cycas:

Finrod put down his sandwich, and unclipped the jewelled fastenings from six braids one after the other, placing all the clips in a neat pile. Then he shook his hair out into a golden cloud that glinted in the sunlight, stood up, kicked off his boots, and danced joyfully in a wild circle in the grass around the picnic in the sunlight, avoiding the shadow of the walls of Mandos. Orodreth laughed and began to hum a merry tune for him to dance to.

“I think he’s pleased,” Celebrían said, giggling.

“Pleased? Pleased?” Finrod cried, still dancing wildly and gracefully among a cloud of golden hair. “There are no words in tongues of Elves or Men to express my delight! I may have to devise an entirely new language!”

He returned to pull Celebrimbor to his feet and into the dance. Celebrimbor got up resolutely, and with an air of careful concentration joined Finrod in twirling in a very graceful manner for one who had only regained his body that morning, his long dark hair, already loose, following him like a shadow.

*******************************************************

I wanted to paint this scene from Many Meetings: The Night is Passing for some time, and now I have.  The background is my attempt at a Halls of Mandos that looks different to each person, with the small back door through which re-embodied elves leave.  (The front gate is much larger, and always open, but nobody leaves that way.)

I had a missed call from an unknown number and I just called whoever it was back in case it was important. No one answered and it was probably someone who got the wrong number anyway, but lmao do I feel grown-up and responsible rn (for once)

curufins-smile:

Owl

Part 1 – After Her Death

Finwion lies next to Finwë, his soft baby snores and occasional movements the only thing breaking the silence of his bedchamber, lit by the silvery light of Telperion. Finwë knows he has a bassinet for his son to sleep in at the foot of the bed, but Finwion’s warm little body is such a comfort in his grief that he cannot bear to let him go, even as his tears soak into his soft, downy hair.

He cannot cry forever. His thoughts drift from his ever present sorrow to contemplate the pins and needles plaguing his arm. His son may be small but he is a healthy baby and his arm is in an awkward position beneath him. He shifts in an attempt to get more comfortable. Finwion stirs and emits a wail of discontent at being jostled, but Finwë is quick to stand and gather him up to gently bounce in an attempt to stave off any waterworks. He holds Finwion in one arm as he quietly attempts to get feeling back in the other.

In all honesty, he is glad for the distraction from his own thoughts.

“I’m sorry, Finwion,” he coos quietly, in the hopes that his voice might soothe him, “I did not mean to wake you!”

He takes Finwion over to the window, in the hopes that the silver light which usually fascinates his son will help to calm him. It is futile, and Finwion’s cries only grow louder.

Finwë then tries the mobile above the bassinet, the dangling shapes and mirrors usually able to bring absolute joy from his baby, who loves to try to grasp them with fat fists, but it is no use.

He casts his eyes around the room, and stops when he sees it, lying innocently in Finwion’s cot.

It is a soft, stuffed owl, about as large as his infant son. The owl is stitched from soft fabric, and is slightly worn from Finwion’s clumsy baby love. Finwë knows it very well by now. He watched Míriel stitch it early on in her pregnancy, before she was too tired to lift her needle. They were so happy then, their world filled with nothing but joy at the thought of the bright life they would be bringing into the world. Finwë remembers excitedly pressing his hands to her swollen belly, already able to feel the heat of the tiny spark of fëa within her. Before that tiny spark grew to a roaring flame that consumed her whole.

Finwë holds that flame in his arms now, and the heat of his soul still grows with every passing day. Sometimes Finwë wonders if his son’s fëa will ever stop increasing, or if it will one day reach an inferno that consumes everything it touches like it engulfed Míriel.

He attempts to shake off the morbid thoughts, and turns his attention to his wailing son once more. Picking up the owl, he shifts Finwion to a more comfortable position and presents him with the toy.

The reaction is almost magical. Finwion does not immediately silence, but he latches on to the owl and his sobs begin to quieten. Finwë lies him down on the bed again, and watches Finwion curl against the toy. He cannot help but chuckle as he watches a fluffy wing find its place in Finwion’s mouth for him to gently gum on.

“That’s going to need a wash soon,” he mutters quietly to himself, suddenly exhausted.

Finwë closes the heavy curtains to darken the room once more, then climbs back into bed as carefully as possible, slotting himself around Finwion’s warmth. He is still not yet used to the softness of his bed after the centuries of sleeping on rougher things, first in Cuivienen, then on the Great Journey. But he finds himself drifting off rather quickly, sped by the soft snuffling of his son.

–

Thanks to @alackofghosts as always for inspo stuff, and to @nixiegenesis and @acommonanomaly for reading this over to check for any infant behaviour inaccuracies. @nathair-nimhe this is me finally writing you a fic 🙂

This is going to be part of a series of fics about feanor’s early childhood, set around his stuffed owl.

penny-anna:

In Return of the King Pippin says he’s known of Gandalf for years but didn’t actually know him pre-quest and I like to imagine the same applying in reverse. 

Gandalf never met Pippin pre-quest but he knew who Pippin was bcos his reputation preceded him. Every time Gandalf passed through the Shire ppl would be like ‘you’ll never guess what the Thain’s son’s gone and done this week’ and he was like ‘fascinating tell me more’

& then when Pippin showed up in Rivendell w Frodo he was like ‘YOU!!!’