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arrivisting · 4 years ago

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For fanfic Friday: I'm curious what generally 'sparks' your story ideas? Do you begin with a narrative direction in mind, or with smaller-scale imagery and concepts that then grow into the eventual plot?

It really depends on the story! Some burst into being with a full-blown plot, or are clearly small and self-contained to begin with, but usually I just have a very clear starting question or image or scenario, and then I’m on the hook for what happens next. Sometimes I have some idea; a few notes, or a feeling; often none at all; sometimes I just have [initiating scenario] -> [they bang???? Somehow????]

A lot of my ideas are sparked by rereading the canon; for Les Mis, sometimes I’d be struck by a line about other characters, or one of Hugo’s maxims, and apply it to e/R. Reading, mostly: I read a lot of French history, and it would give me ideas. There was a book that mentioned in a line or two that male revolutionaries would sometimes dress as women and pass as the wife of a friend who wasn’t being followed by police, since a passeport for a man automatically covered his wife; there was a whole e/R fic I started for that! study in scarlet was inspired by material about m/m activity in 1830s France and the use of the Palais-Royal as a cruising spot that we know about from the records kept by police, who watched and reported, but didn’t arrest (homosexuality not being illegal in France then). better than the thing I am is scaffolded out of that research reading about m/m activity and republican discourse.

A lot of my Les Mis ideas came from me saying to @gofuckinggentle ’I’ll write you something in email, what should I write?’ and then her providing ideas and motivation (fleuret, have & hold) and going ‘and then what?’ as I sent a 300 update every day or so. MakingHugoSpin back in the day sometimes offered a fruitful (pornographic) prompt or two (cf. mieux que la realité, flowers that bloomed in eden, holding onto stars). I just had so. many. e/R feelings: it felt like my brain was a machine for generating new ways to put them together.

For Tolkien, it’s a blend: it’s usually canon lacunae, or the fact that while we often know what happened, or that something happened, the personal and immediate ramifications are underexplored. I want to poke them and blow them up.

People always compared Arwen to her famously beautiful, heroic, strange, transcendent ancestor? How did she feel about that, and how much or little did it influence her choices, and how true was it? (a marvellous thread). Who is Elwing (woman into bird) and how much of is known about her by the Third Age is only myth? why are there such differences in Finduilas and her relationships between the different versions of the Narn? (the fugitive heart).

There are so many potential hooks in canon, or contradicting canons: and then, given the fraught relationships many of the Silmarillion characters had in life, what happens when they are, inevitably (or perhaps not inevitably, in the case of the Fëanorians) returned to life in Valinor? How much gets resolved before they are re-embodied; how much remains to work out? (all my war is done). My driving interest in the Silmarillion, in the First Age or after, is: how do people that were never meant to die or deal with death and inevitable loss find a way to do so?

Some of my canon-based thinking is silly, though. Oh, at different times Tolkien said Gil-galad was Finrod’s son, was Fingon’s son, was a grandson of Fëanor? How could they all be true at once? et voilà: scion, which I will be honest, had a working title of 3dads1baby. Sometimes I’ll literally say to someone, god, please, tell me what to write, and they’ll say, ‘idk, Maedhros finds Elured and Elurin after all?’ (birds in the hand) and then I have an image and a first scene in my head and I’m off. No idea how it will end!

I‘m too lazy to work to come up with ideas: usually they just spark, in similar ways to above; something I’m reading snags in my brain and then a cloud of images and lines and half-finished conversations roll out, enough to get started.

Like, for radiant damage I was idly thinking about the terrible paradox of the Peredhel, the mixing of what oughtn't be mixed, mortal and immortal, the way they somehow drive so much change in Middle-earth; and about how Melian must have had to consciously create her own fána, one with ova that were compatible with Eldar genetic material to create Luthien, and about the many different strange ways in canon that Maia get lost or diverted or take paths of their own once away from Aman; and I was also reading a book about textiles that talked about how weaving and knitting are algorithmic; but mostly

Edit: oh, and void junk: first thing I wrote in months, and its whole spark was a friend of mine mentioning she had a horror story published in a collection called Void Junk. The very second I read that, I went, haha, I see, space junk but metaphysical... what kind of junk is in Tolkien’s Void... Maedhros, possibly. Okay, but what ship might he literally clunk into? Vingilot! But Elwing should be there, I know Tolkien says she never went with Earendil but I hate that! [sudden blast of images and exchanges, almost all the fic in very sketchy form, already in my head in a minute after reading that title: fleshed out in an hour or two and posted].

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onthesandsofdreams · 4 years ago

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Tag, I’m It

I was tagged by my awesome sister @pennywaltzy, so, here it is:

Name: Elizabeth, go by Liz. I’m glowingmechanicalheart in both AO3 & FF.net (but seldom post on ff.net anymore).

Fandoms: ASoIaF (and its extended world, but not Game of Thrones, I never watched it), Tolkien (Mainly Lord of the Rings, The Silmarillion, The Hobbit and The Children of Hurin - books first), Star Wars & Rogue One, Saint Seiya & The Lost Canvas, Wonder Woman, Harry Potter & the first Fantastic Beasts, Netflix’s Castlevania, Iron Man, The Witcher, Good Omens, Doctor Who (mainly Amy Pond), BBC Sherlock, Miss Fisher’s Murrder Mysteries & Pushing Daisies.

Where do you post: I post to AO3 first, then post it here.

Most popular one-shot: Third of His Name (472 Kudos & 9108 hits)

Most popular multi-chapter: Sunday Six - Westerosi Tales (250 kudos & 14887 hits)

Personal Favorite: Fate be Changed (Rickard Stark/Rhaella Targaryen), Morning After (We Are Alive) [Cassian/Jyn] & A Friend to Love (Pisces Albafica/Virgo Asmita).

Work I am nervous about posting: Currently working on the first of the Heirs of Elu series, where Maedhros does find Elured & Elurin and takes them to some avari clan he knows to keep them safe.

Method for titling fics: As we say here in México: Ave María, dame puntería (roughly translates to ‘Holy Mary, give me good aim). I don’t have one a method, I could use a quote, a lyric, something related to the fic, whatever happens first.

Outlining or wing it: I only outline when planning a series that’s longer than 3 fics.

Excited about any upcoming works: Yes, I have some fics that are going to come out on Saturday for my big sister’s @mousedetective birthday and I’m so excite it for her to see them.

AO3 stats:

*User subscriptions: 55

*Kudos: 11,621

*Comment threads: 1,165

*Bookmarks: 1,408

*Subscriptions: 659

*Word Count: 514,964

*Hits: 222,094

Tagging: @keeper0fthestars, @thefeatherofhope and whomever else wishes to do this.

#tag games

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sweetteaanddragons · 6 years ago

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Oh god don't take risk assessments from Fingon, Gil-galad. I'm so glad the family claims him, and I'm curious to hear the author's theory on where this one is from. My dumb theory: since the Elves' Maia heritage is down to Elrond, his sons, and maybe Elured and Elurin, it would be nice if he turned out to be related to the missing twins. My actual theory: no one in particular, the world is built by the ones who show up to work.

It’s not a dumb theory! It’s not, however, what I went with. For that, see below.

Quick note: Maglor’s wife in this is the same as his wife in my alternate character interpretation snippet for her. This will probably make more sense if you read that first.

Maedhros is barely a shadow when he first gets there, but Fingon stubbornly sticks around.

When Maedhros is well enough to listen and, in his opinion, in need of some distraction, he finally asks.

“I’m trying to figure out Gil-Galad’s parentage. I don’t suppose you know?”

Maehros looks startled, which is at least better than horrifically depressed. “He’s not yours?”

Fingon’s heard that from others. A lot of others. He doesn’t know why everyone keeps assuming that.

“Not mine.”

He’ll have to try Maedhros’s brothers later. For now, he’s right where he needs to be.

“Fingon,” Curufin says from his place on the floor. He hasn’t bothered to open his eyes. Fingon never did learn the trick to that. “What do you want?”

Nice to see his time in Mandos hasn’t changed him. “To talk.”

“About?”

Fingon gives up and gets straight to the point. “Offspring.”

Curufin cracks one eye open and rolls over to face him. His face is shadowed through the bars. “I didn’t think you had any.”

“Yours,” he clarifies.

That catches Curufin’s attention completely. He rolls to his feet, face tense. “Has something happened to Celebrimbor? The tapestries here are useless.”

Whoever’s in charge of these things apparently decided Curufin would benefit from graphic scenes of Finrod’s imprisonment. Fingon’s been trying not to look at them.

“He’s fine,” he assures him. “Or at least he was fine the last time someone died, there hasn’t been nearly as much of that going around since the war ended. I wanted to ask about the potential for . . . other offspring.”

Curufin looks around the lonely confines his cell with grim amusement. The bars are set deep into the stone. If there’s hinges or a lock, they aren’t visible. “At the moment, I would say the potential was low.”

“Already produced offspring,” Fingon further clarifies.

Curufin frowns. “Why . . . ?” His face goes pale. “Has Nirivel . . . Is there a child she’s saying is mine?”

Judging by his face, if that was the case there’s no chance the child actually would be.

“No, no,” Fingon assures him. “Nothing like that. I’m just trying to figure out who Gil-Galad belongs to.”

Curufin rolls his eyes. It almost distracts from his slowly returning color. “And you couldn’t just say that? In case you’ve forgotten, Fingon, my wife stayed on these shores. Gil-Galad was born in Beleriand.”

That’s not actually technically a denial, so Fingon pushes on cautiously. “Under the circumstance, remarriage - “

Curufin stalks forward until he’s gripping the bars in a white knuckled rage. “I am no oathbreaker,” he hisses.

“The Valar know we all wish you were,” Fingon mutters without thinking.

Curufin steps away from the bars. The rage has disappeared into a blank pleasantness that makes Fingon far more uneasy. “Forgive me. I should not have been so surprised by the question. I shouldn’t have forgotten that you were of the line of Indis and have strange ideas of family fidelity.”

“Of the two of us, which of us actually - “ Fingon cuts himself off. “No. We’re not having this fight again. Or the other fight. Or any fights! I know what I need to know.” He hesitates before he heads back into the maze of winding tunnels. “Maedhros sends his love.”

Curufin actually looks relieved for a moment before the mask descends again. Fingon’s surprised he saw anything; solitary must have decayed Curufin’s skills at hiding considerably.

The relief brings to mind what had escaped him before. “You do know about - ?”

“How he died?” Curufin interrupts. He smiles bitterly. “You’re not my very first visitor. Nienna brings news sometimes.” His look turns puzzled. “How are you here? Namo sentenced me to solitary confinement.”

“I petitioned to visit Maedhros,” Fingon explains. “Repeatedly.”

Curufin makes a show of looking around. “Unless I’m very much mistaken, he’s not here.”

“Yes, well, by the time he gave in, he was far too frustrated to be careful with his word choice, and what he actually said was ‘Visit the kinslayer if you want to!’ Which as I view it, really gives me leave to visit just about everyone here.”

For the first time in centuries, he hears Curufin laugh.

He stumbles across Uncle Feanor next.

He’s . . . not entirely sure what he’s seeing at first when he does.

“Are you unravelling Vaire’s tapestry?” he chokes out.

Uncle Feanor leaps to his feet. “Findekano! What an unexpected pleasure. I’d been hoping for a chance to thank you for what you did for Maitimo.”

Fingon can’t tear his eyes away from the loose threads that once made up an entire wall of tapestry. Some of them have been laid out in complex patterns. “It’s Fingon now,” he manages. “And you’re definitely unravelling the tapestry. Why are you unravelling the tapestry? There’s a stone wall behind it, it’s not like it’ll get you out! Is it the scene?”

The scene is . . . Maedhros yielding the crown to Fingon’s father which strikes him as a little petty, but at least it explains why Uncle Feanor’s unravelling it.

Or not, because what Uncle Feanor actually says is, “Oh, no. I needed materials, and this was the best option.”

“Materials? What can you possible do with all that?”

Feanor eyes the mass of thread thoughtfully. “Well, it’s woven through with the essence of time and space, so I’m hoping for a form of transport through either.”

This terrifying image needs only a moment to sear through his brain. “Please don’t invent time travel, Uncle Feanor.” It comes out a little strangled.

“Why not? There’s a good deal that could be improved from what Nienna tells me. Anyway, that can’t be why you’ve come. Do you have news? Have you seen my sons?”

Fingon tears his eyes away from the threads. “Two of them. Curufin and Maedhros. Curufin’s well enough. Maedhros is . . . better.” That’s really the best he can say of that, so he hurries on. “I’ve been trying to discover Gil-Galad’s parentage. Unless he’s Galadriel’s, we’re pretty sure he had to come from your branch.”

“Another grandson!” Feanor sounds both surprised and delighted, which at least answers the question that Fingon had been trying not to think about having to ask - Namely, if Feanor had been responsible. The timeline had made it unlikely at best, but he’s trying to be thorough.

“I’d probably best delay testing this until you know more,” Feanor muses. “I’d hate to accidentally wipe a grandson out of existence.”

“Yes. Absolutely. Just - Hold off.” Please, please hold off on potentially destroying the very fabric of Arda. “I’ll let you know what I find out.”

Just maybe not until he’s figured out how to make sure Feanor’s focused on the geographical aspect of travel.

He has no idea how long it takes him to find Celegorm, but if anyone asks later, he’s going to tell them weeks. That’s certainly what it feels like. The tunnels here are far less open that most of Mandos’s Halls, and he’s starting to feel claustrophobic.

He can only imagine what it must be like in the cells.

Celegorm manages to get the first word in because Fingon is too busy gaping at the image on his walls. It’s Huan as he dies, in vivid enough detail that it makes Fingon want to cry out, and he barely knew the hound.

“I don’t know where Maedhros is,” Celegorm says. He’s sitting by Huan’s head. It’s possible that he was petting the cloth just before Fingon showed up; Fingon certainly isn’t going to judge him if he was.

“That’s alright,” Fingon tells him. “I do. He sends his love. I also saw your father, who was very eager for news of all of you.” Fingon leaves out the rest of what Feanor is currently very interested in. He’s not sure he can get through it without his terror showing through, and that could very well start a fight. “If I see any more of your brothers, is there a message I should carry along?”

“Tell them that with practice and application, it is actually possible to climb these walls.”

Fingon blinks. “And this will be . . . useful in an escape attempt?”

“It’ll be useful in not going out of our collective minds,” Celegorm snarls. “There’s no room to move in here.”

Fingon eyes the tiny space and remembers his own growing claustrophobia. “I see your point.” There’s really no way to gracefully segue into this next bit, so he just dives right in. “Remember Gil-Galad?”

Celegorm frowns. “Of course I do. Why? Is he dead?”

“No, thankfully.” Fingon watches him carefully for a reaction to this news, but Celegorm just shrugs.

“Good for him. What about him then?”

“Is he yours?”

Celegorm stares at him for a very long time. “You do remember the whole Luthien incident, don’t you?”

“I think everyone does.”

“Thank you,” he says through gritted teeth. “You might remember that part of that incident involved me trying to get married. So unless you’re suggesting that I succeeded, had him with Luthien, and then somehow invented time travel and sent him back - “

Fingon flinches at the words ‘time travel.’ Thankfully, Celegorm’s in full on ranting mode and doesn’t seem to notice.

His ears are still ringing when he finds his next cousin. “Amras!”

The twin looks up in desperate hope, but the light in his eyes fades quickly. “Amrod,” he corrects.

“Right. Sorry.” He should have just gone with Ambarussa.

At first glance, the walls in Amrod’s cell look fine. It’s just him and Amras eating a meal together, right after a hunting trip judging by the gear on their horses.

Then he realizes that Amrod’s backed himself up against the image of himself so that it looks like he’s sitting beside Amras, and he has to fight back a wince.

“If I find him, I’ll come back and let you know,” he promises. The corridors he hasn’t taken are still mysteries, but he’s keeping good track of the ones he has. The last thing he wants is to get lost here. He’ll be able to find his way back easily enough.

A bit of the life returns to Amrod’s face. “Would you? I just - It’s not that we were never apart. It’s just never been for this long before.” He looks down for a moment. “Have you seen any of the others? Are they alright?”

“About as well as can be expected,” Fingon says which Amrod, fairly, doesn’t seem to find all that reassuring. “Listen, I don’t suppose you ever - “

The answer, it turns out, is no.

“Amras!” he says with considerable confidence.

“Amrod,” the Feanorian corrects.

Fingon’s jaw dropped in horror. “I’ve circled back around? No, I can’t have, I - Wait a minute. Your wall hangings are a bit different. One of you’s lying,” he concludes triumphantly.

Amras - Amrod - whichever one he is has risen in the interim and crossed to the bars. “You’ve seen him? You’ve seen Amrod?”

“I knew you were Amras,” he mutters petulantly. “Yes, I’ve seen him. He misses you desperately and gave me about a hundred messages to give you. I’ll try to remember them in a minute, but first I’ve got a message of my own.”

“Of course,” Amras says and sets his jaw. “Doriath or the Havens?”

Fingon’s actually doing his best not to think about either of those messes. He’s not king anymore, it’s not his responsibility. “Neither. Gil-Galad.”

“What’d we ever do to him?” Amras protests.

“Created him, possibly. That’s what I’m trying to find out.”

“Creat- Like with gears? Because that’s really more along Curufin’s line.”

“Like with a woman,” he says in exasperation.

“Oh. No. I thought that would be a bad idea, what with the Doom and all.”

Fingon can’t exactly argue with that. “Maybe Celebrimbor managed to slip away from his father long enough to meet a girl.”

“Anything’s possible. Have you asked Caranthir yet?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?” Fingon wheedles. They’re not quite to the end of the line yet - there’s still Maglor and maybe Celebrimbor - but they’re getting close. He’d had a good feeling about Caranthir.

“We tried,” Caranthir says. His voice has an edge of anger, but what’s far stronger is the longing, mixed with grief. “Right up until she died.”

. . . That doesn’t actually rule it out. And if he’s any judge of his cousin, Caranthir would very much like to be a father.

Firien goes on his list of people to track down.

“Maybe he’s Maglor’s,” Caranthir suggests.

“Maglor’s not dead, though, so I can’t ask him.”

Caranthir looks at him like he’s being exceptionally stupid. “Have you tried asking his wife?”

Fingon feels exceptionally stupid.

“Did Aranel actually fight at Alqualonde, or was she just there?”

“She fought.”

“Right. Then she’s got to be around here somewhere.”

By the time he actually manages to track either of the wives down, Celebrimbor’s died. Despite what Curufin seems to think, Fingon retains enough tact to wait until he’s somewhat recovered to ask him if he’s responsible for Gil-Galad.

He’s not, but he is able to relay a series of increasingly improbable and hilarious theories that are apparently floating around the court.

Then in quick succession, he finds Aranel and Firien and Aredhel finds him.

Aranel’s locked in with the kinslayers and is the first person who’s been less than pleased to see Fingon.

“Come to lecture me on corrupting my husband?”

Fingon has to take nearly a minute to process this. Finally, the best he can come up with is “What?”

She looks up at him. Her face is set in hard lines of preemptive anger. “That’s what Atar said when Namo let him see me. He said my marring must have corrupted the prince. Maybe even his whole family.”

Maglor used to verbally eviscerate people for saying much, much less. Fingon wants no part of that minefield. He raises his hands in surrender. “I’m not here to blame you for your husband.”

Judging by the way her eyes shutter, that probably still wasn’t the right path to take. Some marriages shattered in the long war; apparently their’s did not.

“I just came to ask about any . . . children.”

“Children?” she repeats blankly. “You mean the Peredhel?”

He’s surprised she knows about that until he takes a closer look at the tapestry. He’d thought it was just Sirion burning, but no. It shows Maglor claiming the twins as well. Apparently someone’s given her context.

“I don’t know why everyone keeps thinking that’s the part I should be most upset about,” she says heatedly. “He defied his Oath when he let them go when it was safe. I’m proud of him, not concerned because he was raising children while I was gone!”

“Not those children,” he corrects, because he’s not about to get in the middle of that whole mess. “I meant any children you might have had with him. Together.”

“Why?” she asks with a slow edge of suspicion.

Fingon explains Gil-Galad.

“What happens if you don’t like the answer you get?”

Fingon honestly hasn’t considered this up to now. “What do you mean?”

“What if he is mine? Is he marred in your eyes? What if he’s not, and he’s not Firien’s either? Is he not worthy of the crown? Why does this matter so much to you?”

“Honestly?” Fingon takes a deep breath. “I’m curious. I don’t have any better reasons. I’m just dead and bored and curious.”

She doesn’t believe him. Fingon can’t quite blame her. She’s been judged her whole life for the circumstances thrust upon her at her birth, and that only worsened after true marring was revealed in Melkor; it’s little wonder she fears the same for Gil-Galad if it turns out he’s not quite as perfect as everyone thought.

“In that case, you can consider it settled. He’s mine. Mine and Maglor’s.”

Fingon . . . isn’t sure if he believes her. “Why send him to Nargothrond? Why keep him a secret?”

“He was stolen,” she says promptly. “We thought he was dead and had no words to share our grief. I have no idea what happened in his early life. I had no idea where he even was until you explained Gil-Galad’s circumstances. That’s not what I named him.” She reels this off matter of factly with no obvious sign of grief.

Fingon is particularly suspicious of the stolen child part of this story given what she’s been staring at for these past few centuries. “What did you name him?” he challenges her.

“Fingon,” she says instantly. “Because Maglor was so grateful for what you’d done for his brother.”

Fingon is . . . almost certain she’s lying. Almost.

On the other hand, it’s the best explanation anyone’s been able to hand him yet.

He’s still mulling it over in his mind when he emerges back into the Halls proper. Firien immediately comes flying into him. Only her tiny height keeps him from toppling. “You found him!”

“Found who - Oh, Caranthir, yes.”

“You found him too? Can you show me where? And what do you know about my baby?”

He’d forgotten how very little like Caranthir Firien is. Also -

“Your baby?”

According to Firien, she hadn’t realized their efforts had finally succeeded when she volunteered to go with the trading caravan. By the time she realized, it seemed safest just to continue on. All had been well until the return, when they’d been attacked only minutes after she had given birth. She had died shortly after hiding the baby as best she could.

Her telling is somewhat more convincing than Aranel’s. Then again, she also used to be a performer, so . . .

Fingon hates his life. Death. Whatever.

Naturally, that’s when Aredhel shows up and announces that Gil-Galad is actually hers.

Her grandson, that is.

According to her, Turgon had pressured Maeglin to marry someone to turn his mind away from Idril. He’d given in and married a girl who’d gotten tired of always coming in second place and run off, apparently while pregnant.

Fingon has no idea if any of that’s true and has no way to check it because Aredhel’s the only one who actually knows where to find Maeglin, he doesn’t have a name for the girl, and Turgon’s already gotten early release for good behavior.

Namo’s been hinting strongly about good behavior lately. Fingon, increasingly convinced that he’s the only reason that his Feanorian cousins are still sane and that his uncle hasn’t gone ahead with his plans to possibly erase them all from existence, cheerfully ignores him.

That’s the short list that at long last he’s able to present Gil-Galad with. If Gil-Galad is in fact part of Finwe’s family tree - and judging by his power and a certain resemblance, Fingon is inclined to think he is - than those are his most likely options.

“Firien’s story is remarkably similar to a theory Elrond came up with,” Gil-Galad says wistfully. “He has an uncanny knack for being right about things, you know.” He sighs.

“Cheer up,” Fingon tells him. “Like I said, we can always pester Namo into telling us eventually. Or you might feel something when you meet them! And really it’s only two options since we know Aranel has to be lying since she claimed to actually name you . . . Although Maglor probably wouldn’t mind claiming you, given his track record, so we could always just pretend you were and go with it.”

“No,” Gil-Galad says firmly. “I want to know the truth.”

“Let’s start with the ones we won’t have to sneak you in for then, and then I can introduce you to the rest of the family.”

Fingon’s money’s on Caranthir.

. . . Which means Feanor will now feel free to resume his experiments.

Oh, well. He hasn’t gotten this far by being cautious. How badly could it possibly go wrong?

Fingon shuts that thought down quickly and drags Gil-Galad through the Halls to Firien, who takes one look at Gil-Galad and throws herself at him, wrapping him in the tightest hug she can manage, even though her head barely comes up to his chin.

She’s crying. Gil-Galad, who’s holding her like she something fragile, looks like he might start.

Fingon feels a bit like crying too.

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jane-ways · 7 years ago

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Scion of Kings, Chapter 4

Well, this is it! The last chapter (for now...I don't think I'll be able to put away this Gil for good). I know this is a quick turnaround, but I knew what I wanted to write and the plot bunny wouldn't leave me alone (and I wanted to finish the story before going on vacation). Special thanks to @ecthvlion for betareading.

Lastly, my very talented friend Ian was kind enough to take a commission of my Gil! I think he looks very handsome - check it out and give it a reblog here!

Thank you all for joining me on this journey! This was my first ever fic, and it's been so wonderful to read all your comments and get your support. You guys make this worth doing :)

Read it on the Silmarillion Writers’ Guild and AO3.

Maedhros sat at his old desk, made for him when he reached the age of ascension and became, according to the laws and customs of the Eldar, an adult. He had always been tall, and even then, when he still had a few inches left to grow, the desk had been a little short for him. But like all things of one’s youth, it had become part of the fabric of life, the slight stoop it forced him into as natural a part of writing as breathing.

But how does one pick up the threads of an old life, its pattern no longer familiar to the fingertips? In Himring, Maedhros had commissioned a new desk, more suited to his height and station in life. It was the desk of a king, a warrior, fit for sealing and stamping and making the fate of the world, not of a boy-prince composing treatises on rhetoric in the warmth of his mother’s house. He no longer knew the stoop he had forced his shoulders into, sitting at his old desk in a life he no longer recognized.

No muscle memory to weave this new world, then.

Maedhros sighed. He rolled his shoulders in discomfort, and organized all he would need: several sheaves of paper, an inkwell, a quill, a nib sharpener. Laying them all out in a neat grid before him, he considered his options. He had to tell the lad, of course—he laughed at himself, then, breaking his own train of thought. “‘Lad’ indeed,” he said to himself. “He’s High King and here I am calling him a lad.”

The last time Maedhros had seen him, of course, he really had still been a lad, small and cold and frightened. But even then, there had a been a strength in the boy’s eyes, a steady burning—not of hatred, or even judgment, but of the will to live. (Secretly in his heart of hearts Maedhros had envied that fire even then.)

He had held the boy close, wrapped him in his cloak and rubbed feeling back into his limbs. An unexpected surge of affection had coursed through him, then, the memory of many brothers and cousins who as children long ages ago had cried in his arms. Briefly, he had considered taking the child with him. But how could he have damned a child to such a life as that? How could he have been so selfish as to risk more violence—a last retribution against the heir of Dior from his fallen brothers’ followers?

So Maedhros had let him go—called him Starlight after the fire in his eyes and sent him to the last place in Beleriand the boy might be safe. He had thought of Gil-galad often, especially after the twins had come into his life, wondered what sort of man he was growing into, what sort of education he was receiving. If he was happy.

It all fell into place, then. Maedhros had never been one for over-deliberation; once the path cleared before him, he followed it with as little to-do as possible. The words already laying themselves out in his mind’s eye, he set pen to paper.

To Gil-Galad, from Maedhros.

Greetings, my lord. I thank you kindly for your letter, and am glad to learn of Elrond’s success in court, and in friendship. You seem like a good sort of person, and he speaks very fondly of you. In another life, I think, had had things been different, I would have been very fond of you as well.

It does me great honor to know that you hold me in such regard. I am not sure what I have done to deserve it—

‘No,’ Maedhros firmly reminded himself. No self-pity, no guilt. These were, as his mother often reminded him, unhelpful emotions. And he knew this; he remembered the cocoon of loathing he had once tangled himself in. In a fit of exasperation, Fingon had once yelled at him, “It’s not good enough to just stand there and say, ‘I’m sorry, I’m terrible;’ you have to do something about it! You have to stop being terrible and actually start making amends!” He had been right, Maedhros supposed, although it was a feat easier said than done. But what was this strange second life if not a chance to rid oneself of the easy familiarity we all have with the more unpleasant parts of ourselves?

“Here’s to mending,” Maedhros murmured, lifting his quill in a mock salute.

—but it is welcome nonetheless. There is no delicate way to put this, and so I shall say it right out: being your father would bring me no end of pride, but the honor is not mine.

You doubtless wish to know the story, and although I have debated with myself over the potential harm telling you may do, you seem a man of steady constitution, and I believe it is your right to know. I will try to relate the matter as factually as I can, but I beg of you to forgive whatever bias remains.

You were born Eluréd. Dior was your father and Nimloth was your mother and Doriath was your home. You had a twin brother, Elurín, and a sister, Elwing. You know what became of her. And so Elrond your dear friend is also your nephew and your heir, a fact which I hope may bring you some measure of peace. Of you and your brother I shall now relate.

When my brothers and I sent word asking for—well, I suppose demanding is really the correct word—the return of the Silmaril and heard nothing in return, I hoped that Dior would at least expect an attack and evacuate Menegroth. This was not to be, and when Dior slew my brother Celegorm, a few of his followers, blinded by hate and rage, retaliated in the cruelest way they knew how. They took you and your brother—Elwing they could not find—and left you in the woods. Your intended fate you can imagine.

When I heard what they had done, I slew them and went searching for you. It was the dead of winter, and the woods were treacherous with snow and ice and things that are not spoken of in the Blessed Realm. When I found you, you were huddled in the hollow of a dead tree, barely alive and crying for your brother. He lay at the bottom of a nearby ravine with his neck at an angle. He was surely dead, and you would have soon joined him had I not found you then. I warmed you, garbed you in my own cloak, and sent you to the one place I hoped would remain safe. I told no one but the messenger I sent you with, a woman long in my service and whom I had trusted with my own life more than once. She died at Sirion, and thus with me our secret passed beyond knowledge into the West.

Maedhros paused there, releasing a deep breath he felt he’d been holding for thousands of years. So now he had explained that facts. But how could he ever explain? How could he justify the panic that had gripped him, covered in his little brothers’ blood, as Gil-galad’s tiny, half-frozen body curled in tight against his own? In that moment he had been pierced by the distinct feeling, as cold and clear as the winter sun above, that seeing this child to safety was the only important thing in the whole of Arda. What other justification was there, besides—“I did what any father would have done”?

Forgive me for what I did. You have, it seems, forgiven me for Sirion, but if you cannot find it in your heart to forgive me for Doriath, at least forgive me for concealing your identity. I feared for your life if my brothers’ followers learned that you lived. I feared they would try to complete what their compatriots had started, either before you reached Círdan or when you reached manhood. I feared, I suppose, that if they knew, if you were found out, you would be running all your life. I sometimes wondered if I made the right decision.

But when Gondolin fell, and the mantle of High King passed to you, I knew there was no going back. I could not risk open rebellion while your reign was still young and fragile. Then—

Then the Oath had awoken again, and Sirion was burning before Maedhros knew what he was doing. In Elrond and Elros, despite his initial reticence to keep them, he had recognized the chance to start over, to do things right this time. To repair a little of the damage he had done. But all too soon came war like even Maedhros had never known before, and the Oath clawed at him, shredding him apart until it was there was nothing left of himself and the Oath was all that remained. Of the end he remembered little but a pain so strong it numbed and a gaping maw in the earth to match what he felt in his heart.

—it was too late. But I do not think there is any harm done by a small reinterpretation of the truth that heals instead of harms. Perhaps it was fate, a little tweak in the fabric of history, or perhaps Námo really does have a sense of humor. You were born to be king, after all. And as it so happened, we Noldor had need of one. It seems you have done a good job of it. Were I your sire, I could not be prouder.

Here Maedhros stopped again, making to sign the letter. But it still felt incomplete. He turned Fingon’s old words over in his mind anew—it’s not enough to say you’re sorry. You have to make amends. Maedhros thought of the little boy he had once cradled in his arms. It had been the first time he’d held a child in centuries. What choice would he make now, if he had to do it all over again, knowing what he knew?

I have been told that guilt without action is a selfish emotion. That it turns our thoughts inwards, rather than out towards the world we must seek to repair. I think, when I found you, for a brief moment I was able to transcend that guilt. I saw clearly that the duty of your protection fell to me, and me alone. I felt then what I felt for my own foster-sons when I sent them to stay with Círdan—I wanted to spare you the doom we had wrought for ourselves. Perhaps it is a strange sentiment, but not, it seems, unwelcome by you. I was good with children, you know, what with so many little brothers and cousins to look after. I think I was not so bad with my own sons. You are grown now, but I think perhaps there is still a chance to do right by you, as I did by them.

Besides, there are not so many kings of the Noldor from whom you could have inherited that silver hair.

I wish you every happiness to be found in Middle-Earth—would that I could have known your new world, and shared those joys with you. If you will have me, it would be my honor to be called

Your father,

Maedhros

#scion of kings #my fic #silm fic #silm #silmarillion #the silmarillion #tolkien fic #tolkien #maedhros #gil-galad

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