Arafinwë Character Sketch Idea for a story I just started developing.
Arafinwë has spent the years leading up to the Darkening of Valinórë and the Flight of the Noldor angry.
Angry, but silent. Angry, but patient. Angry, and only growing more angry with every passing year.
With every passing death of his family in the Middle-Lands.
With every passing year the Valar go not to war against their brother and other kin.
With every passing comment he may only ignore, denigrating his brothers, his sons, and his people.
And then, at last, he is allowed to make war.
To make war against the one who killed his father, who killed his older brothers.
Who killed all three of his sons, his precious, noble boys.
Who means to kill his daughter, who has somehow survived against all odds.
Arafinwë is angry when the Host of Valinor rides out at last to war, but he has learned better than either of his older brothers how best to use his anger and control it rather than allow it to control him.
And he means to use his incredible, burning anger to finish the war his brothers had started. Hopefully, he will find what little remains of his family during the process, and reunite with his only daughter.
can you help me plot out a fanfiction based on the premise that:
Part of Elrond's Maia heritage is a sort of "shapeshofting"/"illusion" ...in where he either passively or consciously mirrors his looks/image to what others around him see/want to see. Directly to their minds. Like say Celeborn thinks he does or should look like a male Lúthien...then to Celeborn he does, but if Maedhros is in the same room but thinks Elrond most closely resembles Fingon, the to Maedhros he looks like Fingon while at the same time he looks like male Lúthien to Celeborn.
So you know Tuor's life before getting to Gondolin....well, what if his son had a child who, in the chaos of the 3rd Kinslaying, is separated from being found by either Fëanorians or Gil-Galad and Círdan's people later, but somehow taken by a third party somewhere else where the child ends up echoing a lot of Tuor's pre-Gondolin life. Much later ends up back with our favorite elves and sailing to Valinor where the now adult meets Tuor (who the Valar let pass with Idril and stay the Gift of Men for a time..) and they grow exceptionally close due to shared trauma and life experience.
So I was reading an old fic which goes through chapters of each member of the House of Fëanor being the last survivor and one of those chapters had Celegorm being one. In it he's kind of self-cursed(how I took it anyway) as a big-fuck werewolf being although not tied to lunar phasing. The fic toys with the idea of Díor possibly being his son and what that meant that he might have possibly killed his son.
Which is sad, yes, and terrible, and horrifying. As it should be. As the kinslayings were, really. But it got me thinking.
Can someone write a crackfic, or even a semi-serious one, where Lúthien and Celegorm (and, heck, maybe even Beren too) decide that Celegorm and Lúthien will have a child together and that child will claim/hold/whatever the silmaril that either gets or is already stolen from Morgoth. Therefore: Lúthien's son is Fëanor's kin, being his grandson, and the oath for that silmaril is fulfilled. So, no kinslaying at Menegroth, no kinslaying at Sirion. Maybe they both get attacked and Fëanorians come to help.
Wouldn't that be an interesting way to keep similar events apace but change the whole tone of them. And still get a silmaril to Aman.
Lúthien(or Celegorm) to SmolChildDíor: Son, you need to hold the shining rock and repeat after me: (formal speech of holding the oath of fëanor for this silmaril fulfilled as it is held by his grandson.
Sons of Fëanor: Whew! One down, two to go. No more kindlaying for us! Yayjoy! Take that Morgoth!
‘My king,’ and Gil Galad felt his heart grow lighter in his chest yet ache with an inexplicable pain as a very familiar figure came into his line of sight. The army, men and elves alike parted before the two of them. Elrond greeted him with a much lower bow than was necessary, considering the great portion of the army that answered directly to him rather than Gil Galad himself. Ereinion gestured for him to walk by his side as he inspected the ranks.
Elrond took his place by his side and began to speak in that clear melodic way of his, ‘The east regiment is ready, they await on your orders.’ And for a moment it was almost like it was for so many centuries, so many millennia, but it was not quite. If they had been in Lindon Elrond would not simply be walking in measured steps like the soldier he had been in most every way since far too early in his life. He would have been balancing on some tree branch or wall and spinning around on the tips of his toes with his arms extended while humming snatches of things that weren’t quite songs to himself. He’d never seemed quite solid, moving from one place to another so quickly you lost sight of him, like smoke or the spray of sea foam at the prow of a ship.
Now he looked like a soldier, no more than that, no matter how fervently he’d deny it, he looked like a king. And that made Gil Galad more devastated than ever but still more sure that he was making the right decision. If Elrond, who had already suffered so much and was still so visibly changed from the events of Eregion, was still standing here before him now he was more than strong enough to continue without him. And more crucially he looked at his closest friend and knew that he never wanted another to suffer the way he had. He didn’t want anyone else to ever have to be this strong and he knew Elrond wouldn’t either.
‘I’m ready. We ride at dawn.’ He then took a deep breath and felt every inch of all his years at last. They say Valinor’s peaceful. Peace. He supposed he’d never really known what it was really, simply living off borrowed time ever since that crown’s cold weight had settled on his head. ‘I had something I wanted to give you,’ he slowly removed the necklace that had rested around his neck beneath his robes even longer than that crown. He held it in his palm, a simple iron pendant.
‘It’s the emblem of the house of Fingolfin. I promise it’s not some trick to try and make you king or something-’ he broke off with something he tried to pass as a laugh but was really a lot closer to a sob. Elrond looked up at him with sad eyes that had seen too much, and whispered ‘Why are you giving this to me?’ though Gil Galad suspected he already knew.
‘It is the last thing I have of my father, I have no memories of him. I have no wife, no children, nor siblings but I have you. You are the closest thing to family I have on this shores, you always have been and I want you to have this.’ He clasped the small pale hand in his own and laid the pendant in it, closing Elrond’s fingers around it while not breaking eye contact.
‘Elrond listen to me,’ he said softly while reaching his thumb up to brush a tear away from his cheek, ‘Please live. Please be happy. You deserve to be happy, don’t spend your life mourning those who you’ve lost celebrate those who you still have. You will never be alone, you’re too kind to ever not have people who love you or for anyone to ever stop doing so.’
Elrond leaned up and pressed their foreheads together and his eyes closed slowly as he finally began to weep. They withdrew after what felt like an eternity and Gil Galad shakily fastened the clasp around the pendant around Elrond’s neck. In normal circumstances he would have laughed at the sight of a Nolofinwean emblem on Sindarin style armour bearing the crests of various houses of men, by someone wearing Telerin colours, Feanorian braids, holding a Feanorian sword, and marching under Numenorean banners.
As it was he merely smirked at Elrond’s choice of attire and weaponry, ‘Felt like inducing a fifth kinslaying today?’ Elrond laughed through his tears ‘I thought it was a good show of unity. No scratch that, I just wanted to see people’s faces and maybe make Feanor turn in his grave.’ They smiled for a moment and the fate looming over them was almost forgotten. ‘I’m sorry I won’t be able to see your wedding. I’d have liked to be there for you.’ That was the last time they ever saw each other on this side of the sea.
When King Felagund arrives to Doriath, his face is grey with grief.
His figure is thin. Worn. Shuddered by occasional tremors, either from the wind and snow that do not cease, or from many scars his body wears. His rich, golden hair is now bland, thin, cut short and uneven; his face is tired and hollow as he steps, slowly, towards the enterance to the palace of Menegroth.
The guards dare not stop him. He spares them no glance.
Menegroth is quiet. Menegroth is a grave, with king Thingol sitting on his throne, hunched in grief, and queen Melian as cold as a marble statue. King Felagund does not stop once while making his way towards the hall where they grieve.
King Felagund has little sympathy for grieving people left. His own grief ate his heart out and settled in his gut. He makes his way to the throne room. His face gains purpose; he is a dead man dragging himself to his last mission.
There is a crowd behind him when he enters the cave. He stops before the throne. His chest rises and falls slowly, and his eyes burn with fell flame.
Thingol jerks, rises his head. His eyes focus on Felagund. He gasps.
"Finrod," he chokes, and almost rises from his throne.
Felagund does not move. His eyes are fixed on Thingol.
"Tell me, was it worth it?" he finally asks.
His voice is quiet. Dark. Menacing. Thingol wavers, his face changing into a fleeting confusion.
Felagund's hand is under his cloak. He takes it out.
Slowly.
It is clutched in a fist.
The crowd holds its breath. Felagund does not take his eyes off Thingol.
"Tell me," he repeats, louder, and his voice trembles. "Was it worth it?!"
His eyes are stained with tears. He trembles.
He cries.
"When I sent you my messages," he whispers, shaking, the sound echoing from the walls, "tell me: did you ever, in your stubborness, in your pride, in your selfishness - did you ever try to see the voice of reason within them? When you looked at your daughter, tell me: did you ever think of yourself, young and reckless, standing enchanted beneath the trees? When you looked at Beren, tell me: did you not see the hand that guarded you, a soul so worn and scarred and lonely?"
Thingol is shaking. Felagund lifts his head. His face is stained with tears. He rises his voice.
"Tell me!" his words echo from the walls, drum with grief, loss, power. "Tell me! When you named your price, have you ever - ever - regretted it? Have you ever wished to utter words of blessing instead, even if they were stained with sorrow? Have you ever," he screams in earnest now, and his hand trembles as he lifts it high, "looked back and thought the price was too high? Have you ever thought that you failed to pay it?"
Thingol sits pale. The halls shake with Felagund's cries.
"I had to watch them," he sobs, "I had to watch them die in darkness. I had to listen to my friend, the man I swore to protect, the last descendant of a man long gone - I had to listen as he was devoured, I had to trash and cry - and I did not even get a body!" he screams, tears springing from his eyes. "I had to look at your daughter, as she shook and wept, and I could not comfort her, because he was gone! Because he was gone, and she loved him, but he was gone! Tell me, when you dismissed my letters so angrily - tell me, have I not warned you against this exactly?! Your daughter, your Lúthien, your starlight - gone, gone as a withering ash under the touch of wind! In your desire to save her, have you ever thought you were signing her death sentence?! Tell me, Elu Thingol: was the price really worth it?!"
No, Thingol screams, no - but Felagund's hand is shaking, and the light coming from within it is all but blinding, and Finrod yells as he throws the Silmaril on the ground, and the walls shake with his grief.
"Here is thy prize, Elwë Singollo!" he screams, glowing and shaking and terrifying, speaking the tongue Elu long thought forgotten. "Here is thy prize, here is thy reward! Here is Tinúviel, weeping on her knees, for her lover is torn to shreds, his remains breathless in her hands! Here is Beren, young and weary, whose voice knew nothing but tenderness when he talked about his Nightingale! Here are my Faithful, dead for thy foolish whim, torn apart for the greed of a madman who thought himself a God! Here," he trembles, "am I, for I am dead, dead, dead, and dead I should have been, and dead will I become! Here is your prize, Elu Thingol! Die by it!"
And with those words, he flees, nothing but the light of now double-accursed stone remaining.
When someone picks it up and hands it to Thingol, the palace is pierced by a wail of horror and agony. The gem burns the Greycloak's hands.
Trying to world-build for a story. In this universe there are 7 elements (like magic) one can master and 7 levels of mastery, the highest being a high priest/ess, then priest/ess. I also have master, apprentice, acolyte, and novice.
I need one more level. Either between novice and acolyte, priest/ess and high priest/ess, or between master and priest/ess. I can't decide what to name it. Anyone have ideas that are not "journeyman", because that one just doesn't fit.
I'd contemplated doing inceptor, then novice, or vice versa, ect, except I don't particularly care for the latin shift, and novice and inceptor mean the same thing.
OC story where an elf wakes under a starry night sky fully formed with an adult consciousness but years after the Awakening of the elves. Perhaps a xover fix or a reincarnation fic.
I just thought it would be funny when this person is finally asked by some group of elves who their parents were and the character goes: "I woke under the stars," or something and so they are confused with the first generation of Unbegottens or something.
So, NanoWriMo: It's here and I havent quite decided which plot bunny to expand. But—and go figure—I had an idea why driving today.
So, Maglor is the best musician of the Noldor, right? Take it a step further (Finrod battled Sauron with Song, I reckon Maglor could have too and has the special training to hear and use Song in various ways). What if some [oc] child was born to one of the children of Finwë and when Maglor finally meets that child, Maglor tilts his head while staring intently at the small child for a moment before proclaiming: "You do not fit. The harmonies are off." Or something similar.
I hc that Maedhros was pretty close with his grandfather. Maedhros was Finwë's first grandchild, and first grandson, on top of being Fëanor's first child and son.
Pick your choice of which granddaughter Finwë chose as his favorite —and yes, he absolutely has favorite grandkids. He definitely chose favorite children. But the grandkids don't feel the sting of that as much as their parents did. There are far too many grandchildren in comparison.
Fic Request, if anyone wants to take a stab at it.
So, there I was driving back from town to the farm— yes, we raise cattle...and chickens...and have 3 dogs out in the near-middle of nowhere. Just as I prefer it, thank you very much—and I had words pop into my head of an idea for a fic.
(I'm a visual-wordist, or, I see words when I think of something to write instead of images, while when I read stories I see images like a movie, perhaps I'm slightly mentally strange. Aren't we all?)
Anyway, the words were roughly:
Summary:
Healing takes time and patience. Healing takes strength and forbearance. Healing takes will and desire. Healing is a choice and a process.
Fortunately for Finrod, his father [Arafinwë/Finarfin] has all of these.
Strangely, his beloved Amarië does not.
Or: Finrod is reborn and rehoused a year or so before Eärendil comes to Valinor bearing a Silmaril and the Valar decide to (finally) go to war. Finrod asks his father leave to join the host sailing east, Arafinwë grants it with understanding and gratefulness—his son has been to battle before, he has not. Amarië has no understanding and this is the final nail in the coffin of a love gone bitter and dry . Oddly enough, Finrod doesn't mind the final ending of that relationship as much as he thought he might.
Or: Finrod comes back to life just to go back to war, and somehow, strangely, that helps.
i hardly ever get asks about my fics but if anyone did i’d love them forever (i’m writing rn shh i know i’m on tumblr but i’ll answer them before i go to bed and they’re certainly welcome any time)
Can someone write a fic about one of Elrond's twin sons (somehow) traveling back in time to the First Age (before the break of the Siege on Angband, preferably) and surviving it all. How might that look, what would that Elrondion do? Who would he have to claim to be in order to affect anything, and would his actions be in line with "cannon" proceedings or alter them in any way? Who would he have/make connections and relationships with?
