, but I know the truth: you chose them because they used to be busted. They used to be unfair. They used to be able to take out top-tier tanks with their version of pea shooters and come back after every turn. So overwhelmed were you by their dazzeling stats and bullshit cheese your brain’s wiring fried and the erratic firing of billions of flayed neurons made you think Necrons had cool lore and interesting models. But now they’ve been nerfed to hell, and you’re no longer stuck in that lasting state of sensory overload. Like a drunk snapping awake with a hangover you come to the painful reality: Necrons are kind of dull. So like me, you put them away in a shoebox forever, leaving their fragile sculpts to slowly fall apart.

Edit: FUCK WHERE IS THE SHOEBOX WHERE DID I LEAVE IT OH GOD OH OH NO OH FUCK THEY’RE ALL BROKEN MAYBE I CAN PUT THEM BACK TOGETHER BEFORE 9th EDITION LAUNCHES I’M SO SORRY FOR WHAT I DID TO YOU NOW MORE THAN EVER I NEED YOU, I NEED MY BOOOOOOOOYS!!!

Tau

You will forever be hated by the community unfairly. You are accuse being anime - and this is true - yet the Eldar get away with being copied wholesale from 80′s space anime and no one seems to notice. You are made fun of for your bad melee, despite having one of the most comprehensively designed niches in an otherwise sloppy game and dominating with nearly every edition. You are made fun of for your lore, despite being largely separate from the cliches and story traps that everyone else has fallen into. You are hated because you are different; hated because you are Asian.

Tau are an anomaly in 40k: a completely new faction that wasn’t directly ripped off of some other franchise and with an aesthetic that is wholly their own. I won’t be making fun of them because they get enough of that, and you don’t deserve it. Just know this dirty secret: Tau outsell almost every other xenos faction, and despite the supposedly unanimous hate are probably one of the strongest factions in terms of play-style and modelling in the franchise.

Edit: The tau are grittier than ever, happy now? They still do the same thing they have always done anyways.

Chaos

Unlike the DE you actually are edgy. You worship satan, you throw rocks at homeless people, you start fires because your dad doesn’t spank you enough. Chaos are the closest things that this cluster fuck of a universe can get to being the main villains. Their lore is at once intricate and stupid, both childish and metal as hell. You play chaos because getting your fingers pricked by the models’ spikes is the closest you can come to feeling anything anymore. Just like the chaos lore you love to hype yourself up, to puff your chest and revel in the darkness inside, but when confronted you tend to fold like wet tissue paper. You’ve stopped playing public games with these guys, because the other players don’t understand you and abuse the meta and make fun of your painting skills and everything is so unfair and don’t you think that chaos marines should get buffs for their points cost, fuck?

Edit: The new models are slick and more power-metal minivan than ever, though the rules are still abysmal despite GW desperately wanting everyone to takes these guys seriously for once.

Sisters of Battle

GW writers and designers hates Catholics and they hate women, so naturally they hate Sister of Battl. They also hate you for playing them. Because of this SoB are a monument to neglected potential. They have one of the best female armor designs in fiction, great lore, and an interesting playstyle that relies on faith/determination based feats of strength and valor... but GW hate Catholics and women, so SoB get shafted everywhere all the time. More often than not you will be disappointed reading about their exploits as they continually get unfairly slaughtered, corrupted into the horny service of the pervert god, or used as receptacles for blood-based paint when the writer’s favorite faction needs to fight demons. With no plastic models in sight for over a decade everyone began to come to the slow and dreadful realization that GW was looking to Squat our favorite estrogen warriors, until a new revamp was announced. Unfortunately the beta rules look as lackluster as ever, but that’s fine, because as a SoB fan you have learned to expect that GW hates you, Catholics, and women.

Edit: GW found God and got woke because now they love women and Jesus’ one true Church, but let it be known that reformation doesn’t occur overnight, as the SOB’s faces still betray GW’s lingering discomfort in the female form:

Their rules are fun, and if every codex was designed like it 40k might actually be a fun game

Tyranids

nom nom nom nom nom nom nom nom nom nom nom nom nom nom nom nom nom nom no- and that’s it that’s the Tyranids. I don’t know anything about them besides that, and neither do you, cause that’s their lore. Yes they have cool models, but next to no reliable updates. I’ll pray for you.

Edit: it really looks like GW has just completely forgotten about you poor souls huh? The Night King, a character who is closely associated with the totally-not-reconned-Tyranid-invasion, comes back and not one word about you guys. They don’t even actively hate you like, say, they hate the Eldar. It’s just... apathy.

Grey Knights

HAHA AHAHAHAHA HA HA UHAHAHA HAHAAHAHAAHAH HAHA ha ha Ah......... he. hehahaaaAHAHAHAHA HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

edit: I hope you all realize that Grey Knights are far too specialized in fighting the permanently under performing forces of chaos to be 40ks “elite among elite.” You and your entire faction has been made completely obsolescent by the Custodes. The rough times will continue, say hi to the Squats in heaven will you?

Custodes

You are either insufferably full of yourself or a fine practitioner of the model making craft. Most likely though you are neither, and you picked them because you only need gold and red paint to make them look good. Custodes are the space marine’s space marines, and they’re better than you and everyone else. period. At least in lore. On the table their incredible individual stats and elite status are reflected in points cost, so for most large games you will be fielding what amounts to any other faction’s skirmishing army. Unfortunately, since 40k is a stat-sheet battler that favors raw bulk of rolls and stats over the quality of them, you’d be hard-pressed to do well in any serious game. However, for the luminous of mind, the small size is a blessing in disguise since you don’t need to buy and paint as many units as the other armies, and no matter how hard the guard player trashes you his 50 unpainted manlets will never look as good as your 15 gloriously crafted golden Chads. Stick to smaller games, and the individual strength of each model will make up for the glaring absence caused by their loss.

Ironically enough despite being an elite faction from a relatively obscure part of 40k lore, these attributes make Custodes the perfect casual player’s faction. It is my personal theory that if GW didn’t grossly inflate their prices to such a high degree everyone would have a Custodes army.

Oh yeah, Henry Cavil plays these guys, because of course he does.

#40k #warhammer 40k #table top

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sweetteaanddragons · 5 years

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Implausible Character Interpretations: Nerdanel

I didn’t have a fun animal reference for this one.

More than any of the others, I want to emphasize with this one that this is NOT how I see Nerdanel. I’m playing with possibilities, not trying to make a serious case.

The basis for this one is the fact that given the choice (Nerdanel and Feanor’s separation, deciding whether to stay in Aman or go to fight Morgoth), Nerdanel and Feanor’s sons consistently choose their father over their mother. There’s any number of possible reasons for this - they might have seen Nerdanel leaving as a betrayal, they might have just though that their father needed them more than their mother did, they might have been making choices based on what was going on in their own lives and not really been choosing between their parents at all. The decision to cross the Sea in particular has a multitude of possible explanations - revenge, wanting to make sure Feanor didn’t get killed because of his grief, the desire to just follow someone who has a plan after their equivalent of the Sun goes out - parental bias doesn’t have to come into it at all.

But it could. And I’ve seen Feanor portrayed as everything from “great Dad who made one really unfortunate mistake” to “who on earth thought it was a good idea to let this mad parent?” so it seemed only fair to let Nerdanel be the bad parent for once.

Sculpting a child was the most fascinating project she’d ever done. Blending her spirit with Feanaro’s was the breathtaking height of collaboration.

The tools were different, of course. She had no chisels here, no stone to chip away. Trying to encourage certain attributes was far more complicated than that.

She reminded herself of that frequently during the pregnancy. This was the first time she had done this, the prototype; she could not expect perfection from this any more than she had from her very first sculpture.

So it was vanity and she knew it that led her to lay claim to a name meaning well-formed on this very first try, but surely the result would live up to the expectation. She and Feanor both were well known for learning fast.

Then the baby came.

“Maitimo,” she said stubbornly, though looking at the result, she suddenly wasn’t so sure. His appearance was fair enough and far from finished in any case, but the small spirit that was already trying to shape itself now that it was separate from her . . . she already had doubts about that.

She slumped against the pillows on the bed in disappointment, premature as she knew it was. This was only the first, and there was still so much time for his spirit to change. It was ridiculous to give up now.

Feanaro was beaming at the child like this was all he had hoped for, and Feanaro never settled in his work. If this was good enough for him, it ought to be good enough for her.

She couldn’t quite convince herself.

Feanaro looked up to share his joy and took in her expression. In an instant, the joy was overtaken by terror.

“Are you alright? I’ll call for the healer to come back in - “

“I’m fine,” she assured him. “Just tired.”

Feanaro’s eyes remained dark with worry. Miriel’s decline, she remembered, had started with much the same complaint.

“Everyone’s tired after this,” she said firmly. “All the healers said so. Go on and show your father his first grandson.”

She felt a frisson of nerves at that. She had never liked showing off any work that was less than her best.

But it made Feanaro stop worrying, and Finwe had always been very kind; she was sure he would not be overly harsh.

Maitimo grew into a lovely child, but her vague concern proved true. He was well spoken, he did well in his lessons, he was polite and obedient . . . but he would not choose a craft.

He worked happily under his father’s watchful eye in the forge and happily with her in her workshop. He would try anything someone was willing to teach, and he was competent enough in most of it, but there were none he chose as his own and none chosen for him by special genius.

“Look, Mama!” he said, holding up the figure he’d just finished molding from clay.

It was recognizable, at least. Unfortunately, it was recognizable as a smaller, rougher version of her own project. She sighed. “Don’t you think it’s time you started using your own ideas?”

“Oh.” He drooped. HIs lip started to wobble dangerously.

Fortunately, Feanaro chose that moment to walk in. “Lunch is ready,” he announced cheerfully. “What’ve you got there, Maitimo?”

Their son held his work up hesitantly.

Feanaro picked it up carefully and examined it closely. “Wonderful!” he declared. “Your precision is coming along beautifully. It was inspired by your mother’s work, yes? You can’t go wrong with that. She’s the best in her field, you know.”

“It’s not very original,” Maitimo said cautiously.

Feanaro waved this off. “And what of it? Copy the masters until you’re ready to branch out on your own.” He studied it a little further. “It really is quite good. May I keep this? Once it’s dried, of course.”

Maitimo brightened, all threat of tears gone. He nodded vigorously.

Feanaro beamed at him. “Excellent. Now for lunch!”

He was good with the child, she had to admit. He always knew just what to say to head any unpleasant moments off at the pass. Still, the larger issue could not be ignored.

“He still hasn’t shown any aptitude towards a particular craft,” she said as they climbed into bed.

“He’s young yet,” Feanaro dismissed. He never had liked anyone pointing out flaws in his work.

“We were younger,” she pointed out.

“Maybe a physical craft isn’t where his talents lie,” he suggested. “Have you seen him with his friends? He’s quite the little diplomat.” He smiled ruefully. “Far more than I ever was at any rate.”

Diplomacy was a good gift for a prince of the Eldar to have, she had to concede, but - “He still needs a physical craft.”

“Not everyone has to make things.”

Now she knew it was just his pride getting in the way. They were two of the greatest Noldor craftsmen in Aman. Of course their children had to be able to make things.

“Speaking of making things,” she said, “have you given any thought to us making another one?”

Feanaro brightened at the idea. “A brother for Maitimo! Or were you thinking a girl at this time?”

“No, a boy,” she agreed. Best to stick to that until they’d perfected it. Then they could move on to a girl.

Feanaro had been entirely correct in his choice of name for their second child, she decided almost immediately. Strong-voiced did not begin to cover it.

The third time he woke them in a night with that strong voice, she had to fight the urge to cover her ears. “I think we might have made a mistake.”

She wasn’t joking, but Feanaro still laughed.

Makalaure had a craft, at least. He was a peerless singer already, and his skill would only grow.

Unfortunately, part of the process of that growth involved rather a lot of very loud practice with a wide variety of instruments.

“One hour,” she finally told him, temper not holding quite as well as she’d wished. “Just give us one hour of quiet.”

It was improvement, she told herself. And it was. Just still not quite perfection.

Tyelkormo was definitely quieter.

Except for the shouting, of course. He had the temper of Feanaro after having been locked in a room with Indis and Fingolfin all day and none of the brilliance to make up for it. He squirmed all through lessons and took off at the first opportunity for the outdoors.

Like Maitimo, he refused to pick a proper craft.

“I’m going to be a hunter!” he said over supper. He demonstrated by bending back his fork to fling mashed potatoes directly at Maitimo’s head.

It was a dead hit. At least he hadn’t aimed at Makalaure; if it had escalated to a fight, the shouting would have shook the house. Maitimo just made a face and wiped his forehead clean.

“You’ve got the aim for it,” he said wryly.

“Though we still need to work on your timing,” Feanaro said. “Not to mention your choice of prey. Still, it’s an excellent ambition.”

“It’s not exactly a craft,” Nerdanel protested, but she didn’t put up much of a fight. Honestly, hunting was probably the best that Tyelkormo could do.

Carnistir was as studious as she could wish.

He also had an even quicker temper than Tyelkormo and a blotchy red face that was an embarrassment to her skill as an artist.

She went back to work as soon as she could after he was born. Feanaro was helping her with this project, a beautiful blend of steel and stone. It was coming along perfectly.

“This, we can do,” she said in frustration. “Why can’t the rest of it be as easy?”

Feanaro laid a hesitant hand on her arm. She leaned into him gratefully.

“Children are more improvisational,” he said. “You never know quite how they’re going to turn out. We’ve been fortunate with ours. Don’t you think?”

He sounded uncertain with that question in a way he never had before. She was surprised. He’d seemed as delighted with Carnistir as with the others.

Maybe that was the problem, she realized. They’d never talked over what they wanted in any more detail than boy or girl. They never entered into any other collaboration so haphazardly. They came in to this with conflicting ideas, and the blend didn’t always quite work.

Next time, she would fix that.

Feanaro was frustratingly difficult to pin down on what he wanted, so she decided the solution was to back off. She’d provide the minimum of input and allow Feanaro to craft what he would. Once she’d seen the result, she could make modifications to the next one from there.

The result was so like Feanaro that she called him Little Father. She was tentatively pleased with this one. A copy was not as good as an original, but it was another step towards progress at last. Atarinke was beautiful, brilliant, skilled in the forge, everything she’d wanted.

Or almost. Where Feanaro’s scope was endlessly broad, Atarinke’s was narrow. He preferred the forge above all else.

And he was . . . cold towards her sometimes, in a way she didn’t like. Her other children had embraced their mother-names with a strange eager hopefulness, but Atarinke barely responded to his.

There was nothing wrong with him preferring Curufinwe. It certainly pleased Feanaro.

She just wished her son didn’t make it seem quite so much like it was a rejection of her.

They said Miriel had poured herself so much into her son that it had killed her. Maybe that was the only way to get someone that shone as bright as Feanaro.

“One more try,” she told Feanaro.

Things were . . . strange between them now. Feanaro was involved with those gems of his and wanted her to spend more time with the children since he was so busy. It wasn’t unreasonable, but he was never happy with her after she did as he asked; he frowned at her often afterward and seemed as if he would say something, but he never did.

Maitimo and Maglor helped, frequently volunteering to look after the younger ones, but there was something about the way they did it, the way they looked at her . . .

It was the gems, she thought in frustration. Things had only gotten so bad when Feanaro had gotten wrapped up in them.

But he would back away from the project for a new child, and she’d finally figured it out now.

She poured her spirit into making the new child, and Feanaro matched her drop for drop.

She was exhausted afterwards, on the very edge of having given too much, but it would work this time. It had to.

She did not have the overwhelming flame she’d intended. She had twins.

For the first time in her creative history, she gave up.

“Ambarussa,” she said tiredly when asked for a name.

“For which one?” Feanaro asked.

“Either. Both. I don’t care.”

“They need their own names,” Feanaro insisted.

“Then call one of them Umbarto. I don’t care.” Surely at least one of her children must be fated for something.

“Ambarto it is,” Feanaro said quietly.

She doubted that either of them deserved to be called upwards-exalted, but she didn’t care enough to tell him he’d misheard.

Wood. Clay. Every kind of stone imaginable. With those, she could create.

But with spirit?

The taste of failure was bitter on her lips.

(“He’s perfect,” Curufinwe told his wife as soon as the baby was born. “Absolutely perfect. He’s beautiful.”

She smiled up at him. “Of course he is.”

She wasn’t sure why he slumped in what looked like relief.

She assumed at first that his efforts to look after little Tyelpe himself and with his brothers were an attempt to let her rest, for fear of recreating his grandmother’s tragedy. But -

“I’m well now,” she told him. “Really.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” he told her in all sincerity. “If the healers have no objection to you taking up your weaving again, I certainly won’t argue.”

“Good,” she said. “But that wasn’t what I meant. I can help look after Tyelpe now.”

He actually looked startled.

“He’s my son too, you know,” she said in frustration.

“Of course he is,” he said.

She wasn’t sure why he was so surprised that she wanted to look after her own son.

The surprise slowly faded, but some things never did.

It wasn’t that he spoiled Tyelpe, not at all, he’d scold him when he had to, but he wouldn’t do it in front of her. She’d caught him switch gears mid-lecture to a gentle caution and a generous helping of praise when she walked in.

“I know you know that I’ve scolded him before,” she told him in bemusement. “I’m not going to suddenly turn into one of those horrible mothers who won’t admit their child’s done wrong and jump down the throats of anyone who tries to say otherwise.”

“He’s never done anything seriously wrong,” Curufinwe said instantly. “And he never makes the same mistakes twice.”

A slow realization dawned. “Curufinwe,” she said slowly. “You know I love Tyelpe, right?”

“Of course you love him.”

“And I won’t stop loving him just because he makes a mistake? I don’t need him to be perfect. I’m not sure I’d want him to be. You’re not going to talk me out of loving him if you say he should be more careful in the forge or that he didn’t learn a lesson as quickly as you’d hoped.”

“He’s always care- “ He caught himself. She had never seen him so uncertain.

She linked her fingers through his gently. “I love him,” she repeated. “Like I love you. Unconditionally. Genius, ordinary, or absolute fool. I love you both.” She hesitated. “I know your father must have had high expectations - “

He laughed. The sound was - not his usual laugh. “My father,” he said, “loved each one of us like we were his whole world.”)

(Maglor did his best to look after the twins, but he knew it could never be enough.

“I’m sure your father will come back for you soon,” he assured them. “We won’t keep you from him. You just have to stay with us until he comes.”

“Not Mama?” Elros asked, blinking away tears. They’d cried less and less as the weeks passed, but the nightmares still sometimes came.

Maglor bit back all the things that he and Maedhros had said to each other after that terrible scene, when Elwing had seen her sons in their bloodstained hands and thrown herself out the window with the work of their father’s hands rather than give in to save her sons.

She had been far too frightened to be thinking clearly, possibly even flashing back to Doriath. She had known their reputation and likely thought they would all die no matter what she did. She was not their mother; even if there had not been so many sins on their heads, it would not have been their place to judge.

“Of course your mother might come too,” he said.

He thought of the seagull flying away who had never once glanced back.

It was only his own biases, he knew, that made him so sure that Elros would never see her again.)

#nerdanel #feanor #maedhros #maglor #celegorm #caranthir #curufin #curufin's wife #celebrimbor #ambarussa #elros #alternate character interpretation #silmarillion #tolkien #bad parenting

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catachan-jungle-fighter · 5 years

Text

John and the Council Meet...

John walks into the council tent,one side of his head wrapped in bloody gauze, and he pulls out his chair, a quite heavy duty hand carved chair that Third had traded with a carpenter for.

The rest of the council look at the mountainous man and say "Six, what exactly happened to you?"

He grimaces as he says "Lucky traitor with the Tau, he pulled a combat knife and managed to slash me across the face... didn't stop me from breaking his neck, but I can't see out of my left eye till the Medicae's, thanks for the loans Four, and Tiv and Riv finish arguing because the bastard managed to cut my eye as well... Tiv and Riv are arguing for a Bionic with the same deal Yarrick has but with a few 'enhancements' while the Medicae think I already got enough of the Bolt's tech in me and are trying to call a Biomancer in to heal me..." he shrugs before leaning back in his chair, the wooden seat creaking.

Four nods at John before turning to One and saying "One, the Meeting can begin..."

---

One looks out at the other five council members, Six was the only member of the council that was ever injured due to his 'if I can't do it I won't order my men to do it' ideal, Four was smitten with Six without the dullard of a man figuring it out, Three was a rat and a damn slippery bastard but he was their's, Two was a slightly sociopathic Armored commander that she was incredibly uncomfortable with her being near, and Five was just generally glaring at Four for flirting with Six even though the man was one of the most thick headed bastards she had ever met.

She coughs before saying "This meeting of the Mad Wolves Command Council is called to order, what do each of the Sections have to report before we move on to the Civilian and Espionage side?"

Two smiles slightly as he says in a muffled voice, his old rebreather strapped across his face "My Crews have managed to train another group of fresh recruits to run some of the 'Scrappers'* that we managed to get repaired. Plus with the addition of the supplies from the Forge World's in Six's area of influence we are getting some of the bigger toys in the arsenal back up and running."

One nods before checking off Two on the Section's list before turning to Three, the shady man almost reclining on his chair, and she says "Three? Your reports?"

Three coughs as he sits up and says " The Forgotten and Six's Outposts are keeping me and my men hip deep in reports and data we need to comb through before we can have any actionable intelligence... we could do with either some manpower increase from the recruits, or some Servitor's to separate the shit from the diamonds in the rough."

One nods as she says "I'll be approving the Manpower increase to your intelligence assets, if even one person isn't put towards sorting the intelligence then I will rip your spine out of your ass."

She checks off Three, not caring as the man blanched at her words, before turning and coughing at Four to get her attention. The scatterbrained woman turning and squeaking in surprise as she sees the rest of the Council looking at her.

"Oh! My busy little children have been working themselves to the bone keeping so many alive, we could do with some fresh hands so we may..." her eyes seem to focus and grow colder then ice as her voice becomes serious "... Show our 'guests' some proper welcoming implements... beyond that the sect of healers with the Sixth can do to be switched out due to the skills of them, managing to keep Six alive so Emperor damned long."

One nods before checking off Four, yet before she turned Five started speaking.

"Managed to take over several more Xeno vehicles, still haven't figured how to use the Tau shit without extensive testing and retrofitting... got a couple of Mincers* and Butcher's* ready and waiting... still trying to puzzle out some of the Dark Eldar shite, half of it is simple as frak to the point where I can give it to a kid, the other half I can barely frakking understand like the frakking shite that turns people into glass... what few Dark Eldar that survived Six's Arena Nights aren't too keen on us having the shite, so I'll have some of the Bolt's* looking into it."

She nods before handing Four a slip of paper for Five, the paper reading 'whoever presents this paper is under orders of the Council to deliever this to the Bolt's for study.'

---

John begins to speak as she turns to him "My lads have been seeding outposts every frakking where we move, Hive Worlds, Feral, you name it and I got men on it... lost a few of the Burial Guards on duty after that frakking Psycho bastard that is still on the loose hit the cemetery they were guarding... managed to clear out several hidden Chaos Cults with enough usages of Melta Charges and paying off the local Gangers to plant them for us with a very good reason to not fuck us over... got a hold of two more ships for the Hunt, but other then that I was boring."

---

One nods before saying "Dismissed! Council will next meet at the Fallen Peak, at Midnight." Each of the Councilors splits off through various openings in the tent, Four helping Six out so he didn't trip, and she stands up as her own men swarmed the tent and began to break the entire Council Meeting area down, wiping away any trace the Council was there...

---

Scrappers: Heavily Damaged or straight up destroyed vehicles that the Wolves scavenged, the nickname comes from the tendency to layer scrap metal over any holes in the armor of the vehicle.

Mincers and Butcher's: Mad Wolves nicknames for the Craftworld Eldar Weapons.

Bolt's: Counts as both a name for the Mad Wolves Engiseer's camp, and a part of the nickname of the Engiseer's themselves 'The Nut's and Bolt's club'.

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