finally got around to starting silmaspen’s dtiys2022 challenge. I really wanted to paint it physical instead of digital, and its… coming along better than expected honestly!
we shall see how actually painting a person for the first time goes lol
I can’t help finding it funny that Míriel has absolutely no reservations about her decision to remain dead, until the moment when Finwë dies and join her in the Halls - upon which she rapidly decides to return to life.
I know it’s not the canon explanation, but without any other context, you’d think she wanted to get away from him.
Made even funnier by Finwe being like “…I can’t go back to life because Indis would immediately murder me again”
I can’t help finding it funny that Míriel has absolutely no reservations about her decision to remain dead, until the moment when Finwë dies and joins her in the Halls - upon which she rapidly decides to return to life.
I know it’s not the canon explanation, but without any other context, you’d think she wanted to get away from him.
I imagine a very specific dynamic between Maedhros and Fingon in Beleriand.
For Maedhros, the rescue from Thangorodrim is the defining point of the relationship. Fingon saved his life after Maedhros had betrayed and abandoned him, and Maedhros owes him a debt he will never be able to repay. They will never be equals and he doesn’t want to be. While he doesn’t want anything to happen to Fingolfin, he’s imagined any number of implausible scenarios that necessitated him swearing fealty to Fingon.
For Fingon, the defining point of their relationship is when they were friends on equal terms back in Valinor, and he just wants to get back to that. He doesn’t want Maedhros feeling indebted to him or like they’re not equals. Why can’t they just put the past behind them? In general, Maedhros is willing to go with this most of the time because it’s what Fingon is more comfortable with, but it doesn’t feel natural to him.
So in the period between the Bragollach and the Nirnaeth, the situation is basically:
Maedhros: I get to swear fealty to Fingon! *little fireworks going off in Maedhros’ brain*
Fingon: you really don’t have to…that’s not necessary…i’m not, like, in charge of you or anything…this feels weird…
Maedhros:No, I definitely have to. For important diplomatic and political reasons.
WatchingRebecca and thinking of Indis and the empty spaces left, the sense of not-belonging, of not measuring up, of competing with a ghost and losing. She was a genius. Her tapestries fill the house. Her genius son glares from the shadows at you if you so much as touch them with a fingertip. You’re not a genius. You’ve never made anything but spontaneous, uncrafted songs. You love to run and play at sports in the outdoors and come home in disarray. She was always immaculate; you can’t have dirt if you work with textiles.
Your fear your husband will never love you the way he loved her. You fear he’ll never love your children the way he loves her son.
He’s more than half faded, going transparent—his body consumed by his fëa, his fëa consuming itself; the granite rocks lie strong behind him. White waves break.
He’s more than half mad. But then, it has been centuries—centuries of a grief that will not fade, so it consumes everything around it.
Eärendil’s foot touches the ground.
O that this was an age ago.
‘Maglor,’ Eärendil says. ‘Makalaurë Kanafinwë.’ He hovers in the air, only one foot brushing the ground, barely touching it, like a child on a swing, pushing off lightly, twisting in the air. The wind is strong, and the clouded, grey sky casts no shadows.
Maglor raises his eyes.
‘Eönwë,’ he says and then stops himself. ‘But no.’
‘Eärendil.’
Maglor stares with eyes that are sea grey and sea blue, dark and fathomable.
‘But you are one of them,’ he says.
Eärendil’s wings are wet with sea spray. The wind presses him up into the air, and he is once more touching nothing.
‘Maglor,’ he says. ‘I have come to take you home.’
‘I cannot go.’
Maglor looks to the sea, where the waves beat the land. Where he has fallen six hundred times and not yet drowned.
Eärendil holds out his hand to him.
‘Maglor, I must take you home.’
Maglor stares up again, eyes dark and wild. There are scars of fire and whips not entirely faded on his face and body. He draws back.
O that this were two ages ago.
‘I cannot go,’ he whispers. His voice is also half gone. ‘The Blessed Realm would burn me.’
‘Not now,’ Eärendil says. ‘It has been so long. You cannot stay here. It has been too long; you will fade.’
And Eärendil reaches to touch Maglor’s shoulder. Maglor shrinks away against the ragged stones.
‘I will not burn you,’ Eärendil says, though there is a Silmaril hallowed bound to his brow and wings immortal bound to his back. ‘I am not that holy.’
The sea coils itself to strike the land. The wind beats the pine trees. About them the world screams.
Eärendil drops to the earth. He does not die. But pain shoots through his body, and white lightning sparks for a moment where his feet touch the granite cliffs, but leaves no mark.
Commission for @spiced-wine-fic and her amazing OC boys from the Silmarillion. It took much more time than I thought but I think finally it worked good Thank you for your request! I had so much joy working on it! I hope you like it.
I want to say a prayer for our child I hope they grow big and strong and that they become skilled at their craft may they find love and be loved in return, and may they find friends wherever they go,
How about you? what do you wish for our baby? Me? nothing really,
…I just hope they always have at least one brother at their side.
For@feanorianweek day 7: The whole family, but the non animated version.
And what a wonderful feanorianweek this was! I was happy to see everyone’s works! I hope you all had as much fun as myself!
