pepper spray his pussy

As the sun sets in the western seas, Elwing hears Eärendil singing in Quenya by the shore.

Imladris

Elwing on the shores of Aman

Childhood friends

"Elrond, having been a twin for the majority of his life, had always preferred to live his life by halves and doubles. He is at his best when part of a ratio: a portion of duty, a slice of pleasure, a thimbleful of regret. He likes to know where the ground ends and Elrond Peredhel begins. He dwells in memory only for however long it takes to neutralise the compulsion to return to it, to return to not-knowing things. The whole never tastes as good as the sum of its parts. When Elros died, he was very, very unhappy. The kind of unhappy that got people locked up. Then, he moved on, because that’s what people did. Yes, absolutely. He absolutely moved on."

Spoiler: he didn't. All right, *rattles bucket, bangs spoon* all right, here's Elrond and Elros from Prayers to Broken Stone, with their little descriptors to identify them because obviously they look exactly alike otherwise... speed-sketch under the cut as always.

apologies @tolkiensiblingsweek i managed my time badly this week and had no hours to write anything substantial, so please accept my quick little dry brush sketch of elrond and elros. also please appreciate the grey in elros’ hair and beard. this is a house welcoming of DILFs.

There are days Elwing herself believes the heroic and cruel songs sung about her, and is convinced that through some brutal act of contrition, she might yet split herself in two and extract the mother she might have been, could have been, or, like the cruelest songs say, should have been. What would that surgery look like—what knife could separate bird from the body that was thrust into it? What is the velocity of a woman falling from a cliff? Fast enough to blur the lines between the human and the inhuman, certainly. She wonders.

She pictures often, this other woman she might have been, clawing her way out from inside the seabird like she were breaking through a shell, blood-slicked and wet from the womb, a little-girl-lost who did not sell her own motherhood in exchange for the life of every child in darkening Beleriand, who let herself choose the crying of her children over the wailing of the world.

Perhaps that-Elwing would have loved those boys better than this-Elwing ever could, would have turned in mid-air and flew to them. But all that could be salvaged from burning Doriath were the daughters who knew how to flee, who saw survival only through wings, not roots. Which is to say: Elrond is his mother's son. And Elwing is her mother's slaughter. [from she that was young and fair on ao3}

Elfbruary Day 8: Arwen the Smith

I noticed in my recent reread that the banner Arwen makes isn't described as embroidered or woven. It's described as "made" and "wrought." Words Tolkien uses for things made through smithcraft. And the materials mentioned for the banner are metals, not any specific cloth.