#celebrian

Celebrían my beloved!

Many, many thanks to @southaway for gifting me a papercraft portrait of one of my favorites 😍

thank you for tagging me @ecofutural! kinslayer Aredhel pt 3 looks soooo good!! I've two wips at the moment, so here are both because I've been wip posting the arwen ghost fic for a million years so I'll give an additional one <3

wip 1

“Here you will never know the meaning of sadness or the feel of tears welling.” The tongues of the Valar were rose-pink and comforting, even when Celebrian turned away from their words as a stubborn child would.  But I want to feel it, she had thought. I want to feel it inside of me like a child gripping my spine, like a root spinning down and down. I want to feel it bashing against my chest and pressing against my skin. I want to feel it as it comes out and turns this whole world to ashes  It was not a prayer, though perhaps Eru took it as one. For Celebrian felt her pain like rain pelting her skin, for months, for a decade, for a hundred years. Until one day she looked around and found the clouds had fled—in fear or in boredom—and her pain withered. 

wip 2: maedhros in mandos' halls

It sounds like a hive, so full of humming and buzzing and heavy, honey-thick movement. There is no way to go that does not have this feeling. Clustered, organized, melted down into thick, perfect shapes. There is no way to go at all. Even if he is not manacled, just weighed down.  There is honey on his limbs, and the vibration is so warm in his head. It is not like he hangs, that feel of pressure, the pull of nature biting at his bones and tugging him, like a hand pulling a root. There is nothing like that, there will never be again.  He cannot move, though he wills it, there is no way to go. Nothing to do but sit in the— No. It is not dark. It is blue and grey all around, the vision of hot-flame, of coming in from the sun. 

It writhes now. It goes through the room in a ripple of heat, of sweet smelling fear. They sit under a fattened moon this night, no where does the shadow go that it does not meet a place for projection. 

“Elrond,” Celebrian calls. Once he would have jumped at her beckon, he would be at her side in an instant waiting for a command. Now he cannot find it within himself to move. 

The next sound is not Celebrian’s voice. It is garbled but beautiful, like a songbird passing through a pipe. Loud as it is, it is not the volume that makes Elrond jump. Celebrian gasps, she whirls about the room, candle in hand though the wick has gone out. 

Something says “why?” Something with his daughter’s voice, echoing in ripples, vibrating across the room–soft and weathered and still so sweet, says: “Ada?”

Elrond trembles with the heat of the voice, a distorted version of his daughter. He cowers, as he never cowered before, not since he was a child. There is that little thing within him now, full of fear and despair, clinging to the bed sheets like he once clung to his brother’s hems. This is not his room, these are not the walls he built, this is not the city he rose from the ground up, filled with him and his memory and so safe from every weapon that lived within it. Memory cannot shred itself, if you rent the land with its own hand, it cannot hurt itself. 

by dragonbornsandwaffles (@beatles4ever65)

The fox on a business of his own has serious business. Part of that business includes paying a very egg-citing visit to Middle Earth's resident Peredhel and the Lady Celebrían.

General, No Archive Warnings

by Arveldis (@emyn-arnens)

In the arms of the sea, Celebrían heals.

General, No Archive Warnings