#feanorian oc

[sunnieclipseart]

My Telari oc Eärossë who is the mother to my other oc and the uhhh… let’s just say FWB to Celegorm 😅

She doesn’t survive the first kinslaying 🙃

Background belongs to me since I can’t be bothered to draw one lol

My other oc under cut

I already posted this, but I wanted them to be together ~

I don’t have a name for her yet, but she’s Eärossë and Celegorm’s child

Background is also mine

[anna-dreamer]

Day 14. Enter

Did I use this prompt solely to render a court attire for my oc Trevadriel? ...Yeah. Kinda.

The colours are supposed to be dark blue and red. Her chemise is embroidered with a Fëanorian star held by two falcons, surrounded by a circle of fennel, cedar and lily of the valley ( @camille-lachenille designed it! ❤️)

[laerthel]

An army of ten thousand strong was being trained for war, and Laurefindil made sure himself that no one was enlisted without mastery of arms. Additionally, every soldier had to have had at least some field experience as a scout, a guardian of one of the Gates, or a battle survivor.

It made perfect sense of course: unspeakable horrors could escape the Iron Prison at the Enemy's will, but the mere fact that Anardil had already seen such horrors did not make him more capable. No swordsmaster would train him, knowing that they would need to start from the beginning.

Unless...

That unless was the reason Anardil had dragged himself out of bed long before Anor had risen. He walked out to the training fields, feeling quite inept in his loose tunic and slippery boots. Plenty of battle-hungry Noldor were out there already, of course, graceful, alien, and frightening to his eye.

It was easy to spot Tyelcano among them. Anardil was surprised to find him alone, sharpening his sword on a whetstone. He wore a full set of chainmail, vambraces, and high leather boots, and a helmet was placed on the ground next to him.

Was he about to fight someone with a sharpened sword?

Has he finally lost his mind?!

"What kin shall you slay this fine morning, if I may ask?" Anardil told his friend as a manner of greeting. "By the Powers, you're sparkling."

The Seven Gates, Chapter 42

[arofili]

@tolkienocweek day seven | freeform | rilyárë rátasilmë fëanáriel

“This is Rilyárë, daughter of Fëanáro,” Nerdanel declares, “but I name her Rátasilmë, daughter of Nerdanel, for she she surpasses any gem of shining white light—she is her father's greatest creation, and in time all Arda shall adore her.”

— “Dawn” by starlightwalking

[sunnieclipseart]

One of my Feanorian OCs I felt like redrawing

I’m not great at backgrounds so I just used my own photo

[sweetteaanddragons]

Farande

In Beleriand - before she even knows to call it Beleriand, when it is just the forest, and she thinks the forest stretches out, endless, under the equally infinite stars - in Beleriand, Farande travels with her kin and her kin’s kin, a tangled web of families all wandering and hunting together.

She learns the songs of the hunt and the songs to call forth children when their mothers struggle to bear them, and she learns that she cannot sing these songs too close together or their power fades.

But they need both songs, so she sings both, sings the songs of the hunt with her brothers, sings the songs of life with her mother and cousins, voices always stronger when they chorus together, singing higher and higher, louder and louder, ever more joyous -

And then the shadows come.

(It is pure ill luck that her closest kin are hit the hardest. That one by one it is her brothers picked off on the hunts; that when the shadows strike, it is her mother, her father, her aunt, her aunt’s children, who fall.)

(It is pure ill luck that now, when the ripped open skein of kin who are left draw together, that she is the last to sing for her branch; the last who can sing the life song for the births; the last - )

(So many lasts.)

They choose to leave when the time comes. They sit around the fire, and they talk it out, and they choose to make the long journey.

She argues against it. She loves the stars in their lonely beauty; she loves the trees and how they whisper back her songs. She loves the echoes that bounce back from the valleys, promising she is not alone.

But her people want to go, and she is the last who can sing the life songs for the mothers.

(And there are whispers, even if she does not believe them, that the dead will walk among them in this shining new land.)

(And even if they do not - )

(Farande knows herself. She loves this land.)

(But no matter what its songs promise her, she knows she cannot bear to walk it alone.)

She does not mind the journey or the hardships of it. It is just another road to wander with her kin.

She does mind the arrival.

It is beautiful in this new land, and bountiful, and so they do not need every hunter as they once did; it is a choice she can make, of course, if she wills, to hunt on her own or to join the Great Hunt, if she decides she prefers it to midwifery.

One or the other, here; there are so many hunters here, so many healers. No one would ever settle for the songs of one not committed to either.

The dead do walk here, some of them. The ones who fell into too fast rivers and couldn’t climb up; the ones who fell from too tall trees, who ate too bright berries, who wrestled too strong beasts.

The ones who fell afoul of the shadows of Utumno - they will walk again, Farande is promised. They will. It will just be - long and long until then.

She wraps the words around her heart, binding them like a promise. Long and long.

(She is young, then, as she later learns to reckon things. She cannot yet begin to comprehend how long a wait can be.)

No one lives in sight of the Halls of the Dead, but a camp gathers just over the hills of it. Then the tents become buildings, and it becomes a town, a new word that twists oddly in her mouth. They can wait here, for long and long, and she can learn to sing only the life songs and not to long for the days when she ran through the forests with her brothers, spear in her hand -

Her aunt’s husband’s brother and his wife do not choose to wait. They take their children and go off toward the sea.

“We’ll be told when they return no matter where we are,” he reasons. “There’s no reason we have to stay right here.”

The others - the devoted among the clan - they stay. They wait.

For a time.

(There is a university in Tirion; a cousin wants to go.)

(There is a beautiful young elleth who loves the mountains, and one of her father’s kin wishes to marry her, and of course that means he must follow her there.)

(There is a choir. There is a guild. There is some new novelty.)

(And one by one - )

(What does it matter where they go? They’ll be told.)

(And Farande - waits.)

She can follow one of them. She can go even now.

She would have followed them, fierce and furious but followed, if they had all gone together. She had done it before; she would have done it for them again.

But they do not go together. They just go, bit by bit, and she stays.

Stays in a town with more people than she had once imagined existed.

It does not in any way change the way the words long and long curl around her heart, or the way she feels entirely alone.

(Before they leave, they try, some of them. Come to the festival, Farande. Come and dance, Farande. If you don’t like healing, it’s not too late to go join the Hunt, Farande.)

(Why can’t you just try to be happy, Farande?)

(Why can’t you just claw out the aching emptiness and smile like the rest of us? It’s been so long; why are you the only one that can’t sing past the grief? Why can’t you let it heal?)

(She does try, is the thing. She does try. She doesn’t know why it doesn’t work for her like it does for the rest of them.)

She hears gossip about the young prince, sometimes, everyone whispering about whatever outrageous thing he’s done now in his grief.

Why can’t he just try to be happy? Why must he make his grief everyone else’s to bear?

A flash of outrage, hot and sharp, stirs in her breast for the first time in years.

(She knows. Oh, how she knows.)

(And then the gossip moves on and the world feels quiet and gray again.)

She waits.

(She asks a maia when her mother will return from the Halls. Long and long.)

She waits.

(She asks a maia when her father will return from the Halls. Long and long.)

She waits.

(She asks a maia when her brothers will return from the Halls. The maia - pauses.)

(Her brothers, she learns, are not in the Halls.)

(Not all who were taken by the shadows died.)

(The brothers she loves are somewhere beneath the stars she loves, the trees she loves, and they are not singing the songs she loves. They are singing the songs they were twisted to sing, and she is not there to do her duty by them.)

She -

She cannot go back to Beleriand alone.

She cannot keep going to market, going to births, going to festivals and standing at the edges and trying to smile while -

She stops going much of anywhere.

Some of the women she tended come to see her. They bring food, she thinks. Maybe other things. They talk.

They try to talk to her, but as the weeks pass and she won’t answer, they give up on that and just talk to each other. Bright, cheerful talk of husbands and children and sisters and brothers. Of festivals and fashions and the latest gossip out of Tirion about what mad prince Feanaro is talking about now.

“He’s not mad,” she says.

The others stare.

It is the first time she has spoken in weeks.

“He wants to go back to Beleriand,” one of them says, into the silence. “He’s been stirring up crowds with his speeches at the University in Tirion.”

For a moment, she feels like she is back in the forests of her childhood, singing out a song into the trees in full confidence that one of her people would hear her and sing back. Notes wrapping around each other in perfect harmony, everyone knowing the song.

She stands.

Pauses.

“Which way to Tirion?”

The university square is packed with onlookers. Some of them are laughing, elbowing each other, bubbling with excitement; some of them are shaking their heads in disapproval.

Some of them are staring at the fountain the prince has leaped up on the edge of with hungry eyes.

(He has never seen the forests of her youth. She knows that.)

(But she knows the fire raging in his eyes. And every word that pours out of his mouth conjures up the stars blazing in her mind; conjures the shadows of trees; conjures the songs echoing still, surely, surely.)

There is urgency in his words as he speaks of return, and it pounds in her chest because, finally, finally, someone understands.

When he is done painting the air with visions of glorious return, she stands breathless until someone next to her spits on the ground and says, “Fool.”

She whirls on him. Rips into him with every word she has bitten back about their left behind kin, about the duty that is owed them, about -

Oh, everything.

When the man shrinks away, cowed, she feels a hand clap her on the back. “Well put,” a woman says cheerfully. “I don’t think I’ve seen you at one of these before. A lot of us like to go to the Rose and Thorn after; you should come with us.”

(You should come with us.)

“I am - not very cheerful company,” she admits.

“Oh, that’s alright,” the woman. “Rumin’s not either - ” She waved toward a man, dark and serious, who had nodded fiercely to each word the prince had said. “ - but he comes with every time. A lot of the naysayers always show up too, see, we normally end up arguing all night. I think you’d be brilliant at it. Won’t you come?”

Rumin locks eyes with her.

Nods.

(Won’t you come?)

(The woman’s hand is still on her back. Warm and welcoming, like her cousins used to do when dragging her into adventures.)

“Yes,” she says. “I’ll come.”

[incendiak]

This time I managed a doodle ✨

Cousins fighting