#vinyamar

sisters vinyamar and gondolin, inspired by Elleth’s lovely “places as characters” prompts for the SWG potluck :)

Turgon at the shores of the sea near Vinyamar.

"There for many years was the realm of Turgon the wise, son of Fingolfin, bounded by the sea, and by Ered Lómin, and by the hills which continued the walls of Ered Wethrin westward, from Ivrin to Mount Taras"

J.R.R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion

Turgon was never on my cosplay list but I made first his shield and spears for our The_eldar_cosplay (IG) Gondolin camp at the Tolkien Days last year and then his armor for this year’s Tolkien Days. The torso armor and pauldrons are based on a design by @lymira for our Gondolin & Dragons campaign, and I designed the rest inspired by that.

Despite of not having any plans of cosplaying him originally, I love the armor design and it was such fun wearing the cosplay on our last day of our cosplay vacation that I definitely want to cosplay him again.

Also, you can expect some pretty emotional photos of him in the future.

Cosplay & edit: me

Photo: Goldiepond (on IG)

MAJOR SETTLEMENTS OF THE NOLDOR IN BELERIAND

"'But if any will come with me, I say to them: Is sorrow foreboded to you? But in Aman we have seen it. In Aman we have come through bliss to woe. The other now we will try: through sorrow to find joy; or freedom, at the least.’" - J.R.R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion, "Of the Flight of the Noldor"

[ID: seven banners showing different landscapes, most in shades of grey, white, and brown. Each has white text in the center; the top line in a larger, thin, swirly font stylized in all caps, and the bottom in a much smaller lowercase serif.

vinyamar, maglor, fingon, idril. <-prompt that follows the vibe

Turgon, Fingon, Idril & Maglor, summer festival in Vinyamar. Rated G, 550 words. By @polutrope and @melestasflight. On AO3.

“Of all our kin, did you have to bring him along?” Turgon growls at his older brother.

“Vinyamar shall be a city for all, a cultural melting pot of Beleriand, did you not say so yourself?” Fingon says in perfect imitation of Turgon’s own voice, moving his arms about as he does at public speeches, then laughs out loud when Turgon lifts his eyebrows in warning. “Oh come, little brother, cheer up! You well know that none can bring more life to a party than Makalaurë. Half of these people are here to see him perform.” 

“They are here because they take interest in building something new where we can prosper and grow as people.” Turgon has worked hard to ready the halls of Vinyamar for the summer harvest festival, the first to be celebrated in his new city, and he will be damned if a son of Fëanor steals the show. 

“Yes, yes, as you say,” Fingon waves a hand dismissively.

Unappeased, Turgon releases his grip on his brother’s shoulder and glares across the hall at the bodies clustering around the pavilion. The musicians expressly hired for the festival have cleared a space; Maglor directs them as though each were connected by a thread to his fingers, having them arrange his set-up just so. 

“Do at least attempt to look pleased, father.” Turgon starts, and looks back. Idril smiles wide, handing him a short glass of his favourite mint cordial, cleverly disguised as the much stronger liquor others have begun to pass around. “Vinyamar’s first summer festival is proving to be a much greater success than I ever imagined!” She takes a sip of her own drink, eyes crinkled and bright with amusement.

“Thank you,” he says, then: “Yes, I am sure, by the small hours of the morning when all are thoroughly besotted with drink, all will be singing my brother’s praises for ‘turning the mood around’.”

But Idril is only half-listening, watching the performance with glee, and Turgon follows her eyes. Fingon has joined Maglor on the stage, and has brought out some unusual Grey-elven instrument, the horn of some great beast, gilded and marked with holes like a pipe. Fingon blows a first sequence of notes, a fierce vibration of sound. He draws the instrument from his lips, laughing, and Maglor laughs with him. When they resume playing, it is to the accompaniment of stamping feet and, soon, the crowd clapping and singing along, swept up in the rhythm and merriment.

It is contagious, and Turgon cannot keep the smile from dancing over his face. 

“That is better!” Idril cries. “Here, will you keep this for me?” She shoves her drink in his hand; as she runs and leaps towards the pavilion, she hikes her skirts to her knees, baring the glittering silver filigree of her ankles, and dances joyfully before and around Fingon and Maglor’s playing.

Turgon may not understand his brother’s spirited excesses; he may resent Maglor’s enduring popularity; but, he finds such frustrations melt off his shoulders at the simple sight of his daughter dancing, so full of mirth and life.

The prompts for Day Three of @glorthelionweek were "Gondolin" and "A Moment of Peace". My story definitely (and explicitly) refers to the latter, but it is set in Vinyamar, not Gondolin. (I have a bunch of headcanons about the Vinyamar Era. Here are some of them, in a fic-shaped bag).

Warning: still no romance, here. Just a completely normal friendship. So so normal.