As promised here, my old Tolkien' drawings, more or less finished (I laught remembering them all ! But I couldn't really use them as finished artwork in this state) :
Traditional arts were made before 2021, digital arts were made after this date. I'm not proud of everything but that's fine, drawing is not always serious and not successing/finishing is okay.
Notes = amma means ‘mother’ in Primitive Elvish. Hope you enjoy! This is for day five of @tolkienfamilyweek, ‘found family’!
Nendarnē remembered.
She remembered waking up for the first time.
She was confused at first, of course. Before walking on two legs, she crawled on all fours. She looked at foxes, raccoons, rabbits and wolves to learn.
She remembered drinking and eating for the first time.
She remembered exploring, sleeping and running for the first time.
She remembered seeing her reflection for the first time and being fascinated by her features.
She remembered stumbling upon other elves and being terrified, as well as curious.
She remembered slowly starting to take care of them, taking them to safe places while they slept (they always slept. Nendarnē found it weird, because they weren’t gone like sometimes animals were. They’d fall asleep and never wake up again. But then again, their chest wouldn’t go up and down while they breathed. The Asleep Ones breathed. So Nendarnē found it weird.)
She remembered feeling cold for the first time and hating it.
She remembered hunting for the first time and eating the meat raw, much to her stomach’s displeasure and keeping the animal’s pelt because she felt guilty (surely her stomach making her suffer was proof that she should not have done that.)
She remembered going back to the lake she awoke next to, to stand in the water and look at the fishes and trees.
She remembered hunting again and always keeping the pelts of the animals out of guilt.
She remembered one day putting those pelts together rudimentarily with thick grass blades and other things, to create the first garment ever (she kept it even after it fell apart. She kept it for all of her life.)
She remembered putting animal pelts on The Asleep Ones so that they were not cold.
She remembered trying to communicate with animals by mimicking their noises.
She remembered crying for the first time when she injured her calf and being surprised that her eyes were producing water.
She remembered growing and developing, while The Asleep Ones stayed put, showing no sign of ever waking up.
She remembered yelping when some of The Asleep Ones woke up. She remembered them being confused and afraid, just like she had been.
She remembered calming them down and cooing at them, petting their hair and caressing their backs.
She remembered how she taught them everything she knew.
She remembered how they developed a language to understand each other better, thus creating Primitive Elvish.
She remembered naming them; Imin, Iminyë, Tata, Tatië, Enel and Elenyë.
She remembered treating them like her cubs.
She remembered being astonished that they were so.. small (at the time she didn’t know it was just her that was abnormally tall, but, well.)
She remembered how later on, they gave her a name, even though they referred to her as amma.
And so, Nendarnē Indarā was named. Her cubs- children, named her after the time she spent close to the tree by the water she awoke next to. Indarā, The Wise, they called her, even if she didn’t particularly think she deserved such a title. Sure, she had taught them how to survive and live, but she didn’t consider herself wise.
She remembered how more and more of The Asleep Ones woke up, until not one of them was sleeping anymore.
She remembered the first mating season, where couples formed and fëas entwined for the first time.
She remembered politely refusing every mating offer she received, for she had everything she needed : her children.
She remembered Iminyë’s stomach getting rounder.
She remembered Iminyë coming to her, tears in her eyes, asking her amma what was going on.
She remembered shushing her heart-daughter, telling her that she was with child, that that was what happened sometimes when a male and a female mated. That she would have her own cubs, her own children soon.
She remembered the gruesome birth of the first elven child, the pain Iminyë was in as everyone did everything they could to make her comfortable.
She remembered holding her grandson for the first time, Ilion, and crying from joy, pressing a kiss to Iminyë’s forehead.
She remembered meeting Míriel and Finwë and practically adopting them as her own, taking care of them.
She remembered more children coming; Elwë, Olwë and Elmo, principally.
She remembered the apparition of Oromë.
She remembered everything he taught.
She remembered the fear that struck her when some of her own began to disappear and never come back.
She remembered hugging her heart-children close when the Dark Rider came closer and closer to where they lived.
She remembered that she thought she was dying with how her heart ached when some of her children left.
She remembered kissing them goodbye as they followed Oromë.
She remembered the heartache that would not leave her alone as one by one, her children- her cubs, left her.
She remembered being obligated to leave her tree, the water she grew by, her home, because The All Father was angry.
Nendarnē remembered, for she was The First.
End notes : Hope you enjoyed! Reblogs and comments are as always really appreciated!
In the absolute darkness of the Darkening, the queen dowager of the Noldor shares a moment with her closest advisors before accepting the crown.
For the Legendarium Ladies April 2017 April 1. General Prompt: Bonds Between Women.
Read below or on AO3.
“It is too soon,” Indis protested for the umpteenth time, in vain. Her voice barely wavered, this time. Like every time before, she was ignored in favour of pulling her braids tighter. To force her Vanyarin curls into what the Noldor considered a proper hairdo had always been a challenge, but never more than now. Her mother claimed to be familiar with Noldorin styles, and maybe she had been, once, when they still called themselves Tatyar. Still, with her husband dead and her children gone, there is something very reassuring about Ingamë braiding her hair as she used to when Indis was younger.
“We should not have waited this long. Findis will not leave the fields of Lady Yavanna to sit on a throne she never wanted, and the others will be by Alqualondë soon, and across the sea not much later. Who shall lead the Noldor if not you?”
Indis could not help but look down to Nerdanel, who was crouched before her, brush in hand, covering her skin with intricate patterns in Tatyarin red. Tattooing had fallen out of practice in Valinor, and Indis was glad for it: the customary red hue clashed terribly with her golden skin. For her second coronation, Nerdanel had mixed a different nuance that paid homage to the Vanyarin ancestry of the queen of the Noldor. She looked up, as if sensing the way Indis was gazing down at her.
“You can’t be serious. I did not marry Fëanáro for this!” she exclaimed. With her free hand, Nerdanel gestured, encompassing the entire complicated situation they had found themselves in. “I might not have married him at all if I had known what would follow.”
Indis understood the sentiment. She had felt similarly, sometimes, but in the end, despite the conflicts, she had known bliss, and did not regret her marriage one bit. She knew Nerdanel felt the same. Ingamë interrupted their semi-serious stare-off.
“Sovereignity among the Noldor is contingent on merit, not bloodline, as much as Finwë’s descendants like to forget that. You have earned this crown, my daughter, even if you are not Tatya by birth,” she reminded them. “Although I am not entirely sure about that. You always had a very Tatyarin fascination for botany.”
The lingering tension dissolved at that familiar quip. Ingamë and Nerdanel pinned her braids into place with ornamental pins while the body paint dried. Layers upon layers of formal white robes lay ready for her to get dressed.
“You will do fine,” Nerdanel reassured her as she draped long golden chains across her chest and arms. “You have been queen regnant in all but name since Finwë followed Fëanáro into exile, the courtiers know that. If anyone gives you grief, send them to me. I will be right behind you, for as long as you need me.”
Iminyë is reborn in Valinor well before Imin. The healing process in Mandos and Lórien was neither short nor easy, particularly for a healthier mental state to overcome the extreme codependency bordering on a shared mind. But despite the centuries, she rejoins the Vanyar well before the Darkening. And out of necessity and growth, she chooses a new name. One beautiful but also in a way generic as to mask who she had initially been, for political optics if nothing else. Her daughter Ravennë rules, but she will only concern herself with philosophy and song and mathematics, the deep thoughts that are what the Vanyar (not Minyar anymore) care about here in Valinor. She calls herself Elemmirë.
Lol, just thought of it. Imagine the elders being reborn in Aman (assuming, of course, they ever died, but as by the end of the Third Age all Elves would start to fade from ME, it’s somewhat likely).
Imin: I always knew that would not end well. We warned them, didn’t we?
Tata: Agreed. There was no way that could have worked out or ended in anything but chaos.
Enel: Absolutely no way. But of course, they couldn't listen.
Iminyë, Tatië and Enelyë: yeah, well, that’s all long over. Just don’t start arguing about whose clan caused the most mayhem!
Tata and Enel: Fair enough!
Imin: why would I? Certainly my offsprings never had any...
the others, together: seems someone just got their ticket back to Mandos!
It is a morning like any other. In as much as something like "morning" exists before the first sunrise.
My Innumerable Stars treat for @vefanyar.
Read below or on AO3.
Iña awoke as she had fallen asleep: warm and comfortable. Her head was pillowed on Amá's breast right next to Eyë. It was the third time she woke like this, with just those two to keep her company. The three of them had set out from their camp on an excursion to explore more of the surrounding woodlands, an expedition all six of them had long planned together. However, shortly before they were to set out, Enë had discovered that, with enough patience, fish could be caught, and that they were quite tasty. It had been almost impossible to drag him, Inë and Ata from the water since then, and in the end they had deemed it not worth the effort and set out alone, just the three of them. It had felt strange at first, to sleep in a tangle of three instead of six, almost lonely in a way. Since then, they had come to know each other all over again, re-experiencing the time when everything was new and exciting.
Eyë shifted across from her and murmured sleepily. Iñë stretched and leaned over, pressing a soft kiss to her lips. Eyë smiled into the kiss before she opened her eyes and sat up to stretch her arms and yawn languidly. The leaves they had piled up as their bedding rustled softly, but Amá slept on undisturbed. Iñë pulled herself higher to wake her, kissing the line of freckles up her neck to her face, where they turned into glowing constellations. Amá, too, let herself be woken with a kiss to her lips and a smile on her face.
O42, opposites: reckless/cautious, O42, crack pairings: Iminyë/Fíriel Fairbairn, O42, 3rd Age locations: the Grey Havens, O42, lyrics and poetry: “you were the first person on Earth” Tracy Chapman
i’m posting this as finished version but i might go back to this bc there’s a lot of things that need fixing.
also don’t ask me why Iminyë’s at the Grey Havens ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
Posted this a while back to AO3, but wanted to have the full version on my blog as well. ‘The very first elves are sort of creepy and think certain concepts are very creepy’ fic, the ‘if she only has a feminine version of her husband’s name, make the reason slightly unsettling’ fic. Title is Primitive Elvish for “single, alone”
...
Explanation for oswarë and a glimpse into the psychological issues of the Unbegotten and the minds of Imin and Iminyë.
...
Imin awakes loudly, with a great gasp of air as if he had held his breath during sleep, and only upon this cession of sleeping does come up like a diver from the great lake Cuiviénen reaching the surface. It is almost a fearful sound.
His gasp, like the very first gasp of air that the first of all elves ever took, wakes his wife Iminyë from her sleep. She opens her eyes and turns to her husband. Sometimes in these moments she will reach a hand to touch him. She reminds him in these simplest of movements that he did not sleep alone, nor does he wake alone.
He is always the first to wake, and that moment between his gasp with eyelids flying open in alarm and the opening of his wife’s eyes is the shortest of moments - and yet it is the longest and most fearful of times.
It is the great fear of the first generation of elves, spoken lowly amongst themselves. They fear sleep and a return to the oblivion in which they laid before their awakening, before they cried out at the sight of stars above them with the first opening of their eyes. They fear returning to the dumb unknowing unwaking, and it is the closest the Firstborn of Ilúvatar ever come to the mortal fear and understanding of death. They know not what woke them first, so they know not if this awareness will end.
The deep sleep, when eyes are closed and minds are blind, isolates the elves. They learn how to sleep with eyes open and thoughts quiet but still able to sense other minds around them with that feeling which involves neither eyes nor ears. Imin and his people have honed this skill to the point that they can read even the thoughts of other minds, but it was a skill formed out of the need to just reach for the warmth of another consciousness in the coldness of the unknown. Isolation is the fear that drives the first of elves, the fear of reaching out and feeling no echo of other minds, to call out in a voice and have only dumb silence answer. In this twofold fear of the sleep he will not wake from and the fear that only he alone shall wake does Imin, the First of all elves, gasp and turn for Iminyë.
As his wife reaches for him with grateful eyes he hears the flicker of her thoughts return to him. She is relieved that he is here, that he has called her from sleep, that she is not alone.
The consequence of waking separately is this disruption of synchronization between Imin and Iminyë. As their eyes and minds meet to banish the lingering fears of sleep, their heartbeats and the inhaling and exhaling of breath settle into accordance with each other. Their minds echo to each other like the rhythmic two-point pulse of their heartbeats, just as comforting and present. Together as one they blink, waiting for their eyes to adjust to the light from the many bonfires and torches that have turned the village into an island of illumination against an endless sea of dark.
Their children are accustomed to light, having entered this world surrounded by elves holding torches and who have encircled their sleeping areas with large fires for warmth and glow. The dark unknown is now an expanse with understandable features, illuminated by fire. The light of the stars above delights the children of elves, but not the same way as the stars did that first moment Imin awoke. Their children open their eyes first in these safe places of the village, already knowing the touch of their mother and father’s hands and the sounds of many voices. Iminyë and Imin think of their son and daughter, each who entered this world single, without knowing who their other half was, yet at the same time connected to others. They were carried for months under the sound of Iminyë’s heartbeat, knowing the presence of mother and father. They do not fear silence as their parents do, treat the stars with the exact same wonder, or understand.
Imin stretches his arms, Iminyë mirroring his movements like a reflection. Together they slide off the large pallet of woven reeds sandwiched with other woven mats and stuffed with the fur scrapped from treated hides, topped by the fur of a giant bear. It is a softer bedding that the clay of the lakeshore they once had. Together they fold the bearskin at the foot of their wide sleeping pallet. A small clay vessel next to it holds fresh water. Someone must have refilled the bowl as they slept. Imin reaches for it and hands it to his wife, who accepts the dish without looking, lifts it to her lips and drinks, and hands it back to Imin’s waiting grasp without checking with her eyes. Their movements nonetheless are perfectly smooth, the water still. There is no hesitation or need to ask. Together they gather their feet under their bodies and push with hands and feet and stand. In one moment they breathe, chests expanding with air; together they exhale. Like perfect reflections they stretch their arms again, unfurling fingers like young ferns, straightening out the left arm on Imin’s side and the right on Iminyë’s. Rotating their heads to pull the stiff muscles of their necks, together they turn their heads. Outside their sleeping hut they can hear one of their people shuffling feet and waiting to speak to their leaders. “Come in,” Imin and Iminyë call as one voice, and the silhouette outside the door of the hut startles. Abashedly Imin and Iminyë look to one another, forgetting they had not delegated which one of them was to speak aloud. Two pairs of eyelids close, and Iminyë breaks the synchronization by the slightest nod of her chin. “Enter,” Imin calls, but it is only Iminyë who bothers to open her eyes and look at the person who enters. It is one of their hunters, one of the fellow first awoken who has pulled aside the hanging hide that functions as a door.
“A hunting party has returned,” Lasrondo says. They can feel worry on the taste of his words, a wrongness. Imin does not remember sending any hunters out, and if he does not, Iminyë does not. There are many in their village when once they were few, and yet Imin and Iminyë know each of their people, had witnessed their first breaths and memorized their manner of walking and the sounds of their laughter, and while their tribe has grown large it is not yet too large to split into more than one village, to separate away from Imin and Iminyë. All should be in the village, and it takes only the slightest of hesitations to reach out with the touch that is mind instead of hands, groping blindly for who is missing. Blindness lies at the root of that hesitation, for there should be no disobedience or oversight. Either would be unwelcome. This feels like secrets.
Imin feels cold; Iminyë wraps the warm felt around her hips to make a long skirt, then pulls the new poncho of soft felt over her head. Now they are warm. But the disquiet does not ease, so they reach for one another, echoing back heartbeats and breaths until the sounds become one, until there is no difference between two bodies in tempo, eyes staring back as two reflections until what division is between them is meaningless.
They have no secrets between them, Imin and Iminyë.
They have nothing between them except for that terrible lonely waking moment.
