#feanorianweek18

“Fëanor was the mightiest in skill of word and of hand, more learned than his brothers; his spirit burned as a flame.”

✨Tiny pastel Fëanorians collection✨ for @feanorianweek

Set in the scene in The Two Towers movie where the elves are leaving Rivendell. The idea of Elrond and his people heading for Valinor right at the critical moment, when the fate of Middle-Earth would be decided in battle, always made me mad. I figured Maglor would be angry about it too.

Lanterns glowed in Imaldris’s dark streets. The city’s elves, cloaked in blue-gray, made a solemn funeral procession towards the gate.

Elrond closed the door of his office behind him. He likely wouldn’t enter that room again. He walked along the raised hallway, in no hurry to leave forever the place he had built so long ago,. Even though the sides of the hall had, in lieu of windows, open archways, Elrond could hear no noise from the procession.

Footsteps, soft but distinct, came up the stairs and into the walkway. An elf strode in, his seething visage utterly out of place among the serene procession.

“You’re going,” he accused.

“We are weary of this world. It is our time.” Elrond kept his face expressionless.

“In the heat of war?”

“My people leave--”

“You do not leave,” the elf hissed, “you flee. When all seems lost, the elves decamp for paradise while the shadow engulfs Middle-Earth.” Every syllable mocked the Lord of Rivendell.

Elrond halted but did not speak.

“Gondor and Rohan are weak on their own. They need your aid.”

“We have no aid to give!”

“Four hundred trained elves, is that nothing? If the free armies unite all at once, they could defeat Sauron. You know that. If the armies do not unite, he will beat them each separately.”

“Cirdan is waiting for us,” Elrond’s voice was cold.

“Let him wait! Will you have this be the last stand of the Noldor?”

The elf spun and swept back the way he came. But just before he descended the stairs, he half-turned and said, “When you reach Aman, there will be no peace. There will be only the guilt of the lives you could have preserved.”

Day 6: Ambarussa, for @feanorianweek <3

@feanorianweek day 1 (March 19th) – Maedhros-> childhood, kingship, torture, adjusting/coping, unity, beauty

His father was dead. Fëanor’s last words of curse for Morgoth still echoed in the mountains and valleys bellow. Where not a minute ago there had been the proud High King of the Noldor in a puddle of his own blood now there was only a pile of dark wet ashes. Maitimo couldn’t do anything but stare at them. His father, greatest of their people, leader of thousands. Dead.

In the back of his mind he registered his brothers’ reactions around him.

Kurvo howled louder than storming winds, raw and guttural and, oh, so terrible. Tyelko and Moryo were trying to hold their younger brother still, though they were in no better shape themselves. Tyelko was sobbing -making sounds nigh whimpering- with his arms thrown over the other two, whereas Moryo panted hard, eyes glazed with building up tears as he attempted to speak their brother calm but all that came from his lips was Kurvo’s name.

A few steps behind them stood Pityo, still as stone. His face was the shade of his hair and a vain stood out on his temple. There was a weird pull on his mouth, something ugly between a grimace and a smile. A single tear tricked down his right cheek.

Lastly Maitimo looked ahead, where Makalaure had crunched on their father’s left side and clutched his hand. His position hadn’t change, still holding out his hand for the one that had forged him his first flute but was now gone. There was some of the ashes on Kano’s fingers. Maitimo felt sick. With dread he raised his head to meet the eyes of his brother. The once gleeful minstrel of their family was staring back at him with dead eyes and rivers of tears marking his soft red cheeks that just seemed to flow non-stop. “The King is dead” Kano murmured with his mithril voice hoarse and creaked.

Looking at so much emotion in his family, Maitimo felt an outsider. He felt no rage, no pain or grief, not even the cold-blooded relief on Pityo’s eyes. He felt nothing. Only numbness.

“The King is dead!” Yelled a voiced behind him, filled with horror. Until then Maitimo hadn’t realized that some of their soldiers had made their way to the scene.

The cry was echoed by the mountains and their people alike. A soft breeze ruffled Maitimo’s long hair, waving it like a red flag.

The King was dead. His father was dead. Maitimo was left adrift.

“Long live the King!”

Those for words ran like a drum against his ears.

Right. He was the eldest. Fëanor’s firstborn. Nelyafinwë, his father named him, meant to be his disregard of Nolofinwë’s position. Third Finwë. And indeed the third king he would be. Left to care for his grieving brothers, to guide their people in this unknown lands, to fulfill their oath.

Far away were the bright days spent by the river with Finno, when they couldn’t care less for what was expected of them as firstborns of their Houses. When the differences between their families were not greater than the difference in color of their hair. When they had laughed together, and played together, and being together as one. Alas, he missed his beloved cousin now more than ever, their sundering another parting gift of his father.

What was he to do?

“Long live the King”

Makalaure’s words were a mere whisper somewhat heard above the thundering wind.

As one all his brothers dropped to their knees, finally overwhelmed by the truth. It was not a display of respect or submission, Maitimo knew. It was a plea to their big brother. The blunt force of their father’s passing hit them at full force. Everything was wrong, and they needed him to make it right again. They needed him to put the pieces of their family back together.

Kano was still looking at him with his wide grey eyes flooded. Maitimo reached out to him, wiping the ashes from his trembling hand and giving it a tight squeeze.