FAREWELL TO THE WEAK.

ATLAS WAS PERMITTED THE OPINION HE WAS AT LIBERTY, IF HE WISHED, TO DROP THE EARTH AND CREEP AWAY; BUT THIS OPINION WAS ALL HE WAS PERMITTED.

[silmarilled]

SILMARILLED. / IND. PRI. SEL. FËANOR, OF TOLKIENS LEGENDARIUM. 21+. WARNING: DISTURBING THEMES. SIDEBLOG TO @bjcrke

[snowsource]

…let them say that Eddard Stark had fathered four sons, not three.

[yocalio]

Jon Snow appreciation 38/-

[fanastraea]

lol this is so true. and also really cool in a way i could never explain to anyone who isn't Like This

[abodyuntenanted]

the weirdest/coolest part is that it is genuinely not flirting, and barely feels sexualized as a social interaction at all. it's like seeing your friend's favorite pastry on sale and grabbing one for them, but somehow even less of an overture

[broomsticks]

[erulasse23]

they knew what they were doing with this scene

that is 1000% intentional “oh his shirt just slid” nah they know we’re a bunch of horny mfs

[lovinglycerebral]

“Time does not bring relief; you all have lied” - Edna St. Vincent Millay

(transcript under the cut)

Keep reading

[silmarilled]

Who wants to their character to be psychologically tortured by feanor

[silmarilled]

@sungsilver 👀👀

[snowsource]

countdown to season 8 (3/10): favorite battle       “I fought worse than Ramsay Bolton.”

[silmarilled]

Who wants to their character to be psychologically tortured by feanor

[ceeyoutea]

for the love of galadriel: 11/∞

[mournfulroses]

Clarice Lispector, from An Apprenticeship or, The Book of Delights written in 1969

[silmarilled]

I’m fully riding the feanor is obsessed w One (1) person and 3 gems and he’s not going to chaaaaaange!

[tidalhaired]

Fëanor remained an untempered flame, burning as hot as his forge. In a way it was beautiful, that one could remain so steadfast and stay true to their own nature. If only he were not such a dangerous man and still far too eager to spill elven blood. Elrond met the disconcerting grin with a concerned frown.

King Finarfin would have to step up soon and accept the inevitable truth - Fëanor needed to either be forced into submission, or he would rise above them all and rule over them, unchallenged.

The best solution in Elrond's eyes would be for Fëanor and his brother to share the burden of ruling. A truce, offering stability and combining Fëanor's strength and spirit with Finarfin's wisdom and popularity.

It had never been effective when Elves had crippled themselves with infighting, whether it was here or in Middle-earth. Only by standing as one and working with all peoples of Arda had they been able to defeat Sauron and vanquish the darkness.

"We are stronger together than we are apart. Imagine what you and lord Finarfin could do if you shared the high crown. The beauty you could create with your combined magnificence. It would also put an end to the hostilities between your subjects and no one need give their lives."

[silmarilled]

ah, so that's his plan is it? this little lord who plays at some mighty wisdom. i have seen all the ages of this world, faced morgoth in battle, wrought the works of our kind spoken of throughout every age of middle earth, revered and respected and feared. with whom could he share this burden?

"what you see as hostility, i see as pride in our place in this world." the grin turns discerning and fëanor steps into a circle around elrond, slowly pacing around him, observing and finding this veritable boy wanting. "to reach a hand down to someone, they must first be beneath you. and i am beneath no-one. not my little brother, not your precious gil-galad, and certainly not you, lord half-elf. ever the valar would appear so omnipotent and everlasting, but where were they when morgoth broke his vow of repentence? some have likened me to his ilk but i have sworn no such vow. i break no faith."

a beat. he pauses in his pacing. "what of you, little lordling? you were a ruler of a kingdom once, were you not? i have heard tell of your mighty deeds and fair judgement - what does your heart desire?"

[tidalhaired]

@silmarilled : the throne will go to the one who has the strength to seize it. ❜

After his arrival in Valinor, Elrond had visited every royal court with great interest, excited and blessed to meet many of his relatives. No other race could fathom just how complicated elven politics were. Men and Dwarves were used to clear lines of successions. Old rulers died, leaving the crown for their heirs and other branches of their families to quarrel over.

Elves had lines that dwindled at first, but were rekindled by the restoration of those lost. After their tenure in the Halls of Mandos, they returned with claims that were their right in life, clashing against the claims of those currently in power.

The exception were Elrond's mortal ancestors, who had sadly vanished not to return again. They would have undoubtedly enjoyed to add to the complexity and chaos of the line of succession.

It was clear that mere Kings were not enough any longer. The lines had progressed and mingled too far. What Valinor needed was a High King. King Finwë was still missing, High King Ingwë resided on Taniquetil and nobody had answered Elrond's question when he asked who would be best suited as High King. But there was clear tension, gnawing at the many rulers in these fair lands.

When Elrond had suggested Ereinion Gil-galad, his High King and the only King who shall have Elrond's full support and loyalty, Gil-galad himself had declined, even if deeply moved by Elrond's undying loyalty.

And that was before Fëanor returned, much to great surprise, anger and anticipation. It was like Lindon in the second age all over again, where Elvendom required a High King who knew to unify many proud houses. Elrond doubted Fëanor was the right candidate for such a task, as there was no other Elf as polarizing as him. Elrond also doubted that Fëanor would go down without a fight.

"You have your supporters, my lord. But just as many detractors, if not more. They will not bow to you, even should you dominate them. I foresee an unrest that should be prevented."

[silmarilled]

it is a boon, they say. a drop of grace in a sea of escalating fear, doubt and frustration; ten thousand years chained in a cage and still he will not give them an ounce. they condemned him to eternity in the halls, forever restless, doomed and damned never to return to the golden shores of valinor until the dagor dagorath. he cannot fathom their explanation for his release. it was not told, even to those who possess the gift of foresight, and so this unpredictability works to fëanor's advantage. how could he be expected not to use the opportunity?

his father is gone and there is none who might step into the mantle. finarfin flounders, as ineffectual as he had been all those years ago when offered a choice of freedom or servitude. he chose to slavery to faceless monotony, while fëanor chose a fate of his own making. he would not be forced to regret stepping into his own path.

he stills wears his armour. studded hide, leather undershirt, dressed as much as he had in the days before his reckonining. if they wanted him to be softer, they should have tempered their expectations.

"wise words, half-elven," he says, sly and grinning. "i do not need them to bow to me. i only need them to die for me."

[anthxlogy]

Nàmo’s halls were strange and winding. Doors seemed to go nowhere, corridors appeared and seemed to shift once one was inside them. He cared little for coming here - but, Galadriel’s brother was still here, and he visited him on occasion.

‘Perhaps he might be cajoled back to the land of the living,’ Finarfin would say whenever he or another of his family would go to visit. He was always disappointed, but Celeborn saw something of Celebrían in Finarfin, and so he could not refuse his father in law anymore than he could refuse his daughter.

It had been a mistake to come today, however. Nàmo seemed to be in the mood for games.

Celeborn, upon seeing Feanor, turned to leave, only to find that the door from whence he came had disappeared. Typical.

He grit his teeth and turned back, silver eyes glancing the Noldo over.

“You have not wronged me.” He responded. “I’m quite sure we’ve never met.”

[silmarilled]

fëanor grins and spreads his arms wide, victory, the first conversation he's had in what feels like decades. may well have been decades - the only person who talks to him here is námo and it is always lacking. always circling around a topic, forever scratching at the wounds that have festered for millennia and will continue to do so for as long as he continues to show so little remorse. and for what does he have to be remorseful for? leading his people to a world of their own making? for seeking out morgoth in an effort to be rid of him?

"ah, so you know who i am. and i have wronged someone dear to you perhaps? no one is sent to my little cage without reason. perhaps it is a lesson? though for whom, you or me, i wonder."

[silmarilled]

THE SEVEN SONS OF FËANOR

MAEDHROS | MAGLOR | CELEGORM | CARANTHIR | CURUFIN | AMRAS & AMROD.

[silmarilled]

@registxr / celeborn.

in the darkness of the halls of mandos, there is little to argue with but the shadows and the sconces, the flames licking the stone peacefully and unending; part of the torture, he supposed. the boredom. námo visits infrequently - in ten thousand years, he has yet to see the face of anyone not his directly of his kin. once his brothers, a handful of times his wife, only three of his sons. there is a sweetness in it as much as there can be; if only to soothe the swell of frustration that rears.

he does not recognise the stranger who comes one evening though his eyes and countenance seem familiar; some wronged son of some slaughtered house or barely remember lesser bannerman. fëanor has lost track of the names and faces of all those he killed.

"speak if you must. tell me all the ways in which i have wronged you, ser."