Welcome to the House of Finwë!

Y’know when you’re tired and come across the wrong post at the wrong time and just. Pure rage. For no reason whatsoever.

I’m feeling rather bitter at Elwing rn (it was a very well written ficlet and I admire the writer, I’m just tired and unwell 😂) so you get a little fic of me getting that out. Content warning done.

Here we go!

Elrond and Elros can’t stand most depictions of their mother.

White feathered wings, plain white gown billowing in the sea breeze around her slight figure, two dark shapes reaching taloned hands for the brilliant gem around her neck. Desperate expression on a too round face with wide eyes looking towards her sons. It makes them sick.

Because Elwing wasn’t soft and innocent. Elwing wasn’t like that at all.

Sharp, angular features. Grey slivers for eyes more often clouded than not. White? Yes she wore white. But it was the white of a desert sun, the white of cold starlight, merciless and unfeeling as elves were dragged to the darkness.

And she’d loved her sons, yes, but it was the love of an ideal. Elwing was young and far from ready for the burdens of motherhood alongside ruling a city in her husband’s ever growing absences. And the gem-

Well. The less said about the silmaril, the better.

The Sindar more than others remain desperate for a symbol of innocence, a sign of their claim to the stolen jewel over the sons of it’s creator. So they present their winged princess bathed in holy light whilst the sons of Fëanor cower from it’s brilliant glow.

But Elrond and Elros remember how the stone sang when Maedhros and Maglor arrived, just as they remember their mother’s fury at its song.

You see, Elwing loved her sons. But she didn’t jump to save them.

Elrond and Elros saw the beginnings of regret, but they also remember her steadfast determination to keep what was never hers, cold starlight and unyielding sun meshing to cruel pride as she fell. It wasn’t holy light but white hot fire that clashed with the silmaril to send her screaming as the stone rejected her grasp, burning brighter than ever as she flew to her husband.

Elrond’s arrival to Valinor and the white scars radiating from Elwing’s hand to her chest confirm what he knew all along.

It wasn’t innocence that crowned her the day Sirion fell.

Because years before Maedhros and Maglor had fallen victim to the Silmaril’s hallowing, Elwing the White had paid the price for her false claim. And no matter how they tried to hide it, the consequences of that pride marked her to this day.

Instead of honouring specific aspects of his heritage, Elrond creates something entirely new for himself.

The House of Elrond is it’s own thing. Imladris is entirely unique. You think you see something Noldorin or Sindar or even Mannish, but look for a second more and it’s not like that at all.

Because when Elrond designed it as a Homely House, he made sure anyone who came knew they’d be welcome. They could heal and start over without judgement.

(Ultimately that’s what keeps his relations with other races so strong too. They feel comfortable in this home of many lines.)

There are specifically Dúnedain influences though. He’s fostered so many kids, looked after so many families, he wants to make sure they know that they might have lost their kingdom, but they still have a home. It’s common for Dúnedain to stop by, take refuge, recover, just say hi to friends. But they’re such an unknown people, you can’t see it unless you know it’s there. There’s even a beautiful little graveyard where so many of his distant nephews and nieces have found their rest, visited regularly by the residents of Imladris.

There’s also many many trinkets from across the centuries scattered around. A wonky dagger with a place of honour, the first work of a rising chieftain. The cracked vase from that time it was knocked over by a ball from a young boy. Letters and drawings carefully kept in Elrond, Elladan, Elrohir, Arwen, and even Celebrian’s drawers. Glorfindel, Erestor, and most residents of Rivendell have at least a few items gifted by the many generations of Dúnedain who’ve walked through the valley.

All this is taken with them when they sail, and the memory of these people whose lives were so entwined with their own lives on.