Finarfin - Blog Posts
Finarfin: This is a reminder that sword fighting in the hallways is still a code of conduct violation.
The house of Finwe (first gen) as bizarre t shirts
tag yourself I'm Mitskibidi
I was thinking about how one of the defining features of both Fëanor and Fingolfin is anger. It’s more obvious with Fëanor (drawing a sword on his brother, swearing a very threateningly worded oath), but it’s also true for Fingolfin. Tolkien says Fingolfin was of a different temperament and yeah, maybe he was more restrained and less reckless, but still it was partially anger at Fëanor that pushed him to cross the Helcaraxë, and it was anger that made him go and confront Satan.
In contrast, their firstborn sons rarely do anything out of anger. Fingon’s driven by loyalty, friendship and compassion, even when he has every right to feel betrayed and angry. It is said he hated Morgoth only, but even that hatred isn’t shown on page through anger (defiance maybe but not anger). His last charge against Morgoth’s forces was born from hope unlike his father’s.
As for Maedhros, he laughs when he receives Thingol’s condescending answer, while his brothers are mad. I don’t think he felt angry even before/during the kinslayings but rather frustrated and desperate. While his deeds of surpassing valor during the Bragollach faintly resemble Fingolfin’s furious charge (his spirit burned like a white fire within / his eyes shone like the eyes of the Valar), the wording here sooner reminds me of the fire of life was hot within him (and whose ardour yet more eager burnt) used to describe Maedhros before. It’s fire of life / white fire for Maedhros and filled with wrath and despair and great madness of rage for Fingolfin.
Finarfin, though, is not angry like his brothers, he’s soft-spoken and peaceful, and nopes out of their mess pretty fast. At first glance, his firstborn son is like him. He’s friends with everyone, beloved by everyone, but I can’t forget the moment Finrod threw away his crown (such a great scene, it’s been living in my head since the moment I read it, probably because it was unexpected to see such a furious gesture from Finrod). It makes me think that he was more similar to his uncles that he’d like to believe, but he was slightly better at controlling his rage.
Just to be clear, the elves in question include the Fëanorians, Nolofinwëans, Arafinwëans, Lords of Gondolin, Lords of Doriath, and elves from Imladris.
For whichever category you voted for, please comment and specify which elf you would like me to write for. Feel free to elaborate in the comments what kind of story, like the elements you’d like me to include, I should write!
Thanks a lot, everyone!
I want to write a Silmarillion fic. I love romance stories so it will be centered around a Silm elf and an OC! Comment which elf you think I should write about.
I feel like my blog is full of his older brothers and their offspring, but I actually love gentle, soft-spoken Finarfin as well 💛
So here he is, having a beach day in Alqualondë with Finrod, long before disaster struck :') For @arafinwean-week day 1 + day 2 (Finarfin, Finrod, pre-Darkening, family)
(And yes, I'm an idiot and forgot that the sky shouldn't be bright blue at this point in time (more like night sky lit with some Laurelin gold or Telperion silver I suppose), but I was already tired of messing with this, so quick questionable golden background swap it is... eeeh maybe I'll redo that at some point)
DAY TWO of @silmsmutweek! "Coast" and "cross-cultural relationships" both suggested to me Finarfin/Earwen, so under the cut is another 400 words of one of their first sexual experiences together. Content note: contemplation of sexual morality in a world with gods who live next door and, uh, butt stuff.
“Those who live outside the Calacirya,” Arafinwe's mother had reminded him, “do not always honor the Valar in the same way we do, here in the fullness of Their light.” And in her frustrating, this is something you need to learn for yourself way, “You must be prepared to choose the ways that seem right to you.”
He understood better, when he saw his friends in Alqualonde slipping away into the shadows beyond the beach bonfires in pairs or triads or more, leading each other by the hand in every possible combination of genders behind boathouses and under piers, to elicit sounds from each other that the humid, starlit air did nothing to muffle.
And while his mother certainly must have an opinion of her own, he had been given leave to decide his own path.
He didn't say no when his best friend took his hand and led him to a small grotto well prepared with quilts and cushions. Nor when she began to kiss him, really kiss him, with lips and teeth and tongue. Nor when she stripped them both of the finely-woven cloth they had been draped in.
Then she asked if he wanted to see something fun, and showed him the suggestively carved rod of ivory and bottle of fragrant olive oil she'd brought along.
He didn't know why, exactly, he'd agreed to be the one to receive it. Misplaced gallantry perhaps? She'd told him she'd enjoy it either way. Or maybe he was too curious and too trusting for his own good. This time, she made him say yes with his actual mouth before she directed him onto his hands and knees.
She was merely petting him softly along the back and telling him how very good he was doing for her as she slowly, gently pressed her little toy deeper and deeper into his asshole. He was merely gripping the fabric beneath his hands, trying not to weep and failing not to moan at the intensity of the sensation.
They weren't touching each other anywhere they shouldn't, he told himself, though he'd grown achingly hard and she kept wriggling her hips needily. They hadn't even unbraided their hair. He could almost assert that they weren't getting up to anything improper at all.
But she was the princess of this land, after all. Surely she wouldn’t encourage her best friend into any behavior that might be considered sinful.
They just honored the Valar differently here, was all.
B2MEM - "Hope"
@spring-into-arda (301 words; a continuation of my earlier AU where Finarfin arrives in Beleriand to find nothing but ruins)
There was someone outside the camp.
Finarfin should mention this to someone, probably, but he couldn’t prove it; there was no movement in the endless fields of high, stinging grass, no rustle in the dead limbs of the trees. No noise. No perceptible hint.
But there was an itch at the back of his mind that insisted someone was here.
Madness, probably. A manifestation of desperate hope after weeks of marching through Beleriand and finding nothing, nothing, nothing. Failing that, surely it was the Enemy, at last showing himself.
Surely.
But the itch at the back of his mind felt . . . not like the hunts he had never particularly enjoyed, but that he had gone on for his children’s sakes. It felt like the games they had played when they were small, and he would walk into his office and know they were there even before he had spotted a tiny foot peeking out from behind his desk.
The madness of hope.
Even if Artanis was still alive, was still free, surely she would approach the hosts her father was leading openly, not creep around the edges of his camp like a thief.
He shot one last look at the dead emptiness of the woods before nodding to the guards and letting himself back into the command tent.
The flap fell behind him. The itch intensified.
He turned.
A gaunt figure was sitting at his desk. There was barely an ounce of flesh left on the figure waiting, in dead stillness, in the chair; just bruised and bloodied skin stretched across knife sharp bone.
The only hint of life was in the eyes: dark and haunted with more horror than Arafinwe could even now imagine, but still burning with a hint of dread fire.
“Hello, uncle,” rasped Makalaure. “I’ve come to bargain.”