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❝I do not f e a r the wild things, for they alone are of my heart.❞ the 3rd son of fëanor, wild and quick to anger, beloved of oromë, kinslayer and oathkeeper. huntsman. prince. brother. an independent roleplay blog for Celegorm of the tolkien's legendarium. semi-active + selective. multiverse + multiship. please read laws before interacting.
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— What Orodreth really said when Celegorm and Curufin came to knock on his door. (via artaresto)
Jul 15th · 11 · © · tagged: ; what actually happened

"You can trust me." [shows up three hours late with wine]


     He had worn them only two days ago, during a celebration, and he had bathed himself in costant light, basked in it, he had met the gazes of the Ñoldor being drawn to him and his creations, his jewels, his masterpiece. Fëanáro had felt content, satisfied, under such gazes, and yet now he was in his house, in the room he had designed for the Silmarilli only; and he sat there, in silence, in darkness but for the three, beautiful lights inside the casket.

     He drank that light, he drank it and then felt it crawl up in his chest, in his guts, as if it had a grip on his own very flesh. The awareness of having displayed them in front of the whole court merely two days ago was now crippling, and only part of that pride remained — he knew they were unrivaled and unseen before by eyes of Elda or Ainu, he needed not to be reminded. He needed them to be where hands unworthy could not touch them and take them away.

     He needed — a step almost startled him, and he turned, quickly, with tension in his legs and his arms to tire his muscles, his eyes slightly widened, the light in them enhanced by the one of the Silmarilli next to him. 

     It was Turcafinwë, still on the treshold, leaning forward as if his abrupt movement had halted him in the middle of a step; his son’s eyes were widened too and he stood as still as a lifelike statue of his mother, seeming hesitant as he never was.

     You can trust me.

     The sentence reached Fëanáro’s mind and he knew not whether it was meant to be heard or it was something his son was whispering to himself; yet it blew away some of the unrest that had befallen him at the interruption. Fëanáro felt his jaw relax, and he knew he had clenched it, and his forehead unwind, so he knew he had also frowned. Exhaling, he raised a hand from his knee and made a gesture so that his son would step in the room.

     Had he not trusted him, he would not have allowed him to see the Silmarilli. Had he not trusted him, no amount of statements of the contrary would have convinced him otherwise. He could trust his son — but that he already knew.

[ like this for a script starter? ]

Send a ✺ for my muse’s reaction to yours hitting mine out of anger.

          A snarl twisted Tyelkormo’s face and he lifted a few strong
          fingers to touch his cheek where her soft hand had landed.
          Full of fury the blow had been but still too gentle to really
          have wounded him. He did not think it in her nature to ever
          truly forgive herself the freedom of striking out with the real
          intent to hurt. It was pathetic. Weak. A cruel smile bent his
          mouth as he caught her wrist, not quite stiffly enough to
          cause pain but firm enough to stop another strike.

                                “That was most unwise, my lady. You will rend your
                                 pretty feathers, songbird — I am made of much sterner
                                 stuff than all your witch wiles are prepared to break.
                                 Learn that and I will be gracious to forgive you once.
                                 Do it again and you will find my hospitality has lessened.”

Send a ✺ for my muse’s reaction to yours hitting mine out of anger.

                     He could not deny that it pleased him enormously to have
                     clawed his way so effectively under her fine skin. So much
                     the picture of grace, ever poised, and now her fair face had
                     gone pink — over his actions or her own, he could not tell.

                                         “You have forbidden your daughter to see me
                                          off with a kiss, my lady. Is it truly so unexpected
                                          that I should ask that favour of you instead? If
                                          there is any way to nurse my hurt it must be a
                                          farewell from the second loveliest of woman in
                                          the city. Am I to be so thoroughly rebuked as to
                                          have nothing at all? That is very cruel, I think.”

         Beside him, Curvo groaned and Nelyo, red-eared, yanked him bodily away by the back of his tunic, amidst profuse apologies, and towards their horses and the rest of the hunting party that was to depart. He should be leading it — if he had not been so distracted in celebrating the triumph of managing to steal a kiss. Only on the cheek, of course, and not so serious a thing. Findekáno was shouting his name from the back of the assembly in such a way that you would have thought he had — well, never mind what he might have done.

[ whoever sent me that meme for huan —— i am going to burn your house to the ground  .  .  .  not literally. maybe literally. ]

The Tale of Beren and Lúthien; 
  Long was the way that fate them bore

|| ....................I can't bring myself to send that symbol. Do you feel my pain
Send a ✺ for my muse’s reaction to yours hitting mine out of anger.

everyone look at this exceedingly rare example of fëanor actually curbing his wrath and showing mercy to some poor pathetic soul (me it’s me that pathetic soul is me).

yo this is a reminder that if you ever come up with a neat idea for our muses to interact - whether it’s canon or au - talk to me about it because chances are I will be 500% down to do the thing

Send a ✺ for my muse’s reaction to yours hitting mine out of anger.

          She hit him so hard that Tyelko thought
          he tasted the iron and fire of the flavour
          of his own blood on the back of his tongue
          — but he only laughed and worked his jaw,
          the smirk that had slipped away returning
          with half an extra shade to it. “Hell halls,
          woman. I could swear to you that it was
          meant only in the most respectful way —
          but I think you should strike me again for
          the lie. How serious you are to be a mortal
          girl! Have you forgotten that you will die
          one day? Surely you should like to hear that
          you are lovely so long as you are still alive!”

                                         He tried to remember if the Edain had been
                                         so grave in his time. He thought they must
                                         have been. —— all dying things seem to be.