Lalwen - Blog Posts
Lalwen is one of these mysterious Silm ladies I have an inexplicable fondness for and I'm sad we don't know more about her.
But I do like the fanon that she was the "cool aunt" to her more than a dozen nephews and nieces.
Generally cheerful and quick to laugh, she was always ready to goof around with the kids and would frequently sneak them candy and other treats. (And later, they all came to her when they wanted to discuss their problems and worries with an adult who was not a parent.)
Anyway, here she is with Fingon after she brought him back some cakes from a boring banquet she escaped from.
Not that she plays favourites, Lalwen loves all her nephews and nieces equally, but Fingon, being the firstborn son of her closest sibling might have a special place in her heart. (And I've already drawn Turgon and Finrod, as well as Maedhros and Maglor a little while ago, so Fingon seemed like the obvious choice when I needed an elfling for this one.)
For day 2 of @finweanladiesweek - Lalwen
I'm fresh out of half-elven inspiration today, so have some Russingon, for a change. And some Lalwen, because there should always be more Lalwen. Also on AO3 (T: 352 words).
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It is Lalwen who marries them.
Lalwen, whose own heart’s joy had laughed at Mandos, and now melts into the bones of the earth in blistered Dorthonion, returning, as she had ever sought, to the imagination, to the shining, breathing glory of the trees. Sinking down, that the roots may be nourished and the shattered forests rise again.
“Look not for me in the West,” she had said, as the binding caught their hearts, as Lalwen’s breath tracked hers to its source and their bodies wove together, following their minds. “This is all there is. Love, now, and the silence, after, unless it be a song of remembrance, caught in the branches, or the breeze.”
Lalwen had only kissed her again and clung, until the knife came down, and the great woods burned.
She watches Maedhros’ face as they weave their plans for the final battle, remembering Fëanor’s passion, and his bright boys’ following rage. Let the Void take us! And if it does? If there is only silence, and not even a song, where the Darkness reigns?
She is cold. Colder than she ever was in the great crossing; more certain even than then of the long fall, the bleak end. Fingon’s fine eyes catch the light as they did on the Ice, under the stars, only now they are burning.
This is all they will have. Love, now, and the silence, after.
She draws them into the robing room, after the council meeting. Pulls the gold bands from the bases of her braids to use as rings. Wraps their wrists with her sash, lays skin against skin as they stammer and shiver under her fierce, forgiving gaze.
Maedhros tries to demur, to conjure spectres and channel voices of disapproval, but he is already leaning into Fingon; their smiles matching as they ever have; their fingers twining as though carved to fit, knuckle to knuckle, tendon to tendon, bone to bone.
Lalwen blesses them. Kisses them. Sends them to bed, to their true binding.
She sits in the dark, then, for a while, listening to the silence.
To the song.