Hellooooo. I’m Gauntlet Girlie, will also accept GG. I’m just a woman in her 30s reliving her teenage obsessions 😌
I write, list of current published works is here.
PFP is pansexual Melkor as drawn by the lovely and talented @aroacebaggins-art (check out their other work, it’ll be worth your time I promise!).
Adar brought me to this hellsite so I am a RoP fan but I also grew up on all things Tolkien, so while I like a lot of different fandoms (Star Wars, Jujutsu Kaisen, Rivals, Marvel, Merlin, Dracula to name a few) RoP and Silmarillion/Tolkien are the focus of this blog.
I’m a self-shipper. I see a villain, I imagine them as mine. I’ve done it since forever and have no plans on stopping. Having said that I also ship Angbang because murder husbands, y’know? There’s too much fun to be had imaging those too dork lords canoodling. Otherwise I’m of a ship and let ship mentality.
I was obsessed with Sauron when I saw the Peter Jackson films as a kid then I learnt of Melkor/Morgoth from a Tolkien Encyclopaedia my brother had and my allegiance shifted to the bigger goth daddy #no regrets (but also I still love my boy Mairon).
I don’t vibe with incest or mpreg, you do you, but none of that on this blog plz.
Thank you for tagging me @dancerinthestorm , and thank you for sharing your lore (I quite like the song you shared 🤭)
Well, how did my Username come to be?
Believe it or not, I was first an Elrond Girlie when I arrived on these Tumblr shores.
And the very first RoP fic I began (and never finished 💀) called "Washed Ashore" (Elrond x female OC).
My OC Maywren, a healer living off-grid close to the shores, was a woman of colour. And ofc I had to give her a backstory, an origin. Something that could pass or fit into Tolkien's world. So I called her land "the Sunlands" — which made her a: Daughter of the Sunlands.
I joined tumblr for Adar from The Rings of Power; I wanted more images and GIFs of him and Google was not providing 😅
Anyhoo I didn’t want to be too blatant by putting Adar in my blog name and I already had a thing for gauntlets before Adar came along so I just used that.
Thus, Gauntlet Girlie was born!
No pressure tags: @ladysterndust, @gingeragenda, @thorinsmajesticbraids, @silmarillion-brainrot, @perlen-gold, @saintstars, @fantasyquests, @thephoenixandthecrocodile, @strifes13 and anyone else who’d like to join!
by this point my entire stance on being in fanbases is that it feels like i’m trying to live peacefully in a secluded cottage and do my own thing while also witnessing the fall of the roman empire right next door
Set at the time of The Last Alliance of Elves and Men. Modern character in Middle Earth
Chapters uploaded weekly, will be twelve chapters overall
Rated Teen and Up
Please read the tags!
On AO3
@daughterofthesunlands it’s here and it’s begun fyi 👀
First chapter under the cut for those that would prefer to read on here. No archive warnings apply for the first chapter, it’s general audiences and fluff.
Standing there in the middle of the market was one of the few places she didn’t feel out of place. The bustle, the colours, the smells, they were all reminiscent of home. It had been a year now since Yanthe found herself unceremoniously thrown into the midst of an elven feast; one minute she was leaning against an old oak tree to catch her breath, the next she was falling flat on her back in front of the High King of the Noldor.
She would never forget his face as she tumbled across his full dinner plate, sending salad leaves and bread flying everywhere. She wished she could. It had taken longer than she cared to admit to accept that she hadn’t accidentally come across an elite cosplaying situation, for that had been more believable than the truth.
But here she was, Second Age Middle Earth and making the most of it. High King Gil-galad had allowed her to stay, almost insisted on it even. She had an inkling he knew how out of her depth she was. If she had been released into the wild, she was certain she would be dead by now. Twenty-first century Earth life as a marketing manager for Cymru tourism did not do much to prepare her for fending for herself in a fantasy setting of medieval calibre.
Yanthe was provided an escort, though after over a year of living in Lindon she didn’t really need one anymore. Still, Theninwen followed her as politely as ever at the bequest of the king. They spoke little to one another and Yanthe was unsure whether the she-elf actually liked her or not.
The truth was, she had not made any friends. She was treated with cordiality wherever she went, but there was no one that she could call a friend. Passing acquaintances maybe, friendly work colleagues, certainly, but no one she would talk to regularly or hang out with.
So while her time in Lindon had been pleasant in many ways, it had been inherently lonely. In fact, the more she thought about it, the only elf she regularly spoke with was the High King himself, he made time to talk to her most days, even if it was only to say hello and ask how she was doing. He also was the only one to know and wish her a happy birthday, along with presents.
Gil-galad had found her that first year looking wistful and forlorn, as she had turned twenty-nine years old. He had been horrified to learn she had celebrated alone with a berry tart. He had wished her happy birthday at once and insisted on getting her a gift, which she had protested against. He had hushed her and that evening she had returned to her rooms to find a lovely blue dressing gown on her bed. Yanthe’s birthday was in October when the weather turned cold, so the dressing gown was a very thoughtful, as well as beautiful, gift.
For her thirtieth birthday he had gotten her an autumnal wreath to hang on her door, a pair of silver acorn earrings, and a berry tart. She hadn’t had the heart to tell him she had only chosen a berry tart because there were no birthday cakes, so she fully expected one for her thirty-first birthday as well.
At first she was given an allowance from the royal household, but her pride and integrity would not allow herself to live for free, so Yanthe had gotten herself a job at a bakery. It was nothing important. She did all the lowly tasks and got paid more than she should for it, but it was enough to make her feel like she belonged a bit more; that she wasn’t some leeching freeloader taking advantage of elven hospitality.
Payday had finally come and just in time, for now she could peruse the market after work and treat herself to something special. She had been saving up to buy herself a trinket or clothing or maybe a book in which to write about her time as a modern-day human in a fictional fantasy world. Not that she was sure who would read it.
Theninwen quietly trailed her, even though Yanthe told her she could go do her own shopping. The she-elf had merely smiled politely and reiterated that she was to accompany Yanthe wherever she went. The only place Theninwen no longer stayed with her was the palace, which was where Yanthe still lived. The moment she had begun to earn a wage, she had paid His Majesty rent, much to his obvious bemusement. He only tried to deny her once, but on seeing how much being indebted irked her, he had let it go.
Each stall was fascinating in its own right and Yanthe spent time at them all, even if the wares sold were not needed by her. She knew she looked like a child at Christmas when presented with gifts, but she didn’t care. The elves and the things they made were wondrous, so she would marvel at them unabashedly.
She stood by a stall where there were ribbons in every colour and width. Back home she would have snapped a picture for Instagram and tagged it for Pride Month, but the battery in her phone was long dead and the machine itself had been left to gather dust in the back of her bedside cabinet.
She had taken lots of photos in the beginning, to document her experience. She had even made a video, telling how she got here and what it was like and that she loved and would miss her parents and brother and sister. Her battery had only lasted one day, classic smartphone. She had mourned the loss for weeks. She still sometimes reached for the device in her pocket out of habit, the muscle memory kicking in.
That turquoise blue was gorgeous, she did love that blue. But then the jade green one was very pretty too. Or what about the cherry red? That would look nice in her hair. Maintaining her hair had been a bit of a nightmare. All elves seemed to have very straight or else flawlessly wavy hair. She had seen only a couple with more curly ringlets.
None had her hair. None had her skin colour.
Her father may have been the whitest chap from the Celtic hills of Aberystwyth, blue eyes and light brown hair, but she had her mother’s Namibian locks, 4B tight coils. Her very first purchase on getting her very first wage packet had been a silk pillow case but she had still sorely missed her leave in cream and Aunt Jackie’s defining curl custard.
Her Afro had been in the worst condition she had ever known to the point she had considered shaving it off and giving the bald look her mother rocked on a few occasions a go. Alas, elves did not grow beards so had no need of razors. Not that she would have known how to use one crafted for this age anyway.
If there had been any red ochre, she was desperate enough that she would have followed her mother’s tribal tradition and covered her hair in that. But Lindon was no desert clime and if she was being honest, she wouldn’t know what to do, having never had the mud applied to her hair before.
It was the High King who had noticed her glum mood as she’d picked the dry, split ends of her frizzy coils in zoned-out gloominess. She had been honest with him when he had asked and thought nothing of their conversation until a month later when he had presented her with a cream and a comb that turned out to be a follicle saving duo.
We may not have any here, but there are elves of darker skin and wilder hair in the wide world.
Wilder hair. She had had to hide her snort at His Majesty’s words, but it had brought a glimmer of happiness to think there were elves that looked like her; it made her feel less alone, less other.
She also glowed inside at not only the wonderful gifts High King Gil-galad gave her, but at the fact he had heard her pain and sought out to remedy it. It was such a kind and unexpected gesture that she was still trying to repay. She just didn’t know what she could offer an elven king as a nobody human. He was a ruler of good grace and noble sentiment though, whom she could see genuinely cared for his subjects.
Hmmm, maybe the teal would be best. Or how about a combination? She didn’t have to stick to one colour of ribbon. But now that just opened up more choice which was not helping her situation. Yanthe held up different colours. There was a mirror on the table next to the ribbons so she could see how each one looked against her hair and skin.
They were all too beautiful, that was the problem. She wanted them all, regardless of if they suited her or not.
“This one, I think.”
Yanthe whirled around to find High King Gil-galad raising a vibrant silken orange ribbon from the table. She stared at it, then at him. He offered her it upon his ring-bedecked fingers and she gently grabbed one end and watched it slide over his fingertips. She hadn’t realised how big his hands were, she had always thought of elves as willowy, slender saplings, but as she smiled awkwardly at the High King, she realised he was thick and sturdy like a well-founded redwood. It did not diminish his regality. If anything, it bolstered it.
She stared at the bright ribbon in her hand. Orange was her mother’s favourite colour, especially this sunset version. It was why she had subconsciously avoided it, it was too painful a reminder of a love lost to her. She held it up to her hair in the mirror. He was right though. It was the one. Her dark skin was the perfect canvas for such a vivacious colour, each made the other sing.
“You prefer the turquoise one.” His low voice cut through her thoughts. How did he do that? How did he know what she was thinking? It was not the first time he had accomplished this. Maybe she was merely that easy to read.
“Yes…well, no. I mean… turquoise is my favourite colour but you are right, the orange suits me more.” She turned back to him with a self-conscious grimace.
“Wear both then, they compliment one another nicely. Bright colours for a bright soul.” His eyes were warm and she could not hold their gaze.
“Thank you, Your Majesty.” She bowed her head, then turned to the seller and asked for both the turquoise and orange spools. She paid and thanked the elf but was keenly aware High King Gil-galad was still standing only a couple of feet away from her.
She clutched her purchases to her chest. “Thank you again for your help, Your Majesty.”
He waved her thanks away with a flourish of his hand, then spoke over her shoulder to her trailing companion.
“I can take Yanthe from here, Theninwen.”
Yanthe stared in bewilderment as she heard her escort reply behind her and leave. Take her where? What could The King want with her? Was she in trouble? Had he found a way to get her back home? Was she behind on rent?
She was so lost in thought that she hadn’t realised his hand was extended towards her, for her to take. She blinked at the proffered palm somewhat stupidly before her baffled brain kicked in and she quickly slid her smaller, slender fingers across his larger, thicker ones.
He tucked her arm under his and led her on. Yanthe stared straight ahead and stayed silent. Her heart was giving machine gun fire a run for its money. She had no clue what was happening and her anxiety was clouding all other thoughts.
Except one.
It feels nice to hold onto his arm.
Yanthe immediately shook that notion from her mind. Too dangerous a thought to let live. Better kill it now before it took root and slowly infested her mind. Better kill it now before it seeded other, potentially more dangerous thoughts in her mind.
They walked in silence, he at obvious ease with all the noble grace of such revered dignity, and she at equally obvious discomfort with all the stiffness of such an awkward imposter. She knew he would not object to her speaking first, yet she could not dispel the notion of not speaking unless spoken to. Which was just as well as she had no idea what she would even say. She had already thanked him and even in her befuddled state, she knew thanking him again would show how completely out of her depth she was.
Better to maintain the allusion of cool, calm, collectedness. Hopefully she could pull off being the kind of woman who often found herself on the arm of royalty. Immortal, ethereally gorgeous royalty.
No. More dangerous thoughts to be quashed. Yanthe cast them down along with her eyes, but the magnificence of his jawline against the blue backdrop of the bright sky was imprinted in her brain. All elves carried a certain elevated otherness, but Ereinion Gil-galad could only be described as touching divinity.
No. Stop it, Yanthe chastised herself. Stop. It.
“Yanthe?” She snapped back, not even realising she had lost focus. The High King was looking at her with a mildly concerned expression that also held a little bemusement.
They had stopped by some steps whereupon were laid cushions in the recesses so that courtiers could relax and enjoy the cityscape below. The steps were canopied in honeysuckle so that the air sang with sweet notes and the light trickled in to carpet the stone with dappled green and gold.
Gil-galad sat himself upon a silk gold cushion, legs crossed and robe rearranged, and gestured to the step below him. Yanthe surmised he had asked if here was a good place to sit, but she had been so caught up in her own contemplations that she had not heard him. She let out an embarrassingly squeaky apology and swiftly seated herself on the plush velvet red cushion directly below.
She was perched, her whole body tense. She was sat facing away from The High King behind her, as that had been the most logical way to sit and she had been too flustered to think of how to sit in a better way to converse with him. She was thinking how best to twist so she would not be taking over her shoulder but his proximity was throwing her off.
He was so close. If she leant back she would push up against his legs, and that would be most improper. Then, to her immense horror, she felt two firm hands on her shoulders, softly pressing her to do just that.
“Yanthe, you may relax.” His voice held a hint of laughter, though not mockingly so. He gave her shoulders a gentle squeeze and then released them.
“Sorry, Your Majesty, I’m just a little confused as to what we are doing here.” Yanthe began biting the skin on her lip, a terrible habit she had never been able to stop whenever she felt nervous. Luckily The High King couldn’t see her doing it, so she could indulge slightly less guiltily.
“Why, I am going to braid your hair of course.” His tone was all matter-of-fact. All the Noldorian elves wore their hair in the most intricate and fancy braids and plaits she had ever seen, but for him to braid her hair…
“You… what?” She twisted her head around to look at him in shock.
“Face forward please, Yanthe.” His strong fingers were guiding her head back around with firm gentleness. “Fear not, for this is not my first time braiding hair like yours.”
“Oh?”
“Remember I told you there were elves of dark skin and-”
“Wilder hair.” Yanthe finished for him with a broad smile.
A small pause in which she could only imagine his face. “Indeed. Well, my dear friend Círdan, one of the first elves to awaken, is one such elf and when we lived together in The Havens of Sirion, I watched him braid his own hair. Then one day I asked to try. My first attempt was less than adequate but you will be pleased to know, I have much more skill in the art now.”
He had begun separating her hair into sections as he spoke. He had apparently brought clips with him as she felt them applied to her hair to keep the sections separate. He had planned this then. His fingers were surprisingly nimble and did not tug.
“This is very kind of you to do.” Yanthe was once again glad The High King could not see her face, for a fierce blush had crept up to cover it entirely. Her father was a terrible blusher, it didn’t take much to make him turn red. Yanthe had inherited this trait, though luckily her mother’s dark skin hid the worst of it.
“You have done well to assimilate to life here amongst us, but I know you must miss your homeland. You always speak of Wales so beautifully. I thought maybe braiding your hair would help you feel more at home. I remember you mentioning once that your father would style your hair?”
Yanthe felt her heart swell with a sudden rush of gratitude. Not just at the grace he was showing her, but that Gil-galad had remembered such a small, passing detail from a conversation long ago. However, another thought flowed in on the wave of warmth, one that sent small bursts of electricity along her skin.
He sure is paying close attention to you.
She rubbed her arms to rid herself of the feeling. “Yes, much like you with your friend, my dad - father - asked my mother to show him how to do my hair. He said that as a parent he should know and also for if my mum - mother - wasn’t there for any reason.”
“He sounds a kind and wise man.” The High King noted.
“He is. He would always tell me a story while he did my hair, even when I got too old for them.” She smiled at the memory.
Gil-galad had evidently finished the first braid, for she heard the small snip of scissors trimming the end of the ribbon.
“I confess I am not one for telling stories, but perhaps you can tell me one that your father would tell you? Perhaps your favourite one?” The High King’s deft fingers never stopped their methodical work as he spoke.
She knew which story was her favourite, since a child she had always asked for it, but whether it was the kind of tale to grace the ears of an elven king…
She went for it. It was a chance for her to feel close to her dad again.
“Once upon a time, there were three little pigs.” She told it exactly as her dad always did, the full version where the wolf invites the third little pig to Farmer Brown’s field for turnips, then the orchard for apples, before the fun fair with the butter churn incident, and finally the chimney.
“Talking wolves, I have heard of, but not talking pigs.” Confessed Gil-galad with interest. “Do you have talking pigs in Wales?”
Yanthe failed to stifle a snort. “Erm, no. We don’t. Or talking wolves. They’re just anthropomorphised for the story.”
“Anthropomorphised?” The word bounced wonderfully off his tongue. “You do use such fancy words.”
He was teasing her, and the story along with the combing and twisting of her hair had put her quite at ease so she did not really think before doing what she did next. She tilted her head back so she could look him square in the eye and announced.
“It is not a fancy word, it means…”
No sooner had she spoken then her senses came to her. Her head was in his lap. Her head was now nestled in between the thighs of The High King of the Noldor. He was so close, she could feel his breath tickle her face. He smelt like honey and the breeze through a forest. His eyes were gazing directly into hers and she felt herself drawn into their dark bright depths.
They look like my eyes. Yanthe thought, surprised she’d never noticed before. All the other elves she had met tended to have blue or green eyes. A few hazel. None like hers. Only now, there was him.
His eyes never left her face but she became acutely aware that from his angle he would see the curve of her bare neck slope down to her collarbones and then further still to the roundness of her breasts. The blush returned in full force and she quickly sat back up. The High King of Lindon had just received a full view of her cleavage.
“It means to give human qualities and emotions and behaviours to an animal or object.” She gabbled in an attempt to bring them both back from whatever that moment had been. That moment that had seemed to have stretched for an hour when in reality it must have not even been a minute. “Surely you have that here.”
“Why would we? We are not human.” He was still teasing her, his tone had a playful edge.
“Well, for elves then!” She threw her hands up in exasperation. Oh please let this be over with soon.
She tucked her knees up under her chin and wrapped her arms around her shins, hugging herself in an attempt to squeeze the humiliation out. It didn’t work.
“My apologies, Yanthe, I did not mean to upset you.” He paused his braiding to gently squeeze her arm.
“I’m sorry for overreacting.” She sighed, biting her lip again. “It is a fancy word I suppose. The thing is, I got mocked a lot as a child for being a “clever clogs”, for enjoying studying. My family weren’t rich and we lived in a bit of a rough area, so all the other kids at school thought I was trying to be too fancy for what I was. They thought I was a snob who looked down on the rest of them.”
“And did you look down on them?”
“Maybe a little. The more they bullied me, the more I did.” She confessed.
“I’m sorry to hear you were bullied as a child.” A light brush of fingers against her shoulder this time.
“I’m sorry you had to deal with Morgoth as a child.” She replied grimly. She did not know much lore, but one thing her very nerdy brother, Xavier, had endowed her with was facts on Sauron’s bigger, badder master. He had even dressed up as Morgoth for convention once, Silmaril crown and Grond in hand and everything.
He reached forward to brush his thumb over her hand, which was hugging her elbow around her knees still.
“Thank you.” His voice was a whisper murmured against her ear and it made her stomach dive and her skin shiver. He leant back and only then did Yanthe feel safe to breathe again.
They sat in silence until he announced, with a touch to her shoulder, that he had finished. It was much faster than she had expected, she had a lot of hair to braid. She felt him raise himself off the step and she unfolded herself. Her legs were a bit cramped from holding them against her body for so long, so that she wobbled a bit on standing up.
His arm was immediately around her waist, steadying her. He slid one hand to the base of her back and took her hand in his other one to guide her from the recess and up the steps. Once at the top he pulled her back into holding his arm. Her mind short-circuited at all the contact and gallantry.
Yanthe wondered where he was taking her now. She had assumed that once he had finished braiding her hair, he would let her go to her rooms. They wandered through the palace, servants bowing as they passed, up more stairs and down more corridors until Yanthe realised he was not escorting her back to her rooms… but his.
Her mind and blood were in sudden competition to see who could race the fastest. Why were they going to The High King’s personal suite of rooms? She had never been there before. She had never expected to go there. Why would she? He was the elven High King Ereinion Gil-galad and she was just some random human he had kindly taken in. Some random peasant human, at that.
She was trying her best to breathe normally and hoped he could not feel how sweaty her hand had become in his.
They entered through the ornate double doors into what appeared to be the room he greeted visitors. A reception room, that was it. Her mind was struggling to operate normally. It had lounging seats to one side near a fire and a desk with chairs either side by a large, partially stained glass window. Perhaps he wished to conduct a more formal interview on her time here in Lindon, see what her plans for the future were. That would make sense.
But Gil-galad took her past the seats by the fire and steered her away from the desk to go through another door. This room had a bed in it, four-poster and beautifully carved from oak. Regal blue drapes adorned it with silver trim and patterning. Yanthe blinked dopely. He had taken her to his bedroom.
She started to panic until, with relief, he guided her not to the bed, but to a full-length mirror in the corner of the room. He placed her in front of it and finally let her go, with a small press of his thumb in her palm.
“Please do excuse my odd behaviour, only I wanted you to see the full effect of your hair with the rest of you and I know you only have a small hand-held mirror in your rooms.” He smiled apologetically.
She turned from him to look at herself. Her hand went to a braid and fingered the end delicately where it rested on her shoulder. It was so exquisitely done. The way the ribbon was woven into the plaiting was so neat. The turquoise and orange against the jet of her hair and the ebony of her skin shimmered like gemstones. She brought the colours to life.
To her utter embarrassment, she felt tears begin to well and raised a shaky hand to stifle the hitched breath that was trying to escape her quivering lips. She looked beautiful. Not that she didn’t like having an Afro, she had had her hair natural many times before, but this was more her. She always felt more comfortable in braids. Now with the addition of the ribbons she felt, well, fancy.
“You look resplendent.” His voice was low with reverence. “Utterly radiant, Yanthe.” When he spoke her name it was as though he invoked the name of a goddess in worshipful prayer.
She covered her face, totally overcome. She needed to get a grip of herself.
“No, do not hide.” His hands, strong and warm, engulfed her own and brought them down from her face, cradling them against his chest. She could not meet his eyes, but he let go of her hands to cup her face and tilt it towards his.
“I know they are tears of gratitude, yet still I would not see you cry.” His thumbs swept over her face to brush the fallen drops away.
Yanthe had had a few boyfriends and a couple of girlfriends, only one or two that had been serious enough that the break ups actually hurt, yet none of her exes had ever looked at her the way Ereinion Gil-galad was looking at her now.
She knew she should be saying thank you, but those deep brown eyes had robbed her of all speech. So she closed her eyes, it was the only way, and even then she could still feel his adoring gaze enveloping her.
“Thank you.” It trembled from her in an inelegant hiccuped breath.
She felt a shift in the air but it was not enough warning. Soft lips found hers with a delicate press. The kiss was fleeting, but the feeling of him lingered. The kiss was chaste, but the feeling it invoked was not. She opened her eyes again and saw that everything had changed. She could see that he saw it too.
“I will escort you back to your quarters.”
She nodded and with a final caress of thumb over cheekbone, Gil-galad dropped his hands and offered his arm to her for the third time that day.
They walked in silence because there was no need for words. Neither wanted to question what had happened or what it meant. They both just wanted to enjoy it for what it had been. She leaned a bit more into him as they strolled along and he traced circles on the back of her hand. Both wore matching smiles.
At the door to her rooms, they reluctantly detached themselves. They stood there, facing one another, neither wanting to say goodbye, but the hour had grown late and it would soon be time for sleep.
“Goodnight, Yanthe.”
“Goodnight, Your Highness.”
He leaned down to kiss her with a smile. “Ereinion, you must call me Ereinion now.”
Woke up appreciating Tolkien and his peerless characterization of villains:
“Then Melkor laughed aloud, and leapt swiftly down the long western slopes;” - Silmarillion
My dude is giggling and running down a mountainside.
This is the main villain of the story on his way to cast the world in darkness. Any other author would’ve depicted this as either an eldritch horror descending on the Trees, or at least a serious, dark figure marching toward his goal. But not JRRT. He gives us a laughing little boy running down a hill on his way to cause mischief. In one line JRRT gives us so much insight into his main villain, and sets him completely apart from the stereotypical dark lord archetype (which ironically is largely derived from his works).
It’s 2024 and Tolkien continues to be the breath of fresh air in the genre he invented a century ago.
i got this question in the washroom (don't ask why): lelca and melkor or adar and theit biological kid(s). I remember u mentioning that lelca can't have kids but WHAT IF??? How will the father and the other love react? Mairon, Saratalma and Ulmo and specially the Valar???
How will LELCA HERSELF react? Also, will she introduce the kid(s) to the wolves/glarung?
Right. Okay. Here we go. Long answer incoming under the cut!
So, back when I was a teenager and the idea of the story for Delicate Light first came into my head, Lelyacalë and Melkor had three children. She ran away after the first and gave birth alone in a cave because she didn’t trust Melkor with a child. He was much more abusive in the my first rendition and didn’t have a romantic relationship with Mairon either so she was all he had in that regard. They were also married in that version, very early on, as a possessive act on Melkor’s part.
Her first son looked the spitting image of Melkor and she raised him alone. Melkor never stopped searching for them. His son grew up to hate his father so much he tattooed his face so he wouldn’t look like him anymore. Sauron found them when Melkor was in Valinor and brought them back to Angband for when he returned.
Then she had twins, a boy and a girl. The girl she protected as best she could and got her out as a youth to Doriath, where Melian took her in against Thingol’s obvious disapproval. The boy grew up to follow after Melkor and eventually became a balrog. It broke Lelca’s heart.
I grew up and realised the story didn’t need children. I’ve had two children myself and it’s messy and complicated without being tied to Melkor. Also Rings of Power happened and Adar got added to the story and that changed things. It didn’t need doing. I wanted to focus on Lelyacalë and her relationships as a free woman. You are not free with children, you just aren’t. They have to be the focus, or pull a lot of the focus and I didn’t want that. I didn’t want the story to shift to focussing on Lelyacalë as a mother, it’s not the story that I wanted to tell.
Besides, Melkor would never actually want to be a father and I wanted to stick with the canon that The Valar do not bear/produce biological children. I think being a mother is very powerful, but it can often be reductive in a narratives. I didn’t want to do a pregnancy trope, it’s overdone in fantasy and there was enough pain going on without a child/ren in the mix. The fact she had already lost a child in her previous life was enough, making her magically pregnant didn’t feel right.
That being said, if Lelyacalë were to have a child, here are the reactions.
Lelyacalë bears Melkor a child
Melkor: he would have had to heal her in order for it to work so he would be smug it had worked. He would be instantly possessive of the child. Surprisingly worried about Lelyacalë’s welfare. Would stay with her at all times. Would be present for the birth, in fact, would act as midwife. Would name the child himself. Wouldn’t be much interested in the child until it’s old enough to learn/be taught by him.
Adar: devastated and jealous but supportive, wants Lelya to be looked after and holds no ill-will towards the child. Hates that it’s another tie to Melkor for the woman he loves. Ultimately has to leave Lelya alone for her own safety. It would be the beginning of the end of their relationship.
Sàratalma: fully goes into uncle mode, like with Caleth and Merin. Is intrigued how they’ll turn out. Fussed over pregnant and postpartum Lelca more than even Adar, which she finds amusing. Advocates for Lelca’s parental rights when Melkor becomes controlling.
Mairon: f*cking fuming. Despises Lelca’s pregnant form, has full womb envy because while he can shape shift he has decided on male in the beginning so that’s that for him. He hates the offspring because they are tainted by her. Will not harm the offspring because they are Melkor’s.
Ulmo: horrified, believes Leah has been desecrated, believes Melkor doesn’t deserve to be or is a fit father. Wants to take mother and child to Valinor.
Other Valar: intrigued by a half-human/half-Vala child. Debate on whether Ulmo is correct and they should be taken away from Melkor. Worry about the child being corrupted as Melkor cannot create only make mockery.
Lelyacalë: terrified. Grateful for Talma. Feels guilty due to Adar, wishes it was his. Unsure how to raise a child in Angband. Worried about not being able to bond with the baby. Would distance herself from Adar to be safe and actually enjoy being closer to Melkor.
Lelyacalë bears Adar a child
Adar: depending on when this happens, either petrified or thrilled. If in Angband, terrified of what will happen to Lelyacalë and the baby if/when Melkor finds out. If when Melkor is in Valinor, terrified of what Mairon will do. If after Lelya is free in the south, it’s his literal dream (minus Talma but he loves him really and is grateful for his help).
Melkor: if in Angband after his return, he would abort the baby. He would not allow it to live. Simple as. Not his, get rid, and he’d do it himself. He would not care that she had already suffered this exact situation in her Earth life. If the child was grown he would try to kill them but have more mercy as Lelyacalë would fight for her child, so he would exile the child from Angband and forbid her from seeing them again.
Sàratalma: worried about Melkor’s reaction but basically the same as if she bore Melkor a child. Focussed on his best friend being safe and well and looked after.
Mairon: betrayed by Adar but victorious he could use this to turn Melkor against Lelyacalë. Otherwise he could not care less about her or the baby.
Ulmo and The Valar: supportive of her as a mother. Would protect the exiled child and be abhorred at a forced abortion.
Lelyacalë: same as Adar to be honest but if Melkor did force a termination, she would never forgive him for that, ever. It would turn her against him forever and she would actively fight against him. She would hate him. It would be an abuse too far no matter how hard he tried to win her forgiveness.
The more children she had with Melkor, the more Adar would feel a rift and that their relationship was unsalvageable. Each child would make her more Melkor’s, more tied to him. Also, then more children she had with Melkor, the worse Mairon would become. He would probably fight Melkor at one point in a rage and that would be the end of any more children.
She would only have more than one child with Adar after she was free and living in the south.
Yes she would introduce the child to her wolves and Glaurung, but she would be be cautious around Glaurung, especially if he was more grown.
Sorry for the long answer, but the topic of her having children is a big one for me. She nearly did have. I’m glad she didn’t in the end though. I think adopting Eluréd and Elurín was enough.
A writer's relationship with their own work goes: this is genius, this is garbage, this is genius, this is garbage, i should never have been born, okay actually this line is good
So, a while ago @ffigwit tagged me for the last line game, and I’m answering only now because I haven’t been satisfied with my writing for some time.
Anyway, this is a line from the new chapter of my FeaNolvo fic Unreal Unearth, in which Nolofinwë (still) has Strong Feelings about gay sex.
He longed to bring pleasure, severed from the procreative purpose; to taste the ecstasy of the unholiest union.
And some no pressure tags: @gauntletgirlie, @perlen-gold, @abomination-unto-nuggan, @infiniteriver, @belforte, @dreamyshiftyaching, @sauron-kraut, @rebornflameofthenoldor, @thorinsmajesticbraids, @vigilardensole
Anyway I was actually writing when I got tagged in this so here is the line I quite literally just wrote:
His voice was the echoes of time, deep, powerful, and unnerving.
No pressure tags and sorry for double tagging: @perlen-gold, @gingeragenda, @permanentlyexhaustedpigeon88, @daughterofthesunlands, @whenimaunicorn, @thorinsmajesticbraids, @oh-miniso, @saintvoids, @silmarillion-brainrot, @varda-star-queen and anyone else who would like to play!
