decennial dad conference that the three elven kings bring their families along on while they sit at the adults table and try to ignore what's happening at the kids' ones (elwe is there in spirit)
It's been a while since I've posted some moodboards
The story behind this group is that I was hunting Pinterest for crowns that I thought would suit the elvish kings of Valinor. I then started thinking about ones for the crown princes too. So, I picked the ones I liked best and made them the central pieces of the moodboards.
HC: Aulë made all the crowns and based them on what their respective wearers requested/liked.
Finwë. Man's got a spikey crown. Gold, diamonds, pizazz.
Fëanor. Red was a must. Less flamboyant, but still screams power.
Ingwë. Tall, gold, stunning. He deserves it. Someone better get why the bells are there.
Ingwion. More delicate, but still shiny. Fun fact: Ingwion led the Vanyar in the War of Wrath.
Olwë. Pearls were a must. The lack of straight lines is giving water.
Ëarwen. Pearls and simplicity. She totally pushed Finarfin off the pier within minutes of first meeting him.
Alas, I did Ëarwen. I originally made it for an OC from a fic I really like, but I switched it to Ëarwen and now the theme's kinda the kings + their eldest children.
Five double-drabbles and a quintuple for @russingon-week, written for @swanhild and inspired by their own incredibly gorgeous art, which I have reblogged four times, at the very least.
More Precious Than Treelight
Findekáno laughs at his jest, throwing his head back, eyes shut and mouth wide open, the skin at his throat trembling like a running stream — a heartfelt laughter that strikes Maitimo like lightning.
The aftermath is a sudden pain that constricts his own chest and he burns where Findekáno’s hand still rests on his forearm, seemingly forgotten. His cousin trusts him, fully and without pretense, trusts him to sit closely like this, both of them all but bare in the warmth of late spring, dressed in nothing but their light trousers, trusts him to place that warm hand upon him, trusts him to hear his deepest hopes and fears.
And if Maitimo has come to Findekáno’s house today to open his own heart, to lay bare the torment of sweet laughter and braids woven with gold that have given him no respite since last summer — it will only be to shatter this trust, and ruin this friendship that is dearer to him than anything.
With a thick gulp, he swallows his confession of love and remains silent, taking pleasure in knowing that he has this at least, Findekáno’s laughter, Findekáno’s bright eyes all for him, even if only in friendship.
*
Ever since that day they both sat beneath the maple tree, lips stained from ripe mulberries, Findekáno has had no peace.
He and Maitimo have been constructing this dance for some time now, carefully moving one step at a time, closer and closer. At least that was what Findekáno believed, until that day they sat together, bodies so close he could feel the beat of his cousin’s heart — and Maitimo jested freely and looked at him with such delight that Findekáno’s laughter burst from him, all his affection spilling with it — only for his friend to fall silent moments later, a dreadful silence that has robbed him of all joy ever since.
Findekáno has driven himself to madness with the questions, if it was his hand on Maitimo’s arm, or simply enough, his cousin finally seeing the truth of his heart — that Findekáno desires only their friendship no longer — and casting that truth aside. He has betrayed Maitimo's trust.
He holds the letter in his hands now, the summons to Valimar to study side by side with Manwë’s Maiar, and knows that there is little to keep him in Tirion. He takes up his quill and begins drafting his acceptance.
*
Tirion feels desolate without Findekáno. The gardens where they often walked together seem dull, the tea houses where they have spoken afternoons on end, entirely too loud.
Maitimo keeps his hands busy so his mind has no chance to murmur: he remodels his kitchens, takes up the task of translating the early laws of the Quendi for Finwë, and offers to lend a hand in his mother’s studio.
He is smoothing down a block of marble for Nerdanel, idly listening to his mother converse with Indis behind him. It is soothing to sit in the presence of their easy companionship.
“Oh, Findekáno has already charmed half of Valimar, not that it is any surprise,” the queen tells Nerdanel, all pride and delight. “Ingwion has taken quite a liking to him, for which I am glad, for he will find a good mentor in him.”
The steady tempo of Maitimo’s chiseling halts. He knows Ingwion, the Crown Prince of the Vanyar, quite well: tall, golden, all laughter and song, a fruit of Laurelin grown into an elven body.
He is happy for Findekáno, of course.
When Indis and Nerdanel depart, Maitimo remains. His chisel doesn’t rest until his arms are trembling.
*
The air of Valimar is as a meadow of wildflowers in the warmth, bursting in sweetness, a city as golden as freshly drawn honey. And when the bells of the towers ring out, it is music that resonates not in the ears only, but deeply within the heart.
It is not that Findekáno is blind to this splendor, to the loveliness of his grandmother’s people, and yet…
“A heavy heart is an ill companion for such a light spirit, my friend,” Ingwion says when they take a rest from their hike in the woods beneath the Pelóri.
Findekáno has taken solace in Ingwion’s friendship, for the prince’s song unravels in low and even notes, a balm for the burning ache left by Maitimo’s fire.
“Am I so easy to read?” Findekáno finds it in himself to jest.
His friend smiles, and offers what comfort he can: “The Valar are generous, let this beauty they have wrought soothe thy ache.”
It is as good a wisdom as any. Findekáno inhales deeply, steading himself, but as he looks up to where the crowns of the maples have ripened into deep, rich copper, all he can see is a reminder of beloved tresses.
*
I have been granted the honors to lead a hymn in Manwë’s honor at the Longest Mingling, but this joy is dimmed by the lack of you, dearest cousin. How I have missed you.
So Findekáno had written in his last letter. Maitimo has read it time and again, held the letter so long that the tengwar upon the edges has begun fading.
How I have missed you. Oh, Ilúvatar above, if those are not the same words that Maitimo has written in his own letters, only to shred his drafts to pieces.
How I have missed you. It was all it took, and Maitimo finds himself in Valimar, eyes searching desperately between the lines of elves and Maiar, shining in silver and gold as if Varda has lowered her stars from the sky.
When Findekáno walks across the stage, Maitimo turns blind to all else. The light of the trees exists in Arda to shine upon his cousin’s smile, and naught else, he is certain.
The moment Findekáno sings out, Manwë's winds carrying his clear voice down the hills, Maitimo understands at last: he loves Findekáno, and no matter the pain, he would do nothing to change that truth.
*
The crowd erupts in cheers and praise, hands land upon his shoulders in congratulations, but what should be a fruit of delight is soured by Maitimo’s absence. Findekáno had gathered all his courage to write, to invite Maitimo here, only to be wounded again by the same blow, that silence resting heavier than the snow that blankets the peaks of Taniquetil.
“Findekáno.” The voice comes softly behind him, only a note above a whisper, but he knows that voice.
“Maitimo.” Findekáno turns, all hope and trepidation.
“Your voice is a marvel, dear cousin,” Maitimo says, his smile gentle and contained but his eyes dancing restlessly as a critter trapped without escape. “What a gift to hear it on such a holy day.”
His copper hair flowing freely down his shoulders, attired in that deep blue that Findekáno loves – Maitimo is so beautiful that it hurts. Findekáno’s heart is a moth trapped within glass. “Your coming here is the greatest gift of all.”
He is rewarded by Maitimo’s smile, and when his cousin speaks next, it is with renewed strength. “I read your letters,” his cousin begins as he takes a step closer. “There were some things I wished to say before you left, and I thought, well, I’ve been thinking aplenty since you’ve been gone.”
Maitimo’s words falter, and if he keeps his gaze fixed on Findekáno’s face, it is clearly with every last bit of courage that dwells within him.
“You can tell me anything, dearest Maitimo.” Findekáno cannot help it, he reaches for his cousin’s hand. “Anything at all, and it shall change my heart not at all.”
“Always the valiant,” his cousin smiles a bit and squeezes his fingers with his own. He inhales deeply. “You mean to me more than you know, Findekáno. More than a brother, more than a friend. And you see, I was a fool to believe that if I said as much to you, it would lead you to abandon our friendship. That we would not find a way to overcome that burden, even if you don’t feel the same as I.”
Oh, the joy of a prayer answered, at last! Findekáno opens his mouth and his voice is laughter, the moth of his heart taking flight at once. “Ay, beloved Maitimo, a fool indeed! Ever since I was a child I have dreamt of this, of standing in song upon Manwë’s very feet, of seeing the Longest Mingling in all its glory. And now that I am here, all that delight seems a twinkle beside the brightness that is you here, beside me. You are more precious to me than the treelight itself, can’t you see?”
With each word, they have fitted their bodies closer, hands entwined, knees touching, eyes all for each other. Maitimo lets go to cup his face between his hands.
“May I?”
“Please.”
When their lips find each other, at last, it is as Laurelin’s gold entwined with Telperion’s silver, a light brighter than the mingling itself.
IDC the sources (Tolkien Gateway) say that he was born on the Journey. The Vanyar take a long time, and the Journey was perilous.
I want Ingwion to be born in YT 1400 or at least close to this year. It is the year when Melkor is released from the 300 years (2900 in our measure) in Mandos. And I want Finrod to be born then too.
And Ingwion's actual name ("Ingwion" just means "son of Ingwe" and Ingwe isn't a jerk and wouldn't call his baby that) was basically "the guy who was born on the day of happy reconciliation" (but shorter) and well. It lasted about 90 Valian years. :| And then everyone just calls him Ingwion.
(And I want Finrod to be close to Ingwion in age, because I like them being close friends, also, Finrod being born in this weird timepoint... idk, it fits him to me. And 90 YT is over 800 normal years, I don't remember how fast the Elves matured in YT, but I stink there would be time for all of Finrod's siblings to be adult before the Darkening. If they grow up too slow... IDK, but I still want Finrod's birth to be related to this whole thing... OK the YT1300 is not that bad. But Ingwion still gets the YT 1400 and a stupid name. And in this version, Finrod initially treats him like a baby brother, because he just ran out of baby siblings.)
BTW: TIL that Galadriel and Aredhel were born the same year.
“Take this to your husband. It might tip the scale.”
Elwing stares at the Silmaril glowing in his hand. “You—”
“They are good for nothing if we’re all dead. The Valar wanted them once. Maybe if we’re willing to negotiate…”
Maedhros stops. The last tendril of the old Oath pulls at his vocal cords, powerless but nonetheless present, as if screaming for his betrayal.
“Take it to Eärendil,” he repeats. “Sail to Valinor. Do what we could not.”
*
The Havens of Sirion burn, and it is not the Sons of Fëanor’s doing.
Maedhros, Maglor and Fingon, in the years between the fall of the Havens and the arrival of the Host of the Valar.
@camille-lachenille tagged me for the game. All my active WIPs are DC, and all my proudest old fics are Tolkien, so one of each!
Rules: share something old - a snippet of a favorite fic you wrote, that you are proud of; AND/OR share something new - give us a sneak peek of something new you are working on.
Something Old
The Land of Milk and Honey
Ingwion set his jaw. “Have you ever tried to reinvent your entire self?” he asked sharply.
Vorinissë looked thoughtful for the first time. “Yes,” she said quietly.
Ingwion made himself give her the benefit of the doubt. Old habits were hard to break, particularly around the people you’d formed the habits with. “You know how hard it is,” he growled.
Both Elmo and Vorinissë nodded slowly.
“And you know having people who care makes it easier,” Ingwion finished.
Elmo’s gaze dropped. Vorinissë bit her lips.
“Are you angry?” Eöl asked quietly, looking at him in surprise. “On my behalf?”
“Yes,” Ingwion said quietly.
Eöl looked stunned.
Ingwion said, “I shouldn’t be the only person in the world that gives a damn.”
“You’re not,” Aldairon said quietly.
“You never are,” Eöl added wryly. “You just feel like you have to do everything alone.”
“Do not make this about my shortcomings as a person,” Ingwion grumbled.
Eöl smiled at him, a real, soft smile.
Something New
In the Wreck (formerly the Untitled Red Robin WIP)
"What is it, Timberland?" Jason asked.
Dick, putting his gear away, paused, coming over to stand with Jason. "Tim?" he asked softly.
"I-" Tim started, his hands, still in Robin's gloves, flexed and fidgeted. "I don't think Bruce is dead," he said in rush.
Dick made a wounded noise.
Jason reflexively dragged Dick into his arms, but he kept his eyes on Tim. "Walk me through it, Timbit," he ordered gently.
Tim's throat worked, looking at the way Dick had wilted. "I- I was, I went to the portrait gallery," he said slowly, eyes wide and wet. "And there- Mordecai Wayne," he blurted.
Jason, still holding Dick's shaking form, cocked his head. "Someone I should've heard of?" he asked.
Tim shook his head. "Supposedly a Wayne ancestor, but there's evidence he was a late find, and added retroactively, and his portrait," he broke off. Then he gritted out, all one breath, "He looks exactly like Bruce."
Jason looked at his little brother. Tim was one of the smartest people Jason had ever met. Smarter than Bruce, maybe, in a lot of ways. But he was also seventeen, mourning, and desperate. He had no idea what to think.
But he did know what it looked like when someone was so desperate to be believed that they'd run rather than accept rejection. And that road ended in a bombed out warehouse in Ethiopia. "All right," he told Tim.
Dick stiffened in his arms.
Jason tightened his grip on Dick, keeping him still. "What's the plan?" he asked Tim.
Tim startled. "You believe me?" he asked softly.
Jason said honestly, "I got no idea, Timpani, but you're smarter 'n me by a fair way, and if you're right we gotta do something."
Dick eased in his arms, realizing the same thing Jason had, just a few moments later.
"I want to go look for evidence," Tim said. "I need- I want to follow the trail."
Jason breathed in, and then breathed out. Dick was shaking again, tense in his arms, but he wasn't protesting. "We," Jason told Tim. "We will follow the trail."
Dick made a noise again, maybe agreement this time, still low and hurt. "Yeah," he rasped, lifting his face from Jason's shoulder. "You can't- be alone, Tim."
Tim blinked wet eyes. "You-" he asked Dick quietly, hopefully.
"I can't," Dick whispered, closing his eyes. "But, if you need it," he trailed off. He transferred his octopus-arms from Jason to Tim.
Tim leaned into him like a a sunflower turning into the sun. "I'll prove it," he whispered.
"I don't care," Dick said, and his voice cracked. "Just be safe."
No pressure tagging for @sleepy-writer @elrondsscribe @skippo94 @titcrevette @posher10 and anyone I forgot who wants it, because I don't remember anyone's blog names.
