lamemaster

[lamemaster]

To continue or to not to continue the cringe fic on ao3 is the question. It's satisfying but yikes! Why was I writing like that?

[lamemaster]

I totally agree with you on feeling sad when the elves leave, and I felt that way for a long time until i read the silmarillion. Then it just felt like after all this time, all this suffering,they were finally returning home, and i didn’t feel so sad anymore.

I'm too much of a coward to openly talk on any public forum, but I'd love to hear your thoughts on all of it!

Hey Anon,

I am so glad you sent this in!

Honestly, I read the Silmarillion before the Lotr, so my timeline is weird. But for me, it is a different feeling.

The story that started with elves, now being left behind by them is ruthless. I feel so left out. (Elves need to be a part of ME for me to have fun)

In my entire experience of reading Tolkien, I have never wished for anything more than for elves and men to be closer—not just romantically (lol) but platonically as well. This ending, however, seems to propose a bigger gap, so I am sulking, but Lotr is a beautiful read nonetheless.

If I were selfless like you, perhaps I too would have rejoiced elves returning home. But for me, them leaving middle earth feels like, them leaving me as a reader 😭

But please feel free to share your thoughts with the community. Everyone here is very nice unless we start talking about incestuous ships 🤭

[lamemaster]

Just reading about elves leaving middle earth during first few chapters of The Fellowship of the Ring, feels so terrible.

I share Sam's sorrow of the possibility of never seeing them.

It feels akin to a childhood friend moving away to a different town. Being left behind to keep looking into the horizon they left.

P.s. I'm reading lotr. And if someone wants to read along, message me 😉

[lamemaster]

Can I pleaseee be tagged in the potential part 2 🙏

Ashes of the Heart

↳ Ashes of the Heart, Thranduil x Fem!Reader, modern AU ↳ Requested by @fizzyxcustard Word Count: 2.3k TW: heavy angst, cursing, graphic descriptions, references to death A/N: This was such an amazing request to write, I enjoyed myself so much! I didn't know I could produce such angst, but here we are so read at your own peril. Any feedback is always welcome and much appreciated. Enjoy! 𓋼𓍊 Backstory: Thranduil who works in military as elite special operations leader, is leaving his lover to oversee a Navy SEALs mission. It's something he has done countless of times, only this time - his lover has a bad feeling about it.

«For how long?»

Your question was one that you had asked many times before. Always the same. A question without an answer as you watched him pack his duffel-bag, barely anything inside it, save for a few shirts and clean socks, and boxer briefs. His lack of an answer hung heavily within the four walls of your spacious bedroom.

“I see,” you sighed heavily. You knew well enough to trust that if he could, he would tell you. Begging and pleading would change nothing, and you had quickly adapted to a life of being kept in the dark. What you didn’t know couldn’t hurt you, but it could drive you mad during those lonely nights when your fear for him became your greatest enemy. Scenario after scenario of every little thing that could have gone wrong – the image of your beloved injured or worse…

You shuddered.

“What is it, my love?” concern filled his pale eyes as his hand clasped your cheek, his thumb brushing lightly against the softness of your skin. You closed your eyes, savoring his touch for the solitude that was to come.

“It feels different this time,” you confessed, your eyes dropping to your hands – a jumble of nervous fingers.

“How do you mean?” Thranduil asked softly.

“I feel like something bad is going to happen to you,” you whispered, your admission sending a painful jolt through your heart and filling your stomach with lead.

“Oh, my sweet, you know-”

“Yes, I know you’re never on the ground yourself. Believe me, I know this. But I can’t shake this feeling,” you interrupted him, desperately wanting him to understand and accept your concern.

You always let him go, never fussed or begged him to stay. You knew how important his work was to him – to the entire country and maybe even the world. His brilliant mind was the one hidden behind every successful operation. How could you keep him to yourself when everyone’s safety – including your own – depended on him?

You had adjusted, not only your life but your expectations as well. Only tonight, the sickening feeling of dread was like poison inside your mind, spreading its bile throughout your entire body.

“Oh, my darling,” Thranduil pulled you into his arms and kissed your hair. You held onto him for dear life, afraid of what might happen if you were to let go. Your premonition of tragedy only growing with each gentle stroke that trickled down your back, causing your skin to break out in goosebumps.

“I always come back to you, do I not?” he whispered against your hair, his body rocking yours back and forth slowly and tenderly, a simple motion meant to soothe your growing worry.

“But you never promise,” you pointed out. “You never promise to come back because even you know that there is still some danger to what you do and where you go,” you insisted, pulling away to look at the man you loved beyond any reason and doubt.

His pale eyes held yours, the understanding gleaming through from the depths of his own soul. He knew you were right.

“Believe me when I say that no force in this world would keep me from returning to you,” Thranduil said. “You are my home, my peace from the destruction that is our world. You’re my haven during a raging storm. Nothing will keep me away from you.”

You bit back the tears that had come unannounced and nodded. If only to please him, you would muster the last of your courage and strength. You swallowed the bitter lump of foreboding and forced yourself to smile. He deserved a proper and loving good-bye, not tears and childlike pleas.

“Be safe, will you?” you said softly and placed your palm to his cheek. Thranduil leaned into your touch with a reposeful sigh, his eyes closing briefly while he cherished this last moment between you.

“Always,” he whispered.

An hour later you were sat on your bed alone.

Days turned into weeks which turned into months. Not a phone call or a text, no letters of any kind – Thranduil appeared to be fallen off this Earth entirely. It became harder and harder to remind yourself that he wasn’t allowed to communicate while planning and overseeing an operation. With each day that went by without a word from him, your unease had turned malignant – eating and tearing away at your mind like a disease for which there was no remedy.

You had a number to call in case of an emergency, but you couldn’t bring yourself to use it. This wasn’t the first time when he had been gone for months on end, you had survived that, surely you would persevere this time as well. If only it weren’t for that pesky feeling that wouldn’t go away. Without knowing how or why, you knew with crystal-clear certainty that something was wrong. You had known it long before he had walked out the door.

Another month had gone by without any news of his whereabouts when you awoke with a scream, tiny beads of sweat covering your forehead. Your heart was pounding inside your ribcage, threatening to burst any minute with every shallow breath you drew. Wheezing and gasping for air with tears streaming down your cheeks, you tried to catch your breath while still being held captive by the nightmare that had just haunted you.

You jumped at the sound of the doorbell, a yelp escaping your trembling lips. Fumbling with the light, your fingers still shaking from your vivid dream, you struggled to switch it on. Tumbling over your own sheets in your rush to get out of bed, you nearly fell out with your face first.

With your heart lodged inside your throat, you rushed to the door and peered through the tiny peephole. A well-dressed man was standing on the other side, patiently waiting for you to open. In your flustered state you hadn’t immediately recognised the familiar face of Jerry, a man who worked closely with Thranduil. Mindless of your current attire, you unlocked and threw open the door.

“What’s happened?” you demanded, not bothering to hide the panic that laced your voice.

“I’m sorry for coming unannounced in the middle of the night, but I fear this couldn’t wait for a more decent hour,” Jerry’s tone was calm and collected, a blatant contrast to your own disheveled self.

“Tell me,” you urged him. The sinking feeling in your stomach warning you that the news he bore were far from good. A nauseating wave of hot and cold reverberated through your entire body, your insides twisting and churning in painful anticipation.

“Let’s talk inside, shall we?” Jerry offered with a quick nod in the direction of your apartment.

“I need to know, Jerry,” you insisted as the two of you had taken your seats on the couch at his request.

A heartbeat passed before your husband’s highly esteemed colleague began divulging the events that had taken place during the operation. It appeared that there had been a leak, and the entire campaign had been compromised from the very beginning. The team of Navy SEALS had been deployed as planned, their movements tracked and monitored by intelligence officers, the entire operation led and overseen by Thranduil as chief elite special operations leader. Everything had seemed to go as planned when their systems had suddenly crashed and shut down entirely, leaving them in the dark about the movements of their men on the ground.

“Well? Go on,” you pushed for Jerry to continue after he had taken a brief pause.

“I’m sorry, I-,” he cut himself off and lowered his head, his shoulders slumping, clearly unable to go on.

“For fuck’s sake, tell me!��� you choked out through gritted teeth, fighting back the tears that threatened to come. You felt you couldn’t breathe but you had to know. After everything that they had put you through, they owed you this much.

Jerry lifted his head, his face drawn and utterly defeated. His look was that of pity, like he knew what he was about to do to you. Nonetheless, you stood your ground in defiance, even as your heart had already begun to crack and splinter.

The supposed glitch in their systems had turned out to be a cleverly crafted ruse, a temporary disabling of the sensory motion detectors orchestrated by the terrorists so their drones could slip in undetected. When their back-up systems had picked up the slack, it had already been too late. Several explosions had riddled the base of their headquarters as the drones had launched their assault. A perfectly plotted mission to eliminate the brilliant and tireless minds behind the curtains. All turned to ash.

No bodies had been recovered from the scene.

An ear-piercing cry filled your apartment, threatening to shatter your windows – just as your own heart had shattered into a million pieces. You screamed and wailed until your throat burned raw, your chest painfully heaving with each useless breath you took. Unaware of the steady arms that had wrapped around you, holding your convulsing frame, you continued to unleash your blazing agony.  There was no end in sight, no promise of a respite, however temporary, only grief – dark and thick, and unyielding. An endless sorrow took over your body and promised to never let go. There was nothing left for you, only pain forever etched in your soul at his sudden departure.

You knew with uncanny certainty that you had died that night. In his passing, he had taken you along with him.

Three weeks earlier

Jerry was pacing up and down the narrow corridor, his thoughts racing quicker than he could pay attention to. His once sharp and focused mind had become nothing more than a blur. He silently cursed himself for agreeing to do this, his regret already eating away at his conscience.

He couldn’t do it.

Jerry stopped his pacing and closed his eyes. He slowed down his throbbing mind by focusing on his breathing, a practice he employed whenever his wits threatened to abandon him. If he was to have this particular conversation, he would need his devices to remain cool and collected, even if his counterpart appeared to had lost his.

He wouldn’t do it.

With a nod of quiet determination, he turned on his heel and headed in the direction of his colleague’s room.

“What is it that you do not comprehend?” he hissed in anger.

“I don’t understand why you’re willing to put her through this when it’s so uncalled for,” Jerry argued back albeit his voice lower and gentler than that of his friend.

“Uncalled for?! Look at me! Who am I to condemn her to loving a monster?” Thranduil spat in burning fury.

“She loves you, you know she does. She’ll love you regardless of how you look,” Jerry tried to make him see reason, but Thranduil only shook his head in dismissal.

“No.”

“Coward,” Jerry stated simply, crossing his arms over his chest. His own defiance preventing him from backing down.

“Fuck you, Jerry.”

“You’re a coward. Because why else would you ask me to tell your wonderfully loving wife, who probably at this very moment wishes for nothing more than your safe return, that you have died? You say it’s for her, but I think it’s your own vanity and fear that drive you to do this. That’s not love or mercy.”

Thranduil regarded him in silence, his right eye not blinking. The sight of him was horrific – the left side of his face was covered in bandages, his previously golden-white hair now burnt off entirely, leaving a patchy scalp riddled with burn-blisters. What was left of his skin was red and swollen. His chest was submerged underneath countless burn dressings, his left arm wrapped in medical gauze – from his fingertips to his shoulder. He couldn’t see Thranduil’s legs, but he imagined his left leg was in no better shape than the rest of him.

Jerry schooled his features, the last thing his colleague needed was to see pity in his eyes.

Thranduil turned his head away from his friend, his gaze drifting to the lone window of his hospital room.

“It’s because I love her, that I have to do this,” he began quietly. “I’ve no doubt that she would love me despite my injuries. She would want to nurse me back to health, without a complaint or single regret. She’d do anything for me.”

“It’s because I love her, that I don’t wish this kind of life for her. A life stuck with me, caring for me while I’m slowly consumed by my rage. I’ve become a disfigured cripple who may never walk again or regain the use of his arm. Half of my face has been melted off straight to the bone,” he bit out through gritted teeth, his voice breaking.

“If I haven’t become a monster yet, it’s where I’m headed. I am angry at the entire world and that anger will only grow with time. I can’t subject her to share her life with an ungrateful, bitter beast. Not when she deserves to live.”

Jerry heard Thranduil’s breath hitch ever so softly, the sound of it piercing his heart like a bullet. It was gut-wrenching to witness his close friend be reduced to this – a heap of charred flesh with a broken spirit.

“She won’t survive it,” he said quietly.

Thranduil turned his head, a sad smile playing on the corner of his mouth, a glimmer of genuine pride gleaming in his good eye.

“She’ll think so too, that there is no surviving this. But she’s strong,” his smile widened knowingly. “Fierce. Even if she may not know it yet.”

“What if you one day, say a year from now, regret your decision? What if you find yourself wanting to find her?” Jerry asked.

“I doubt that will ever happen. But if it did…,” Thranduil trailed off and paused.

“I’d pray that she could find it in her to forgive me and would gladly spend the rest of my life trying to earn that forgiveness.”

𓋼𓍊 General Tag → @heilith @kanafinwe-makalaure @eunoiaastralwings @snowtargaryen @aduialel

@a-contemplation-upon-flowers @fizzyxcustard @dawn-petrichor-world @lathalea @fckmini

𓋼𓍊 Thranduil Tag → @coopsgirl @missymoo02 @imsorare @ioitsmeri1

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[lamemaster]

Feanor's Wife

Request: @lamemaster Hiiiii I literally love you so much 🤌🏻can we please get a Nerdanel fic? Pleaseeeeee

Genre: Fluff

Pairing: Nerdanel x gn Reader

AN: I sort of need this every few months

Summary: "You cannot love Fëanor's wife," she hisses. "She does not want that. She needs a friend. Not a lover. And if you cannot give her that, then leave. Leave."

"You have lost your mind," Indis exclaims, throwing her fan at you. "You truly have!" She frantically downs her wine in one swift motion, her composure fraying.

You look out the open window, your gaze falling on the shimmering city of Tirion below. The beauty of it offers no solace, only amplifying the storm inside you.

Getting up with a sharp rustle of fabric, Indis strides across the room to close the window with an audible snap. She turns to you, gripping your face in her hands, her voice low and urgent.

"You cannot love Fëanor's wife," she hisses. "She does not want that. She needs a friend. Not a lover. And if you cannot give her that, then leave. Leave."

Her words pierce you deeply. Yes, a friend. That is what you are meant to be. A comforting presence, a steady shoulder. That is what Nerdanel needs.

"I know," you whisper, your voice cracking as you bite into the torn skin of a cuticle, further tearing the skin. An unconscious act of anxious fidgeting.

Indis sighs heavily, the weight of your grief reflected in her troubled eyes. Without another word, she wraps her arms around you. "I'm sorry," Your elder sister sighs her heart troubled by your grief.

But that wasn’t what you had planned. Not what you imagined at all.

Your thoughts spiral as your lips are suddenly captured by hers. Nerdanel’s kiss. Desperate, fiery, and unstoppable. It shatters everything.

It is a mess. Broken shards of glass at her feet. Tear-streaked cheeks. Panicked breaths, trembling and raw in her chest. No, this wasn’t how you imagined it.

By the Valar, Indis was going to kill you.

But your sanity, the prudent voices in your mind, all fall silent against the overwhelming reality: Nerdanel is kissing you. Illúvatar above she is kissing you.

She pushes you against the kitchen cabinet, her hands tangled in your hair, tugging with a familiarity you never thought she’d dare share with you. She kissed like she did everything else with passion, fervor, and the ease of mastery you had yet to learn.

Your breath hitches as your eye catches the glass shards next to her feet. With effort, you switch places, reversing your positions and carefully keeping her away from the danger. One arm wraps around her back, sparing her the hard edge of the counter, while your other hand lifts to cup her tear-damp cheek.

Her eyes blink open, and for a moment, she looks at you. Truly sees you.

You brace yourself for the realization to dawn on her. For the grief to surge back, for her to remember that you are not him.

You are not Fëanor.

Despite the silvery-gray eyes you share with him, your hair is golden, your presence so unlike his. She would see it, surely she would.

But you are robbed of the moment. Nerdanel leans into you, burying her face into your shoulder. Her body falls limp in your arms, not out of collapse, but surrender.

Perturbed, you lift a hand to check her pulse, only for her to swat it away with the faintest annoyance. “I’m not dead,” she mutters, her voice hoarse but steady.

It had all happened so quickly.

One moment, you had been perched on the counter, calmly deshelling peas as Nerdanel wiped the kitchen surfaces in her quiet, methodical way. The next, she was on the floor, a glass carafe shattered around her, the fragments sparkling like stars against the cold stone.

And then, it had come unleashed.

Sorrow, dense and suffocating, like storm clouds heavy with thunder.

You crouched beside her instinctively, your hands gentle as you pulled her into your arms. She didn’t resist. She clung to you, her grief spilling out in broken sobs that shook her frame.

What memory had the carafe unearthed? What thread of her past had snapped to pull her under? You could not know, and you would not ask. Some things were too fragile to touch.

So you held her.

You held her the way you had held others in the past, Indis in her quiet mourning, Anairë in her despair, Arafinwë in his rare moments of doubt. Even Amras once, though that had been a strange, fleeting encounter.

Your hands moved instinctively, running through her auburn hair, soothing her as best you could. You were already planning how to move her to her bed, imagining the quiet reassurance you would offer as she drifted into another restless sleep.

But then, with a sudden, fluid motion, Nerdanel’s lips found yours.

It was not tentative. It was not careful. It was full of urgency, of need, of raw, unfiltered emotion.

And you? You complied. Without hesitation, without resistance, you kissed her back.

Your arms tightened around her, your response wordless but clear: yes.

So much for being a friend.

You were meant to be her steady rock, her comforting presence, her platonic solace. But Nerdanel had torn through those boundaries, and you could not deny her. Never.

Somewhere in the back of your mind, Indis’ voice echoes like a warning: You cannot love Fëanor’s wife.

But here, in Nerdanel’s arms, her lips on yours, those words feel a world away. And for the first time, you wonder if you even care.

Because this is Nerdanel, who is not just Feanor's wife.

You hold her as you always do, murmuring soft reassurances, your hands threading through her hair with careful precision. You are steady. Solid. Everything she is not.

And it is too much.

You’re not him.

Even now, in the haze of her emotions, she knows it. She doesn’t need the physical reminders. The golden hair instead of black, the softer touch where his hands were calloused. She knows you’re not Fëanor because she has grieved him, and continues to do so. 

Nerdanel hadn’t planned on this.

It was supposed to be simple cooking, cleaning, filling the silence of her life with manageable distractions. She was supposed to find comfort in your presence, not complicate it.

But when she looked up from the shattered carafe and saw the way you knelt beside her, she felt something shift.

For years, she had carried her grief like a second skin, folding it neatly into the corners of her life where no one could touch it. With you, it all came undone.

She doesn’t know what prompted her to kiss you. Perhaps it was the way your hands soothed her hair without hesitation, or the warmth of your arms when she felt herself drowning. Or maybe it was the unbearable thought of losing someone else, someone who looked at her as though she still mattered.

But now, her mind churns with guilt. She doesn’t know how to take it back, how to undo the kiss without shattering everything.

Her hands tremble as she pulls away completely, stepping back from the kitchen counter. Her breath is uneven, her voice barely a whisper. “I—”

You reach for her, your touch light but grounding. “Nerdanel,” you say, softly but firmly, and her name on your lips feels like both a comfort and a wound.

For a moment, she considers apologizing. She considers stepping back into the role she was meant to play the grieving widow, the dutiful friend. But the thought of pretending again makes her chest ache.

“I can’t,” she says finally, her voice breaking. “I can’t keep doing this.” She gestures vaguely to the kitchen, the shattered glass, herself. “I don’t know how to carry it anymore.”

You don’t respond right away, but your expression is steady, patient. It’s the quiet reassurance she has always taken for granted.

When you step forward, gently cupping her face with your hand, she lets herself lean into the touch.

“You don’t have to carry it alone,” you say simply.

[lamemaster]

Aww another tale of Glorfindel Falls 2.0 (but not to death)

When Kissing Them Goes Wrong | House of Elrond + Glorfindel

「 ✦ Elrond ✦ 」

It had been a quiet moment in his study when you decided to steal a kiss. Sitting by the large window, Elrond welcomed you into his lap with a soft smile. As your lips met, the warmth of the moment enveloped you both—until the door creaked open. Without warning, Glorfindel strolled in, immediately freezing in place.

“Elrond, I—oh. I see,” Glorfindel said, his eyes wide with realisation.

You scrambled to move, but in your haste, your foot slipped off Elrond’s knee and you ended up headbutting him right in the nose. Without a second to lose, Elrond winced, one hand flying to his face while Glorfindel stood awkwardly, halfway out the door but unable to look away.

“I’ll…come back later,” Glorfindel muttered before disappearing as swiftly as he arrived.

Elrond’s face was a mix of pain and amusement. “That could’ve gone better,” he said, chuckling softly through a slightly pained grimace.

“Sorry,” you groaned while hiding your face.

「 ✦ Erestor ✦ 」

You leaned in for a kiss while Erestor was in the middle of cataloguing some ancient texts. He had been so focused that when you pressed your lips to his, he was caught off guard and jerked back—right into a stack of precariously balanced scrolls.

With a loud thud, half the table’s contents tumbled down, followed by a crash as Erestor lost his footing and nearly brought you both to the floor. The two of you stared in silence, tangled awkwardly in each other’s arms, surrounded by the scattered chaos of centuries-old manuscripts.

“Romantic,” he muttered dryly, eyeing the mess with mild exasperation. You bit back a laugh, but when you met his gaze, the ridiculousness of the situation hit you both, and you broke into uncontrollable giggles.

「 ✦ Elrohir ✦ 」

Elrohir had just leaned in, his eyes soft and intent as he closed the distance between you two. You mirrored his movement, but at the last second, you both miscalculated—your teeth clacked together painfully. You pulled back instantly, hands flying to your mouth, while Elrohir winced, rubbing his jaw.

“Ow,” you both said in unison, looking at each other with wide-eyed surprise.

Elrohir let out a breathless laugh, pressing his forehead against yours. “We might need to work on our coordination,” he said, smiling despite the pain. You couldn’t help but laugh too, the sting of the moment fading in the face of his lightheartedness.

「 ✦ Elladan ✦ 」

Elladan had pulled you into a spontaneous kiss by the riverbank, and just as it was getting sweet, he stumbled over an unseen rock. The next thing you know, he was falling backwards, taking you with him. You landed with a splash in the shallow water, the cold sending a shock through both of you, more you as it prompted gasps and whines.

Elladan, now soaking wet, sat up and wiped the water out of his face, sputtering. “Well, that was smooth,” he groaned, glaring at the offending rock. You couldn’t help but burst into laughter as he offered you a dripping hand to help you up.

“Next time, maybe a little less enthusiasm?” you teased, grinning through the water streaming down your face.

「 ✦ Glorfindel ✦ 」

You had found a quiet corner in the garden, a perfect spot for a stolen kiss with Glorfindel. The soft petals of the flowers surrounded you, creating an intimate atmosphere. As you leaned in, he wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you closer. Just as your lips touched, an ever-so-helpful breeze picked up, sending petals swirling around you like confetti.

Caught up in the moment a little too much, Glorfindel tried to maintain his balance, but the sudden gust led to the petals clinging to his skin, sending him into a spiral of ticklish sensation, prompting him to stumble. His foot caught on a root, and he lost his footing, tumbling backwards into a nearby rosebush with a yelp. You couldn’t help but gasp and then burst into laughter as he emerged, his hair a wild mess, covered in petals and thorns.

“Charming, isn’t it?” he said, trying to salvage his dignity while carefully disentangling himself from the prickly branches.

“You look like a flower bouquet gone wrong,” you teased, giggling as he shot you a playful glare, half-annoyed but clearly amused.

“Next time, we kiss away from the plants,” he grumbled, smirking despite his predicament. His laughter joined yours.

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[lamemaster]

A Secret Garden

Request: me (hehe)

Pairings: Thranduil x Illyrian reader

Genre: fluff and feels

Summary: The forests of Greenwood were brimming with fae, imps, valkyries, Illyrians, and whatever those horses with horns on their heads were called.

AN: I think Greenwood exists out there somewhere hidden from canon. That's where Maglor lives, probably. Thranduil deserves a baddie. I don't make the rules.

Next up- Zombie Maedhros Fall trope event list

Contrary to the usual, casual belief, Legolas’ mother is very much alive and thriving within the halls of Greenwood the Great.

And yes, it is Greenwood the Great. Mirkwood was merely a convenient front. A grim veil to dissuade would-be intruders.

That includes the so-called "statue of the Queen," which, for the record, looks nothing like you. Truly, Thranduil outdid himself in selecting the most unlike-you statue and crafting the wildest tale of gems and tragic loss.

Your husband, the King of Greenwood, was a mastermind. A ruler so adept that his kingdom flourished for millennia without enchanted rings or the guidance of the Valar. His conniving brooding ensured that his people prospered in secret, while the world saw only a shadowed, forbidding forest.

As for where the real Greenwood the Great lingered during those turbulent times? That remains a mystery. Its shifting location shall not be revealed here.

This tale, however, concerns you, the Queen of Greenwood the Great. Mirkwood, for all its legends, lacks a queen. It possesses only the image of a bitter, widowed king clinging to a fading world and a son growing restless with time.

Thranduil was a vessel of theatrics and drama.

You, on the other hand, were content in your hidden kingdom. Three thousand years of seclusion had yet to yield a Turin or a Maeglin to wreck your haven, and for that, you counted yourself fortunate.

As for what you are? Most guesses would not quite be accurate. Not quite an elf, in the not-quite-elven kingdom of your husband.

The forests of Greenwood were brimming with fae, imps, valkyries, Illyrians, and whatever those horses with horns on their heads were called.

You were one of them. Or, more accurately, an amalgamation of many. Yet the great, leathery wings at your back made it clear that your Illyrian ancestry dominated while the rest of your gene remained suppressed only to peek upon close inspection.

And how, you ask, did a lowly bastard with wings become the Queen of Greenwood the Great?

That tale begins long ago.

Thranduil had been lost for days, his once-pristine robes torn and muddied, his sword arm aching from constant readiness. 

The air of the forest felt different here, heavier, charged with an unfamiliar magic that made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. He had strayed far from the borders of his father’s palace, lured into unknown territory by the magnificent silver fawn.

They were like nothing he had ever seen beasts in the shape of men, with great bat-like wings that cast shadows over the forest floor. Runes glowed faintly across their arms, swirling and shifting like living things, their meaning lost to him. 

They didn’t kill him outright. Instead, they toyed with him, driving him deeper into the woods, their eerie laughter echoing around him like the rustle of dead leaves. Every so often, one would swoop low, slashing at him with claws or the sharp edges of their wings, drawing blood but never a fatal blow.

Thranduil’s breath came in ragged gasps as he stumbled through the dense undergrowth, his usually keen senses dulled by exhaustion.

That was when he found you or, rather, when he collided into you.

One moment, he was running, heart hammering in his chest, the laughter of his pursuers closing in. The next, he crashed into something-someone, so abruptly that the force sent him sprawling to the ground.

Disoriented, he scrambled to his feet, sword raised, his golden hair falling in disheveled strands around his face.

You stood there, unmoving, watching him with a curious tilt of your head. Your wings extended slightly behind you, the moonlight falling gently onto them. 

Not unlike his hunters, Runes spiraled faintly along your arms. With broad shoulders and visible strength of muscle lining your body, you were what he assumed to be an Illyrian. 

The Illyrians were brutish fighters. An army with no leader. Children of the night. No one in Greenwood had seen them. Most were reluctant to seek the bunch that were rumored to make a stew out of anything and everything. 

“What are you doing in Illyrian woods, elf?” Your voice was calm, almost bemused, though your eyes betrayed a hint of irritation.

Before Thranduil could respond, the sound of wings beating the air filled the clearing. His hunters emerged from the shadows, circling above. They slowed at the sight of you, their jeers fading into uncertain murmurs.

One of them dropped to the ground, his cruel grin faltering as he addressed you. “Captain,” he sneered, though his tone carried a note of wariness. “We didn’t realize you were… entertaining guests.”

Your wings flared slightly, and the runes on your arms pulsed in response. “He is no guest,” you replied coolly, stepping forward. “But nor is he your prey.”

The hunter hesitated, his confidence waning under your sharp gaze. “We were only—”

“Leave,” you commanded, your voice carrying a weight that stilled the air. 

The hunter glanced between you and Thranduil, clearly torn between defiance and self-preservation. With a final sneer, he launched himself into the air, the rest of the group following in his wake. Their shadows vanished into the trees, leaving behind an uneasy silence.

Thranduil stared at you, his sword still raised, his mind racing to make sense of what had just happened. “Who are you?” he demanded, though his voice cracked at the most unfortunate pause. 

You turned to him, your expression unreadable. “I might ask you the same question, elf.” 

Thranduil hesitated before he answered “I am Thranduil, prince of Greenwood.”

Your lips curved into the faintest smile. “A long way from home, aren’t you?”

Before he could reply, you turned and began walking deeper into the forest, your wings folding neatly against your back. Thranduil stood rooted to the spot for a moment, torn between suspicion and exhaustion. Then with a quiet sigh, he followed you, hoping to escape the fate of becoming a hearty meal.

Legolas, as many assumed, was not your only child. He was, in fact, your youngest, the cherished baby of your family, born long after the triplets. 

He took after Thranduil in nearly every way, so much so that his presence alone was acceptable in the halls of Mirkwood. The only one to be elven enough for Middle Earth. 

Your other children, however, were a different story.

The triplets, older and undeniably yours, had delicate, protruding wings like yours—proof that their father’s genetics had long since lost the battle. 

The children however did not fail to possess their father’s dramatic flair and liking for chaos. 

Now seated with your bickering triplets and sullen eldest you await your husband and son to return to your world. Away from the chaos of the world that was nothing but an illusion. 

With a prayer sent to the spirits, you try your best to spare the dinner from the hands of your wild family. 

[lamemaster]

Escaped Thrall: I know you from somewhere

Maedhros: I get that a lot

Escaped Thrall: No I'm sure

Maedhros: Just one of those faces

Escaped Thrall: (holding right arm up) Go like this

[lamemaster]

I'm not supposed to like kin slayers 😭

Despite their tumultuous beginning, Elrond and Elros both knew that Maglor and Maedhros were not ones to be easily made angry. Annoyed? Sure. Irritated? Of course. But truly angry? It was a rare sight, even the twins knew.

But what Maglor knew was that ever since he had returned, Maedhros had been more ill tempered than was usual. His gentle, charming smile and kind, twinkling eyes were no longer what met the younger Feanorian when he gazed upon his elder brother’s face. What greeted him instead was a stoic,neutral expression, firm and austere in nature, with stern, cold eyes. Maglor trembled beneath them more than once, and shuddered at even the thought of them, only because of what he once knew. But despite his thinning patience and fraying psyche, Maedhros had never snapped at the twins beyond a mere chide or quick terror inducing glare when they were getting out of hand.

He had not once truly lost his temper with them.

Until that one night.

Maglor and the twins had been playing by the fire, and the twins had been getting rather rowdy as Maedhros made an attempt to ignore them and focus on his work. Anything to keep him from losing it. But then one of the twins accidentally knocked something fragile to the floor, and it shattered. Maglor made a quick move to clear the pieces so that the twins would not injure themselves, pinching their cheeks with a smile and a kindhearted “it’s alright, don’t fret yourselves over it. Neither of you are hurt and that is what is important. Do try to be careful next time.” And they were. But their voices grew louder. Elrond accidentally stepped on Elros’ foot, who in typical sibling fashion, pushed him with an angry comment. The moment they heard a loud bang from behind, and a booming voice, all of their blood ran cold as even Maglor turned in surprise.

“That is enough! From all of you!” Maedhros scolded, still working hand clutching a dagger in his fist that had been plunged into the table. Maglor gasped, before glaring back at his brother.

“That is mahogany!” He exclaimed.

“Would you rather it be you?! Or one of those.. those.. those vermin that you brought here?!” Maglor’s very heart trembled at his brother’s words, and the venom with which they were said, but he stood his ground and moved to shield the twins from his brother’s rage.

“Maedhros, you don’t mean that.” The darkness that shrouded Maedhros’ gaze said otherwise. Silently, the twins shuffled off and out of the room.

***

Terror. Unbridled terror. Maglor was asleep, of course he was asleep. Why wouldn’t he be asleep when he needed to be awake.

Maedhros shoved the thoughts into the back of his mind. He would deal with them later. He could feel his heart ramming against his ribcage in his ears as he frantically searched the keep for Elrond and Elros, turning over pillows and blankets, throwing open doors, checking in cabinets and below furniture. His heart dropped when he failed to find them. It was happening again. He frantically threw his cloak over his shoulders and grabbed his lantern. Against his better judgement, he grabbed his sword. The twins would be terrified of him if he found them, but if they were in danger he needed to be prepared. Without a glance back, he stepped out into the frigid night.

Frantically, in a panic and urgency he had not felt in millennia, he made his way through the thick of the winter, pushing branches, brambles and thickets out of his path as he called their names into the dark. He glanced in every direction, frantically, but there was no sign of the twins. Defeat cloaked around him like a blanket of stone, and he sank to the floor of the forest, his head in his hands as his breath seemed to be stolen in panic, the tears freezing instantly on his reddened cheeks. He had failed, again. He could hear the voices taunting him.

Somewhere, through the night, he heard a rustle. Looking up in a final attempt for hope, he stood to his feet and grabbed the lantern, following the sound with swift steps, tripping over a tree root in his haste.

The moment his eyes caught fearful eyes behind dark locks, powdered with snow, he felt his heart would stop beating. Slipping on the frozen earth, coated with a thin layer of ice, he threw down the lantern and his sword as he collapsed in front of the twins. They froze, and glanced back at him unblinkingly, as he stared with eyes overflowing with tears, hand gently resting against their cheeks. Before any of them had time to think, he was firmly pulling them to his chest in a tight hug, before throwing his cloak over them.

By the time they returned to the keep, Maglor greeted them at the door in a panic, scooping the twins into his arms like a mother hen as Maedhros refused to meet his gaze, standing afar off to the distance, wiping his cheek on his sleeve. Without a word, he pushed past Maglor and disappeared into the hall.

***

It was late, Elrond and Elros were getting tired, and they were still shivering from the cold. Silently, they sat at a table, yawning from time to time as Maedhros silently stood over a pot, stirring it and observing it with unbreakable focus. Without a word, he grabbed two bowls, scooping a hefty serving of soup into both before setting them in front of the twins.

“Eat. It will help to warm you.” He said, coolly. There was no anger in his voice, only heavy guilt and remorse that he hid rather poorly. The twins glanced at him, before watching as he walked off to another room for a moment. With a shrug, they ate. They knew it was an apology, and a way to make things right, as simple as it was. Elrond smiled faintly.

It was a hearty soup.

[lamemaster]

What a night to come back to this 🫡 this post lives in my mind rent free 🫶

Just something about how Elrond is described as "kind as summer." You can't go wrong with that. Elrond is amazing.

But the history of Elrond is so fucking tragic — if anything, Elrond should be turned evil, like Fëanáro or Maedhros.

But he didn't.

He lost his parents, his brother, his foster parents, his wife, his daughter, etc... and yet he's an amazing person.

Elrond being one of the bad guys would have been understandable. But he chose to be a good person who helped maintain the stability of Middle-Earth.

Despite all his pain, grief, losses, etc — Elrond chose to stay patient and prevent more people from experiencing the same losses he did.

This just shows one of the many different outcomes of pain that Tolkien presents; rather than going mad, like Fëanáro, or becoming an anti-hero, like Maedhros, or even disappearing, like Maglor, Elrond chose to stay sane and be a hero for Middle-Earth.

[lamemaster]

Yandere the Silmarillion Elves

Request: Hello! May I request yandere headcanons for Maeglin and Maglor (separately), perhaps with a human reader? Also, I really love your blog you write incredible stories :))

Pairings: Maeglin x human reader & Maglor x human reader

Genre: Dark themes. Maeglin's is gorey >"<

AN: Thank you for requesting this! I enjoy writing dark themes and this definitely was my cup of tea. I hope you like it.

Next up- Finrod x Valyrian! Reader Fall trope event list

Maeglin- (yandere reader)

A mangled mess of limbs was how you found him, withering beneath the ruins of the fallen city.

Somehow, against all odds, he lived. An amalgamation of mass bound to a body. Condemned to survive in a body tortured by death’s refusal to grant him peace.

He had endured this state for nearly a year, trapped between life and death, as if the world itself were determined to deny him release.

And then, there was you. As a wandering bandit, the sight of Gondolin’s ruins had seemed a fortune, a treasure mine promising riches to last a lifetime.

Yet amid the remnants of shattered stone and splintered wooden furniture, there he lay—the last survivor of the city’s fall. The one who instigated it all.

The incestuous bastard who, miraculously, had survived it. Every elven bards’ latest villain, the one sung of in recent ballads with curses on their lips.

You lifted the broken elf, cradling his twisted form—if his position could even be called that. His eyes, devoid of lids, remained fixed on you, unblinking, raw from months of crying out for help that never came. Gods, even now, he was beautiful.

Thus began your labor. Five days passed as you set bones that had grown crooked with time, wrapped him in scraps of cloth salvaged from the ruins, and nursed him with poppy milk poured into his helpless lips. With his face streaked by dried tears, he grew drowsy, finally slipping into fevered dreams.

As he lay shivering in your arms, lost in visions of a life that had abandoned him, you brushed your hand over his unmarred skin, tracing the contours of his trembling eyelids.

You murmured softly, your voice a mix of promise and threat “I would never let anyone hurt you. They’d have to get through me first... and believe me, they wouldn’t make it.” As if your reassurance could pull him back from his dreams of the past life without you.

Here, in the grave of his past, he was yours. No one would come for the one even death had forsaken. He was yours alone, bound by fate’s cruelty and your own claim upon him.

Cupping his damp cheek, you grinned, a glint of madness in your eyes. “My darling incestuous bastard,” you whispered, a low cackle slipping from your lips.

Maglor- (yandere character)

Maglor would follow you into death. Not even Eru Himself could hope to take you from him. No one would ever take what was his, not again.

The wedding was swift. In fact, the secondborn Fëanorian had insisted upon it within weeks of meeting you, brushing aside your hesitations with fervent kisses.

Your concerns about the doom of mortality were hushed in whispers and promises; if death was a gift granted to Men, then Maglor would seize it back from its giver. His breaths would ebb and flow with yours. Nothing could alter that.

It was all he could do now. Time had sharpened his resolve, even blunted the burns of the Silmaril, leaving behind only faint scars.

He had glamoured away his past, letting his skin heal so he could become the perfect lover for you, forsaking his true name for a new one.

Peldis, he called himself. A mountain elf from distant valleys. By sheer luck, you hadn’t noticed the faint scent of brine lingering about him, nor the care he took in combing his tangled hair until it shone.

You hadn’t glimpsed the quiet ferocity with which he shed his former self to stand before you, a stranger made whole in the reflection of your wants.

It had been one fateful night, when the ache of the Silmaril consumed him, that he’d first seen you.

Or rather, he’d caught sight of you wading in moonlit waters, bare as the light itself, utterly unguarded. He hadn’t looked away. The years had been long, and the Fëanorian had been starved.

The vision of silvery moonlight tracing your body had entranced him, struck him with a longing sharper than any oath. 

You were it, he thought. The Silmaril reborn. Perhaps even better than any of his father’s works. You were more than a cursed jewel.

Like a viper shedding its skin, Maglor transformed himself into Peldis. A convenient presence in your village, a simple trader of carved wooden combs.

It had not taken him long to notice the way your own hair flowed down your back like silk, and he knew, watching you, that you would come to him.

From offering a delicate comb for your hair to placing the ring upon your finger, Maglor had orchestrated each moment, each touch.

The songs of your fairytale romance made it easy to draw you into his arms, into the warmth of your bed, far from prying eyes and whispers.

And there, as he held you close, his touch guiding you deeper into his embrace, he tugged your soul into a quiet submission, bending your will and your mind to his desire.

Maglor knew what was best for you. And in this life, that place was here, wrapped in his arms, your heart tethered to his.

Even in the harmony of the Timeless Halls, yours would be the song he would compose. His muse. His beloved. You were his, now and forever.

[lamemaster]

Your evermoore series is incredible! If you choose to continue it I wonder what happens next, if our main lady is smart she will threaten Maedhros by hiding the ring somewhere to trade for her man! A Fëanorian has to keep his word afterall.

Legit horror take on him!

Aww thanks 😘 I would say Maedhros is one clever. Hiding the ring from him is quite impossible. Given that any harm to the body could be quite harmful for poor Zaid.

Maedhros' centuries' worth of pining for the ring seems to overwhelm the reader's love for her man.

I'm glad you enjoyed it!

[lamemaster]

I love the idea of Maedhros and Fingon being best friends. Their unlikely friendship develops from courtly traditions or their grandfather's mandatory family feasts. They are cousins who broke through familial conflicts to form a bond.

They are what Fingolfin and Feanor could've been. Would Fingolfin not have traversed the halls of Morgoth to rescue his brother if given a fraction of affection?

In some way, Fingon and Maedhros are voices of Feanor and Fingolfin's brotherly love that never came to be.

It is beautiful because Maedhros gives up his crown to Fingon—a conflict that once drove Feanor to put a sword at Fingolfin's throat.

Cousins who had inside jokes about family. Code words for their fathers' difficult days. Board games, silly pranks, some irrelevant bickering, secret traditions.

Firstborn sons whose deaths mirror so much of their fathers’.

On perfectly sunny days of crisp fall, I imagine them in Valinor, surrounded by a healing family, where there is no bleakness of eternal damnation. Fragile yet finally allowing for forgiveness.

Profound love need not be romantic for it to be true. Can platonic love not drive people to unbelievable feats?

I am in love with Tolkien's portrayal of platonic love. Aragorn's farewell forehead kiss on Boromir's forehead, Finrod and Turgon's travels, Celebrimbor and Narvi's friendship, Gandalf's grief of Frodo's pain, Melian mentoring new to Middle Earth Galadriel.

(Not a Russingon shipper but no hate for those who are 💁🏻)

[lamemaster]

Going through an awful day need something to think about 😖

[lamemaster]

The one who didn't go together

Of the sons of Fëanor, the one who is most certain to have married is Curufin. Celebrimbor is proof. And they did not go together. Like Nerdanel. The one Curufin who most resembled Fëanor chose made a similar choice to Nerdanel. That's interesting. And this one is crazy enough to marry Curufin, and Curufin and Celebrimbor are stubborn. And while Nerdanel is described as being wise and self-controlled, this one…the lack of description is a perfect alibi for the imagination. This one could be completely wild. I often imagine that this one not only did not go, but that she went to great lengths to keep his son and husband from going with his crazy father-in-law. Celebrimbor was probably still a minor at the time, since he did not swear an oath. And Curufin would never leave his only son behind. Fëanor would never want his only grandson taken away. And this one would never want his husband and son taken away. The summary of what happens when you can really use the word absolute to mean absolute: a terrible fight between a married couple. There is not enough time to open the door to divorce and custody disputes in Eldar for the first time. The husband talked that she will follow him immediately or she will never see him again. She knows that her husband is confident in his ability to speak well. The only thing that makes her not inferior to her husband is her stubbornness. So she tells him to convince him one last time, and then she takes out a glass. Then she pours the sleeping pill she prepared in advance. You said there is no time? The damned father-in-law has to hurry, so if his son and his grandson don't show up on time, he will have to leave them behind. He won't be able to find them openly. He can't show his most loyal son that he is skeptical of the cause before it even starts! (Or she can just hit her husband's head with a frying pan.) Curufin is horrified to see his son snoring next to him, tied up tightly. He doesn't get surprised because he already guessed that he was tied up too. But the crazy father-in-law is also crazy… In fact, everyone knows Curufin and his wife's temper, so when Curufin is out of sight, the rest of the Feanorians attack. Everyone knew she would do something like that… In the end, her husband and son leave, leaving her wailing. Fëanor goes on a rampage, but in the end, everyone's morale and Celebrimbor and Curufin stop him, so he gives up on punishing her. The other Fëanorians also keep quiet, and everyone just knows that she did not go with them. From this, we can guess that her occupation is an apothecary. If she were not an apothecary, someone would have noticed while procuring sleeping potions…

[lamemaster]

I love you takes 💖 making the Silmarillion 100x more tragic 👹

Depending on which version you follow, you may have one or two Ambarussa at the time of your second or third Kinslaying. Either way, he was the youngest, and while youngest siblings are usually protected, they also tend to act cute for their older siblings in a family dynamic. Ambarussa may have been the cutesy one for the sad and depressed brothers after 3C died. He may have cheered them up, leaving his own grief, or theirs, behind. If there was only one Ambarussa, he, who had been like a ghost after losing half of himself, might have suddenly become perky and overly cheerful. Whether there were one or two, it's said that Ambarussa was the most violent in the third. Being the darling of the family…must have been very frustrating at times. It can be very difficult to hear brothers say that they smile and endure because of you…

[lamemaster]

When Maedhros was recovering, his brothers were not as helpful as everyone thought. Maedhros was happy to see his brothers, but he was quick to hide his pain and symptoms in front of them. However, when Maedhros was in a very bad condition, even Fingon wasn't be comfort much, Curufin was a great help. Maedhros would whine in front of Curufin without realizing it.

Dad, I'm sick…

****

Whenever his brother sobbed from fear and pain and no one could comfort him, Curufin spoke softly in a way no one could imagine.

are you okay. my son It's all over now. You stay here with dad.