The original motivation-Noldor were Day 3 of the Headcanon Challenge.
Why did I never post these?
Oh, right, because they are ridiculous.
This sounds a lot like Partial Differentials, and I didn’t want to write something else in the same vein. So have an AU snippet from the Nelyafinwe ‘verse, where Fëanáro apologizes for the sword-incident and, when he departs Ezellohar in grief, Ñolofinwë chases after him.
It takes a day (or what would have been a day, before Melkor plunged the land into darkness and rendered meaningless the count of time) to find Fëanáro.
Ñolofinwë spends every minute of it resenting him.
Fëanáro, who dragged his father to Formenos in the first place. Fëanáro, whose grief and pain is outsized and dramatic and by necessity overrules their own, whose reactions have always been so volatile as to be emotionally manipulative.
Fëanáro, who had looked, back in Ezellohar, prepared to die and desperate enough to do it.
A day of mindless directionless searching in the darkness, in which he lets resentment for Fëanáro simultaneously spur him forward and distract him.
Then they find him, and it’s Ñolofinwë who feels as if he’s been forced to stop running away from his problems.
They met in the evenings. Lúthien would giggle and swing Finduilas around by the shoulders and begin to reminisce in a high-pitched and unfamiliar voice about the last time Finduilas had visited Doriath, some hundred years past. Finduilas would exclaim over her cousin’s haircut and pretend horror at her dress and by then the guards would have edged away and they could safely plan the assault on Tol-in-Gaurhoth.
"Rescue mission," Lúthien tended to correct her.
“You’re lucky,” she said, though recent events had turned the words into a bitter joke. “Tol Sirion is completely unapproachable by stealth from the north. From the south, it’s merely absurdly difficult. I wouldn’t forge the river any farther north than here – there’s a clear view from the tower itself, and four banks for archers on the river… I suppose they are using those now…”
She’d tried, earlier that afternoon, to take a map of Tol Sirion from Finrod’s private library.
She had failed.
Curufin had been there, reading contentedly, for all the world as if he hadn’t sent his cousin to a violent death and invoked the ancient evil Oath and locked a princess in the guest rooms. And locked the entire civilian populace of Nargothrond effectively beneath the ground, constrained not by arms but by the fact there was nowhere else to go.
“Hello,” she’d said, “May I have the King’s notes on dwarven agronomy? We’re looking for a new approach to the textile shortages.” They ought to be filed alongside Finrod’s architectural sketches from the time he’d built Tol Sirion, if old bedtime stories gave an accurate chronology of his first, carefree century in Beleriand.
“Former King,” said Curufin mildly, “and regrettably I am reading those notes. Though I admire your initiative.”
8 - innocence.
Nelyafinwë Maitimo could not remember ever having been as tiny or wrinkled or loud as his little brother, but because he was exceptionally mature he didn’t voice his disappointment.
“He looks nice,” he told his friends instead, “he looks just like his parents,” because that is what all of the visitors had said.
Well, the visitors who wanted to impress his mother had said ‘he has your eyes!’ to Amil and the visitors who wanted to impress his father had said ‘he has your features’ or ‘he has your father’s look’ to Atar, and there had been more of the latter than the former. Maitimo was old enough to notice this, and old enough not to comment on it.
Rúmil, who broke all the rules and did not need to impress either of them, said to Fëanáro, “this one is Míriel’s,” at which his father had stiffened and been angry. Anyone could tell that Maitimo wasn’t supposed to comment about that.
The children he was playing with were unimpressed with his circumspection. They probably didn’t even know what circumspection was, because Maitimo hadn’t either until three days ago, when his father had sat him down to talk about its virtues.
(“You’re one to speak,” Nerdanel had said, and they’d spent the rest of Maitimo’s vocabulary lesson glowering at each other in the way that later would mean passionate kissing.)
When Findaráto was eighteen years old he had run away from home and set off for the Outer Lands with nothing but a rowboat and a live lobster.
Arafinwë used to tell that story frequently. It filled in the awkward gaps left by his brothers’ verbal sparring; it complimented Findis’ tales of Valimar. It exemplified, the Ñoldor liked to think, the essential traits of their people – their ambition, their curiosity, their drive for the unknown, all bundled up in the form of their part-Teler prince (it was from his mother, they said, that he’d gotten the plan’s blatant impracticality.)
Among the Lindar the story was popular because everyone had one like it, because everyone remembered being young and feeling the draw of the open sea.
Findaráto and his lobster and his rowboat and his dreams. It became one part in the narrative that wrapped around their family and shielded it from the winds – and when it all fell apart, it became one weapon in the fight to define themselves, Arafinwë’s House, beloved by everyone but belonging only in the spaces they carved out for themselves. Maybe Findaráto had known this early. Maybe that is why he had pushed his rowboat out to sea alone.
- Seeking Solace
- Break Away
- Breathe Again
- Mother Nature
- Trouble Lurking
- Under the Rain
- Hold My Hand
- Precious Treasure
- Standing Still
- Two Roads
- Breaking the Rules
- Deep in Thought
- Keeping a Secret
- Danger Ahead
- Kick in the Head
- No Way Out
- Fairy Tale
- Do Not Disturb
- Playing the Melody
- Mischief Managed
- I Can’t
- Are You Challenging Me?
- Broken Pieces
- Pen and Paper
- Can You Hear Me?
- Out Cold
- Seeing Red
- Through the Fire
- All That I Have
- Give Up
- Last Hope
- In the Storm
- Safety First
So people keep sending these, and I keep actively avoiding them because what-is-social-conditioning-surrounding-humility/i-am-a-worthless-human-being-who-doesn’t-possess-one-desirable-attribute-let-alone-five
but it’s really thoughtful of you, and it’s a nice meme, and most people I know definitely think too little and not too much about the things that make them awesome. So, FIVE NICE THINGS ABOUT THE BLOGGER:
1) When I care about things, I care about them really deeply. I’ll learn everything I can and want to talk about it with everyone I see. It’ll become another filter through which I see the world. I love the way I care about stuff, I really do.
2) My little brother looks up to me. I try to deserve it, and when that fails I try to appreciate it, and when that fails I hug him for a really long time.
3) I love doing things for people. When I write a fic for someone and they write that they’re moved emotionally or that it made them really happy or it made them cry or it made them think, I skip and bounce around my room and feel deliriously happy.
4) I’m in a really interesting path of study and I’m really happy that I managed to bumble through everything and choose it for myself.
5) There’s this girl I really like. And I write embarrassingly terrible poetry about her and listen to generic pop songs on the radio while nodding dreamily along and come up with implausible scenarios in which we somehow end up co-ruling the galaxy
… and she likes me too, somehow.
Is that a nice thing? It sure feels like one.
Okay there we go, that was the bit I was ACTUALLY LOOKING FOR.
Thank you, Book of Lost Tales. You are a goofy, wonderful book full of Norse-God Style shenanigans.
(For RP reference: Melkor does indeed get to live in a doghouse outside the Tulkas Estate for four ages, doing chores, and does not have a house of his own. …That was the main purpose of today’s Lore Spelunking.)
A month later than expected, but who cares it’s HERE.
Currently reading: Quendi and Eldar, #1 reason I wanted this! This is mostly stuff I knew so far but put together in a very useful format and STRAIGHT FROM THE SOURCE, and I am now less confused about terms like Moriquendi vs Calaquendi and (lol) Quendi vs Eldar. Also, Avari stuff! All the useful Avari stuff!
Random bits and bobs follow, some Elvish linguistics and some poking through what was said about the Avari. Related: THE AVARI SAY: SCREW YOU TOO.
So… most of you know by now that my attitude toward any claims about the superiority of one clan of Elves is *dismissive snort*
…but that’s awfully immature of me
so here, have a whole essay on why the only appropriate attitude towards those claims is *dismissive snort*.
(Actually, I can see that distinction being vaguely politically motivated during the War of Wrath? With a whole host of Quen(d)ya-speakers coming from Aman, upholding Thingol’s ban is no longer feasible, but this is a very touchy issue for the Sindar in general and surviving Iathrim particularly. Since the majority of the Host of the Valar would have been Vanyarin, I can see someone asserting that of course Quendya is a completely different language from Quenya and thus doesn’t fall under Thingol’s ban.)
Headcanon adopted so fast you don’t even have time to say Bans-On-Languages-Are-Shitty-Thingol-I-Get-Where-You’re-Coming-From-But-I-Do-Not-Approve-Also-Word-Lawyer-Sindar-Determinedly-Upholding-Thingol’s-Ban-Gives-Me-Hella-Mixed-Feelings.
Actually, headcanon adopted so fast you don’t even have time to say ‘Thingooooooool..’ in a tone of disappointment and unwilling admiration that encompasses the whole of the sentiment above.
for morfinniel-elvellon, who caught an error in one of my posts and asked for Maedhros and Fingon, hunting in Valinor.
He devotes more mental energy to Nelyo’s smiles than he gives to – well – anything. Turukáno’s noticed, and occasionally when he wants to cut deep he’ll say so, say that if Findo could summon the same attention to matters of state –
Well, no one chose what their fascinations were.
And Nelyo’s smiles were fascinating.
He had three for court, because if he had only two it would be too obvious that they were mechanical and interchangeable. He could soften any of them by quirking the left corner of his lip, just slightly, or by letting a wrinkle draw his eyebrows together; he could put you on guard with a slight show of teeth.
Sometime (but not often) Findekáno wished that Uncle Fëanáro had Maitimo’s smiles, Maitimo’s patience, Maitimo’s skill at diplomacy, because seeing his father and Uncle Fëanáro pacing each other with those smiles would be terrifying and exhilarating. Tirion would never know a day of peace.
But Fëanáro had only one smile, and it was more often directed at concepts than people. Nerdanel had two, an exhausted one for the public and a fierce one for her work and for her children. Findekáno hadn’t the slightest idea who had taught Maitimo to smile, but perhaps people were born knowing things like that.
“Never seen you lost in thought,” Maitimo says, and it’s probably not intended as an insult.
- Lays of Beleriand, p 263
Huan alone that she ever met
she never in enchantment set
nor bound with spells.
Huan alone that she ever met
she never in enchantment set
nor bound with spells.
I don’t always love Lúthien but when I do it’s because she’s a terrifying brilliant indescribably powerful enchantress who knows precisely the stakes of the game she is playing
whose spells have bound every single being her life has ever brushed against
shy and fragile and terrified and unspeakably dangerous
and in whose enchanted orbit kingdoms crumble
and crawl out of the rubble for one last glimpse of her
I do actually always love Lúthien what am I talking about