#fëanorian

[joetamy]

Day 2 of @feanorianweek

Kingship, something he never asked for and never expected I'm sure. Can't have been easy for him...

[fandomblr]

Hoe who let Fëanor run a church here in Mexico City?! 💀 😭

You know the church is going to be LIT when Fëanor is leading it (get it!)

[meluiloth]

Here’s my artwork for @silmarillionepistolary day 4, love and creation!

More time has passed, and Finwë still loves his art, his people, and his growing family. His eldest son, Fëanáro (shown on the top left and right), has grown into an ambitious and genius adult. He is always creating and inventing new things - even a written language! Finwë has spent much time learning the script (a few failed attempts are shown in the top left corner), but he is immensely proud of his son (and his wife, Nerdanel, pictured below him).

Finwë’s ‘other family’, so called by Fëanáro (who doesn’t get along with them at all), has grown over the last several years. Indis is a ray of sunshine in his life, and as strong a woman as she is a Queen - she has borne four children and remains as joyful and sturdy as ever. Nolofinwë is the eldest, followed by Arafinwë, then his two daughters Findis and Írimë. Finwë adores children, and would love to always have them near him forever. (Though his own are swiftly growing up, Nerdanel is already pregnant with her first child, which is very excited about).

Still, though his first wife makes no more appearances in his sketches … she always lingers in the back of his mind, a phantom he could not erase even if he wanted to. And he doesn’t want to, no matter how much guilt he feels about pining over Míriel when his living wife is ever beside him.

Tengwar translations (the language is English transcribed into Tengwar):

[counsellorerestor]

Erestor of Imladris

[mcpayne]

RIP Fëanor you would've loved "Euphoria" by Kendrick Lamar

[theelvenhaven]

I might be late to the party on this but I had such an AHA! Moment.

You know the hatred of Indis that Fëanor has for her, just became all the sudden so apparent reading The Peoples of Middle Earth and in the Shibboleth of Fëanor. I just got it yesterday in the mail finally and started reading last night.

I mean we get a general idea in The Silmarillion about how Míriel chose not to be reborn, and then Finwë eventually was able to marry Indis. Which Fëanor hated her as a result and the children she bore for his father.

But when you read in the Shibboleth of Fëanor his hatred for Indis makes so much more sense than he’s just angry Indis married his father. Fëanor isn’t just angry that Indis married his father, he’s angry that because his father remarried, his mother could never be reborn.

To him Indis stole that choice from Míriel the moment she showed his father the love she held for him.

He was probably holding out hope when Finwë went to the Valar for counsel that they’d deny him. I mean yeah his father was happy but what about his mother? It was no secret the Eldar couldn’t have two wives so obviously to Fëanor that would mean they’d deny his request right?

But they didn’t. Instead they said;

“So she must remain until the end of the world. For from the moment that Finwë and Indis are joined in marriage all future change and choice will be taken from her and she will never again be permitted to take bodily shape. Her present body will swiftly wither and pass away, and the Valar will not restore it. For none of the Eldar may have two wives both alive in the world.”

- The Valar, The Shibboleth of Fëanor, The Peoples of Middle Earth

Imagine you’re a young Fëanor holding out hope that your mother who is now left in peace will one day decide to come back to her body. Then it is just ripped away from you the moment the Valar decree it so. That’s such a crushing blow.

Not only will his mother not be reborn, but now he loses the last physical connection with Míriel. No more visiting her body, no more speaking with her body to console himself or feel close to her, or holding her hand while her body lay there. It’s now all gone.

And to Fëanor it is all Indis’ fault.

If she wouldn’t have shown her love, if she wouldn’t have been so selfish to not consider Fëanor, or the consequences that could come to avoid bigamy then it all could’ve been avoided.

And his hatred for Indis’ children make so much more sense now too. They are a representation of everything that Finwë could’ve had with Míriel. They’re a constant reminder to Fëanor of what he lost, what could’ve been with his mother.

It couldn’t possibly be- in Fëanor’s mind- his fathers fault. He wasn’t even considering remarriage until he met her. His father, while unhappy, was only considering his mother. Surely, to Fëanor, he was conflicted about going through with it. It must’ve been Indis that pushed. Not his father. Which would be why his connection with his father wasn’t severed.

To him too maybe this is breeds some kind of distrust and resentment for the Valar. Especially later in his life. The Valar had been cruel and denied him, in a sense, a reunion with his mother. The ability to be a family again.

[conversacomsmaug]

Anoriel - Russandol - Gil-maehdro - Anor Annún - Áre Neldë- Rus-Antale - Rusadlant - Ruscaro

[i-did-not-mean-to]

Hi IDNMT!

Could I request a prompt from you for the Silm? 🙈

Specifically Caranthir; reader has a near-death experience and the Caranthir refuses to leave their side. Reader wakes up with Caranthir holding their hand and resting his head on the side of the bed and they are tempted to trace the features of his face but just as they are about to he wakes up. Will he let them? 👀

Hello anon...I have combined this request with another one I got from my dearest Irene...

So...Caranthir, huh? That's a new one haha...Let's try (?)

Words: 2,2k

Warnings: Injury and a bit of mockery

Characters: Caranthir x reader

“This is a dumb idea,” Caranthir griped, giving his brothers – minus the twins who were considered too young to participate in foolhardy adventures like this one – a nasty look; they all knew that he liked to complain but wouldn’t desert them or miss out on the chance to do some mischief.

On this sunny afternoon, you had the exceptional honour and pleasure of entertaining the sons of Fëanor; to your surprise, they had decided to roam through the woods adjacent to your home, in search of either game or enemies.

You had never understood why prodigies – precious beyond what gems and exceptional creations may ever outweigh – like them would pay social calls armed to their teeth and eager for peril.

“Ah come on,” you laughed, tapping a playful finger against the tip of the elegant nose of your undisputed favourite of the brood, “don’t make such a face or it will get stuck like that.”

“Oh, it’s too late for that,” Maglor chimed in, his voice pealing like bells in the ambient silence of the woods, “his face has been like that for years now.”

“I don’t remember it ever looking any different,” Maedhros assented with a sly smile, “it seems to me that Carnistir was born like that.”

“Yeah, he’s always had that face!” Curufin piped up excitedly.

“How would you know? You weren’t even born yet,” you intervened, seeing how your dear friend’s mien grew ever darker with anger and humiliation. You felt bad for having provided them an opening to pile onto your friend, especially as his eyes – sharp and cold – spoke volumes of the betrayal he thought himself subjected to.

“Come to our house,” Curufin replied with a minute shrug, “and I’ll show you the painting of our red-faced, ill-tempered, ever-upset Moryo.”

The idea of being granted the immense privilege of laying eyes upon their family portraits made a smile tug at the corners of your mouth but – apparently knowing which particular work of art was being referenced – Caranthir’s glower intensified a thousandfold within a single moment. 

Truth be told, you cherished and admired the flush of just anger and embarrassment now rising in his cheeks like a visible gauge of his annoyance; Caranthir had ever been bewitching and charming to you in ways you didn’t care to explain to his more outgoing siblings. Many were the hidden blessings of this creature – like his sharp mind or his unusual sense of humour – that were constantly overshadowed by the more obvious displays of his sometimes cantankerous mood and much famed short temper.

“Are you quite finished?” he muttered, vexation and impatience making his own tone sound sharper than he intended it to be. 

Just as you were about to distract the company by making an ill-timed joke, the sound of stamping hooves and the smell of sheer panic flooded the small clearing you were crossing; it was an unfortunate instinct – as you would admit after the fact – on your behalf, especially as they would have been able to bodily wrestle the startled beasts into submission or shoot them down in their path, but you threw yourself into the stampede heedlessly. 

In that moment, you cared not about what danger – natural predator or unholy enemy – had whipped them into such a frenzy; all that mattered to you was to keep Caranthir and his blessed brothers safe from the imminent threat of being trampled to death by startled herd of wild beasts – heedless in their panic – and so, you used your own body as a projectile, in hopes that it would divert their course.

In that second, all the words you had never spoken and all the sentiments you had never expressed echoed like screams within your flighty soul; this man – tall and taciturn, intelligent and sharp-tongued, vulnerable and brave – was precious to you, and, even though you’d never confess as much to him, your heart didn’t hesitate to sacrifice the body that cradled and protected it in the name of a devotion so earnest and deep. Did you brace for the impact? You knew not, but there was a flash of pain and light as your body was lifted off the ground and flung carelessly through the sweet air that had been filled with joyous laughter only moments ago, before a great darkness swallowed you and dragged your mind down into protective oblivion.

A golden ray of light caressed your skin, tickling you awake with ephemeral fingers, and you blinked sleepily.

Your head felt heavy and there were tendrils of pain thrumming through your body – visions of blood and memories of a bone-shattering impact flashed through your mind – but there was also the steady beating of your heart that assured you that there was life yet coursing through your veins.

As your vision focused from blurry swaths of colour into sharp outlines, you beheld that face you had been meditating many another bleak morning, the very visage that had propelled you into harm’s way so boldly, the beauteous countenance of one you simply and cowardly called “friend” for fear of overstepping boundaries never truly established.

You could not tell how he had come to find himself – crumpled like a discarded and forgotten doll – half-slumped over the edge of your bed, but you could not deny how much instant solace his quiet presence gave you. 

A warm, smooth hand was resting atop yours as if to shield it and you instantly allowed a fond smile to blossom on your own features; upon further inspection though, you realised how worn out Caranthir truly appeared: there were dark shadows under those usually so luminous eyes, and you resented them for invading a space that should be dominated by a healthy pink glow with their dull veil of purple and grey.

In all of your years of affectionate acquaintance, you had also never before seen him condone such a display of negligent disarray when it came to his garments; prim and proper to the point of being called “vain” by Celegorm, Caranthir would – under normal circumstances – never have allowed anyone to see him in such a state. Divested of his outer coat, he had rolled up the sleeves of a criminally wrinkled tunic, bearing stains that looked suspiciously like blood, and his hair was a tangled mess as if he had run those beautiful, sensitive fingers, now splayed across the back of your own hand, repeatedly through it in distress.

You shook your head carefully, trying to jostle the fragments of your memory back into some semblance of a logical or at least somewhat chronological order.

His brothers and you had been joking about his sour mien moments before disaster had struck and you now regretted your careless words bitterly; if you had perished foolishly, trying to defend and protect some of the hardiest people to walk this earth, would Caranthir have allowed his heart to harden around a single thoughtless, meaningless, tasteless joke? 

Tears rose to your eyes at the mere thought; you knew him well enough to believe that he’d treasure the hurt if it was the only thing left to him of a connection so fraught with ambiguity and misunderstanding. He’d guard his very pain jealously, tearing off the scabs secretly and mutely, without ever seeking out the comforting and healing influence of others.

Helpless prayers of gratitude and relief bubbled to your lips and were breathed into the cool air of your sickroom in perfect silence; you would get the chance to set things right, you would be granted the mercy of being at least able, even if unwilling, to confess how much you truly adored his complexion, and that blessing of opportunity alone soothed the raging agony of your wounds, screaming in protest as you strained to move.

You yearned to trace his delicate features with your numb fingertips, you longed to wipe away the dark smudges of worry and the stark lines of yet stronger but unfathomable emotions graven onto that pristine skin, and – most of all – you were dying to just feel him. 

Ill-tempered or not, he was alive and well, and that was reason enough to celebrate as far as you were concerned, for – within the deepest, darkest corners of your heart – he was the one you held dearest in this life. 

Extending your aching arm slowly, you strove towards the warm, smooth skin of the one you loved so helplessly and hopelessly; if you could but touch him, you knew, it would anchor and ground you enough to keep you from spiralling into a maelstrom of guilt and shame. 

No doubt, before too long, the others would make an appearance and chide you for having acted so recklessly and consequently having endangered yourself needlessly; you knew that you deserved to be reprimanded, but – just in this moment – you wanted to soak up the innocent comfort that was unwittingly imparted to you.

Your hand tensed around those slender fingers slightly as if to steady yourself as the other one inched ever closer to the dark hair partially obscuring the handsome face still resting at an awkward angle on the mattress. Wasn’t it hilarious that Caranthir could add up any number and balance even the most chaotic accounts effortlessly and yet was unable to read the most basic signs of affection?

A moment before your skin brushed his though, his eyes flew open, and his head snapped up in alarm.

“What are you doing?” he asked raucously, exhaustion and worry making his voice sound like sand grating over stone.

“Forgive me,” you whispered, “you looked so…enthralling just now.” “Ah, I see you’ve not lost your sense of humour then.” He stretched like a cat, all flexible limbs and fluid motions, before resting his elbows back at your side, gingerly taking hold of your hand once more; despite the teasing note in his voice, you could discern that you had not been wrong in surmising that he’d stubbornly remember your last words, unmindful and vexing as they had been. 

“Moryo,” you beckoned him closer, “you are always handsome, you know that, right?”

“Oh, don’t say that when Maitimo the Beautiful can hear you,” he chuckled dryly, but his fingers tensed around your own, sending waves of warmth and slight pain up your shattered arm, “you should rest! Stop squirming around so; you’ve been grievously wounded!”

“I do not care,” you replied calmly, “they fear your wrath, not mine.”

He merely shrugged; could it truly be that he had no idea that it was his passion – flaring bright and hot – rather than his actual complexion that earned him the jeering nicknames by which his brothers teased him so?

“You have the colouring of late autumn roses, you have the radiance of a sunset mirrored in an untouched lake, you combine your parents’ beauty in ways that are entirely your own,” you went on insistently, “do you truly not know just how gorgeous you are?”

Your name was velvet and silk as it slipped from his tongue quietly, and the tenderness in those few syllables was balm on your abused flesh.

“Do you truly think me handsome? Even compared to my brothers?” There was a naked yearning – so unlike the proud, masterful, indifferent façade he habitually wore like armour – in those words and your answering flinch set each of your injuries aflame. 

How to explain to him that none of his brothers made your heart soar quite like his reserved grin often managed to do, despite your better knowledge?

“They are rather gaudy and ostentatious in their charms, are they not?” you cackled, knowing that your inopportune and often clumsy jokes always managed to relieve the tension between the two of you.

“That they are,” he agreed with a sharp smile, “and I guess, I am not.”

“You’ve been known to flaunt your pulchritude now and again,” you reminded him immediately with a wink.

“Say, were you not about to pet me? How about you lavish those caresses – in devoted and humble gratitude – on the one who picked up your battered form and carried it all the way back?” he changed the subject suddenly and brought his face closer yet to your own.

“You did?” you gasped.

“Yes,” he admitted, a little embarrassed by his own confession, “and I’ve not left your bedside since. So, please forgive me if I am – at the present moment – unable to live up to your lofty ideals, but I’ve spent three days and nights by your side – wondering, waiting, worrying – while the healers did their best to mend your wounds.”

“I said ‘always’, Moryo, and I meant it,” you prompted gently, finally letting your scratched palm settle against his high cheek, “you look just fine. Were I in less pain, I’d think myself returned to the Blessed Realm where all my dreams have come true.”

He blinked slowly at that, turning his face abruptly to press a forceful kiss onto your trembling hand.

“Rest now, my dearest,” he whispered against your skin, “and I shall valiantly keep the hellhounds born to my esteemed mother at bay for you. When you wake, I shall – hopefully – look worthy of your kind praise.”

Smiling and holding his hand in yours still, you closed your eyes once more as welcome drowsiness overcame you; he was there – blushing and beautiful as the new-born day – and that was all you needed to know to let yourself be tethered to this life – of pain and bliss – for a little while longer.

So, dearest anon, I hope this could satisfy you (and my dear Irene)...

I'm going to tag @sorisooyaa as she's the one who's put the very idea of that doofus into my mind. I hope you like this, my darling baby!

As always, lots of love from me and thank you very much for the request. It feels good to know that people like the silly romcom drama I write ❤️