#galwen

The OFC squad, made in Rinmaru's Mega Fantasy Avatar Creator

And I am now writing some bonuses featuring OCs, because I can and because they too deserve love.

For this one I am borrowing @starshadeemilyart 's OC Galwen. She is just the sweetest 💖 I hope I got her right!

Galwen is holding a small parcel - it is indeed a sort of celebration, but not for the Elves apparently.

And she is nervous.

As if the gossips and the condescending looks she receives on a daily basis are not enough. She should know by now all habits of Elven lords and court etiquette, and yet she can't let go of her very human and very mortal soul.

Habits and celebrations included.

And so, to avoid further drama, as if Prince Nolofinwe did not have enough on his plate already, she waits for him where they usually meet and she hopes her gift, however small, will be appreciated.

And Nolofinwe arrives - she bows to him. And presents him the parcel.

When Nolofinwe opens it, he finds a little figurine of a horse carved in wood.

"This is unexpected." He says, his tone not harsh, but not soft.

"I hope your Highness will like the present, however small." Galwen replies a bit uncertainly. Maybe she overstepped.

Nolofinwe has to make a conscious effort to connect the dots - he is a bit dense, after all. He makes an attempt. "Is this something mortals do?"

"It's... To show someone they love and care."

And Galwen is painfully aware that she is way too low in the food chain to have any weight whatsoever.

And maybe Nolo is considering how far removed is Galwen from her kin - a pain they sort of share. His tone softens. "Thank you. I appreciate your gift, Galwen. I shall... Think about your words."

And she smiles.

And for once she is seen, and not judged, somehow loved.

"Um...excuse me? Are you Mistress Molinde? I want to request your services, if you are taking customers. I hope I'm not interrupting you."

(From starshadeemilyart: this is Galwen, she's Fingolfin's human concubine from my fanfic)

@starshadeemilyart

Molinde carefully looks at the woman who just entered her workshop. She recognizes the fashion, she may or may not know exactly who she is, but she knows the rank.

Molinde smiles. "It is indeed me." She replies politely. "May I have your name, my Lady, and how can I be of service?" There is a small pause, during which Molinde puts away an accounts booklet. "And no interruption at all."

@sallysavestheday tagged me to share a fic that's at least a year old. I'm going to go back 2017, when I wrote...

The Lucky One (Unrated, NAWA, ~9K)

Early in the First Age, young Nandorin woman is saved from death by Amras and taken in by his people. Written for the "Song of Exile" challenge at the Silmarillion Writers' Guild.

If you've been following me for a while, you've probably seen me mention Galwen, one of my Feanorian OCs. I created her to be a minor background character in my ongoing Kidnap Fam WIP, but within a few months she was stamping her feet and demanding that I properly write up her backstory. "The Lucky One" was the result. It was a fun opportunity to explore cultural differences between the Noldor, the Nandor, and the Avari, as well as language barriers, learning disabilities, and how I thought the Noldor in general and the Sons of Feanor in particular might approach the communication difficulties stemming from the intersection of those two things. I had a very good time writing it, and in the years since, Galwen has continued to demand more screen time in the Gazania-verse. I've grown hugely fond of her.

Early in the Second Age, a follower of the Sons of Fëanor brings Elrond some ill news. Rated G.

Elrond opened the door to his chambers with nothing but bed on his mind; it had been a long day and he was ready for a good night’s sleep. He lit the lamp that he kept on the table nearest the door, eased off his shoes – and nearly jumped out of his skin when a cloaked, hooded figure stepped into the pool of light. A cry rose in his throat, but was quickly strangled when the stranger dropped her hood and he recognized the heavy brows, single-lidded eyes, and round face of—

“ Galwen? ” he hissed. “What are you doing here? Have you gone insane? Do you have any idea how much trouble you’ll be in if you’re caught?”

He hadn’t seen Galwen in some two hundred years, not since the day he and his brother had bade farewell to Amon Ereb and its inhabitants for good. She hadn’t been part of the party that had brought them to Balar, nor had she been among the Kinslayers who had repented after the War of Wrath and submitted themselves for judgement.

Knowing Galwen, she’d probably felt that the Valar had no right to judge her.

But here and now she was a Kinslayer and a fugitive, sneaking not only into the High King’s palace, but into the rooms of the High King’s heir presumptive. If anyone but Elrond had found her, she might have been taken for an assassin.

No one saw me, Galwen signed. Where is Elros? I need to talk to you both.

Elrond stared at her for a moment, a lump forming in his throat. Was it possible that she didn’t know? Was it possible that she hadn’t heard of Elros’ fate, hadn’t heard how Elrond had been sundered from his twin?

“Let me light the fire,” he said, his voice scratching in his throat. “Then we can talk. There’s water in the pitcher in my bedroom, if you’re thirsty. Are you hungry? I can call for some food. If you hide in the other room, you won’t be seen.”

It was easier to focus on the practicalities than it was to think about his brother, and now that he’d gotten a better look at Galwen, he could see how worn she looked. Her clothes were patched and stained, her eyes were shadowed, and she was rather thinner than she’d been when they’d said their last goodbyes.

But Galwen declined the offer with a shake of her head, took the flint and steel from his hands, and lit the fire that had been laid in the grate herself. Where is Elros? she asked again.

Elrond swallowed, and when he spoke, his voice came out in a hoarse croak. “He’s not here,” he said. “He–”

He what? There was naked worry on Galwen’s face now, and she asked, Elrond, is he hurt?

“No,” Elrond said, shaking his head. “He’s well, the last I heard from him. He just– But I can’t believe you haven’t heard. Where have you been, Galwen?”

Wandering, she said. Hunting.

Elrond has an uncomfortable conversation with one of Maedhros' followers. Rated G.

Elrond was bored. His brother was tucked up in bed with a fever, a cough, and a runny nose, and Maglor had forbidden Elrond from sitting with him; he was worried that Elrond, too, might fall ill. The troubles that come from trading with Men, he’d muttered, shooing Elrond away.

Elven children did not get sick.

There would be no lessons today. Elrond could tell already. Maglor was busy tending to Elros, and Maedhros had not been at breakfast that morning. At Amon Ereb, absences were their own kind of language. Elrond likely wouldn’t see Maedhros today, but he knew that if he did, the eldest son of Fëanor would look right through him with hollow, shadowed eyes.

With a sigh, Elrond tucked the book of Quenya poetry he had been reading into his pocket, and then he wandered down through the kitchen and outside. It was a beautiful autumn day, crisp and sunny with a gentle breeze, but he took little joy in the weather. For a while he amused himself by attempting to juggle a trio of rocks, though he had little success. But as he ambled along the side of the keep, his attention was caught by a soft scraping sound. Curious, he followed the noise.

Rounding the corner of the outer wall, he found Galwen perched cross-legged on a bench in the sun, her hands busy as she used an unfamiliar blade to shape a short length of wood. He moved closer, intrigued. He hadn’t known that Galwen did anything other than hunt and patrol.

“What are you making?” he asked.

She didn’t answer immediately, but dragged her knife over the wood a few more times before setting it down beside her.

A bow, she signed.

Elrond tipped his head, studying the wood more closely. It was curved like a bow would be, but it was very short, much shorter than the bows the people on patrol used. “Who is it for?” he asked.

You.

“Me?” His eyes widened. “Are you making one for Elros, too?”

She nodded, and then lifted her knife and returned to her work. Elrond knew he should leave her be, but he was too interested to walk away.

“What’s it made of?” He knew that yew was favored by bowyers, but he doubted that Galwen would use such a fine wood for a child’s bow.

She set her blade aside once more, but the sign she made was unfamiliar.

“I don’t know that one,” Elrond said, shaking his head.

She seemed to think for a moment, and then her hands moved again. The tree that makes syrup, she said. Then she repeated the earlier sign.

“Oh! Maple.”

She nodded.

Impulsively, he moved closer and sat down on the empty end of the bench. “I didn’t know you made bows.”

Galwen closed her eyes and exhaled through her teeth in a rough sigh. I make all the bows here, she said. And I do not mind if you watch, but I cannot talk and work at the same time.

“Oh. Right. I’m sorry,” he said. He forgot that, sometimes, though he always felt bad about it afterwards.

She returned to the bow, and he sat meekly beside her, watching with interest as the weapon took shape beneath her deft hands. More questions were buzzing in his brain, but he was aware that he had already pushed Galwen’s patience about as far as it would stretch. He wasn’t afraid of her the way he had been when he was small, but he knew, too, that she was not particularly warm or gentle.

Maedhros and one of his followers discuss Elrond and Elros' future. Rated G.

Galwen let herself into the kitchen, stamping snow off her boots and brushing even more from her cloak. The snow in her hair was already beginning to melt from the room’s warmth, sending an uncomfortable trickle of cold water down the back of her neck, and she scowled to herself, doing her best to wring out her ponytail.

“Well, you look a little bedraggled,” Maedhros said from his seat at the table near the fire. “What’s going on out there?”

Those boys of yours should come with a warning label, she grumbled, her signs tight and jerky with irritation. ‘Oh, please, Galwen, won’t you teach us how to walk on a rope? Pretty please?’, they said. She snorted. They nagged me about it so often that I finally said yes, and what do they do halfway through the second lesson? They decide a snowball fight would be more fun and they start pelting me with the damn things. Those little demons are a menace.

Much to her further frustration, Maedhros seemed far more amused than sympathetic. “They’re young,” he said. “And they don’t often get a chance to go outside in the winter. You’ll have to forgive them their high spirits.” He took a sip of his drink and added, “I gather you told them to pelt each other instead? Or have they ganged up on Maglor?”

It’s Maglor and Elros versus Doronel and Elrond now, Galwen said. They were building snow fortifications when I left. I can’t remember the last time I saw Doronel have so much fun, she added, thinking of her friend’s wide grin as he and Elrond began constructing an embankment to shelter behind.

Something in Maedhros’ face seemed to lighten when he heard that, and Galwen thought she knew why. Doronel was Maedhros’ second in command, a friend from his youth in Valinor, and he had long been one of the Sons of Fëanor’s staunchest supporters. But he was often troubled in the dark of the winter, sunk in a deep depression and plagued by ghostly visions of his wife, who had died years ago in the Dagor Bragollach. To know that Doronel was enjoying a bit of happiness, even if only briefly, must be even more of a relief to Maedhros than it was to Galwen herself.

“Come, join me,” Maedhros said, gesturing with his truncated arm to the bench across from him. “It’s been a long time since we had the chance to talk.”

That was true. Apart from the report Galwen had given when she’d returned from her patrol three days ago, she and Maedhros hadn’t had a real conversation in nearly a month. And Maedhros liked to know how his people were faring. After all that he, his brothers, and their people had endured together, they had come to be a tightly-knit group – all keeping watch over each other, all worrying when one of their own was struggling.

Everyone left at Amon Ereb was unshakably loyal to Maedhros and Maglor, and they in turn were equally loyal to their remaining followers. Fealty went both ways.

[SWG link here]

In the aftermath of the Dagor Bragollach, a follower of Amras contemplates the future.