#Feanor having an encounter with a Fairy

[mythopoeticreality]

The Road Goes Ever On- Chapter 6

Ayyy! Two Chapters within a week! I’m on a roll!^^ Nah, but I really enjoyed writing this one (Fairies are always fun to write) and I hope ya’ll like it just as much as I do! :)

Ao3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22900423/chapters/56544772

Chapter 6

He recognized those horns. The same sound that called him from his dreams. Huan’s ears, too, pricked at the sound, and Tyelcormo pulled himself straighter, eyes snapping in it’s direction.

That bone-stirring rumble of an uncountable herd stampeding towards you. The whoops and taunting laughter carried on the air. The haunting moan of the horn, and the baying of the hounds, oddly seeming to grow more echoing and distant as they grew the nearer. But it wasn’t the strangeness of any of it that got to Tyelco. No, of course not. Rather, it was that he knew these sensations, that they were as familiar to him as the the feeling of his own stride or the sound of Huan’s panting breaths.The air nearly pulsing with a heartbeat of its own, feeling sharp as it came into the lungs, and he could nearly feel the powerful muscle of the horses beneath him as they crashed through the trees, coming nearer. To ride and feel those horses break into a run, it was like an awakening. It was to come alive again. That was what a Hunt was, chaos, noise, life, driving onward. Always onward.

And he could feel that pulse now, even from the ground, even separate from them. It called, yet at the same time it repelled. It prickled at the skin, electric. Made the hair at the back of his neck stand on end -- an echo of the ecstasy he felt riding amongst Oromë’s folk. He could feel his muscles pulling bow-sting taught, ready to leap off in a run. Out of his own control it was instinct, the very air whispering to him, Run, now, Run! You are prey now, even as it also called, Come join us! Ride with us! Let us take you away to be a part of our company…

Tyelcormo licked at his lips. Gave his head a sharp shake. No. No. What was this? He had to focus now. He was out here for a reason. Tyelpë. They had to find Tyelpë.

But the night air was stirring, cool and sweet in his lungs and tasting of something he both knew and didn’t. It was as though every star in the heavens had turned it’s eyes upon him and every tree in the surrounding forest was calling for him in the hissing clatter of their leaves.

It was the flash of his father’s knife in Telperion’s light that brought him back. That had Tyelco reaching for his own . It felt safer somehow, more grounding. Like the only solid thing in the world at that moment.

“That will not serve you here. Put it away.” The stranger’s voice. As calm, as firm, as cool as ever. It was the same bloody trick that Curvo used so often, one that had always escaped him.

Atar only scoffed at this, and Tyelco only found himself grasping all the tighter to his own blade. “What? So that I may fall to the same foe that has stolen my grandson without a fight? That I might --”

“Atar, I do not like this.” Curvo. Atar cut himself off to listen. “Something is coming this way, it feels almost planned. What if we were brought out here to meet whoever comes?

At this Atar’s eyes narrowed, gaze sharpening to a needle point. “Is that what you want? Is that why you brought us here? To hand us over to these beings...Servants of Melkor or--”

The stranger sighed, the tone of his voice making clear that he’d said well enough before, “I do not know who this ‘Melkor’ of yours is.”

And here it was Tyelcormo’s turn to scoff. Unwise, perhaps to antagonize their only lead on his nephew’s whereabouts, but it was either to focus on the obvious lies coming dripping from the man’s lips or to that chorus of carried on the wind, intent of drawing him into the deep shadows of the trees.

He needed...he needed to focus. Atar and the Stranger were still talking. Well, they were not talking at the moment, but the stubborn looks traveling between them communicated well enough Atar starred the man down, but his gaze was met in equal measure.

“You do not wish to cause offense. Put your knife away.” The stranger, this Raven King murmured.

A Moment passed, then a moment more. The thunder of Horse’s hooves grew the nearer and the blazing white flash of the hound’s bodies could be seen through the trees. Beautiful creatures, Tyelco could not help but think.

Finally, grudgingly, Atar shoved his knife back into its scabbard again, barking something back to Tyelco and Curvo.

“Atar, why...” Curvo was arguing. Tyelco wasn’t paying attention.

His mind was spinning, edging towards that familiar wild high that he felt every time his horse plunged into a gallop, every time the chase was on. The world itself felt almost unreal somehow, like a sheet of rain that could be blown aside with a strong enough gust of wind. And his nails clawing into his palm, the solidness of the knife handle he held was all that kept him clutching to reality…

Come join us! Come ride with us!

“No!” It came out a strangled shout, and Suddenly Tyelco was aware of a pair of dark eyes boring into his own.

The Stranger’s head just canted to the side, eyes narrowing in thought. Tyelco’s feet remained rooted to the spot, and even as this Raven King approached, the hunter’s own gaze kept flickering back over the stranger’s shoulder, off towards the trees and the ever nearing company.

The stranger’s gaze darted down to Tyelco’ hands. He murmured something to himself, Tyelcormo couldn’t quite catch it. “Clever instincts…” He would have guessed the words were, if forced to it.

The man’s hands came up, were wrapping around Tyelcormo’s own fingers. Tyelco flinched back. Huan snarled. But the stranger remained, prying open the elf’s hand with a surprising gentleness as he slipped the blade up and into Tyelcormo’ grasp.

He spoke...words Tyelcormo couldn’t quite wrap his mind about, cold and ringing as the hammer in the forge, and a shooting pain --as though the steel of the blade had buried itself into the flesh of his hand -- pierced through Tyelco. The world flashed white for an instant, and it felt as though he could barely move for the agony of it.

When his vision cleared, he was staring into the Raven King’s eyes once more.“Remember your purpose here.” Was all the man said, before stepping away again, and turning back to face the Hunt now gathered all before them.

They were a troop of wild figures, some clad in clinging garments of tattered furs and leathers, and iridescent feathers, others in tunics and robes woven from...from things Tyelcormo couldn’t recognize --or rather he could but to say it aloud would be utter madness! Autumn Evenings and Forest Mists…

At their head rode their leader, his hair a wild mass of curls who’s color brought to mind nothing so much as autumn leaves and leaping sparks. Wide-shouldered and tall, with eyes that danced with reflected torchlight, he seemed to Tyelco’s eyes so sharply cut out from the shadows that surrounded him. His mind couldn’t help but travel to the golden-warm light of the campfires of those nights he spent camping out with Oromë’s hunt, of the laughter and joy of his own companions as they sat ‘round, figures emerging from the obscurity of those surrounding shadows into the flickering light. The echoes of that laughter played at the edge of his hearing now, while in his chest rose that restless joy, and more then that. That fleeting sense he got when sitting beneath the wide field of stars above, or when riding along the roots of the Pelori, and seeing the mountains tower above him. And all of that wrapped in the man who stood before them, who’s eyes were raking over both he and Huan.

Celegorm found himself standing straighter, feeling that gaze on him. And in snaked that thought, whispering at the back of his mind, Yes, I could follow him…

A jolt. A piercing, spasming agony stabbing through his hand, flashing white again before his eyes. His ears rang, as though he were entering Atar’s forge.

“...With friends this time as well I see!” The Huntsman’s voice, reaching him as his vision cleared. Speaking to the Raven King. “And were you not just warning us of the dangers of such things?”

Tyelcormo blinked, both breath and body shaking. His eyes dropped down to his hand, still grasping that knife blade...but still whole….

He shook himself, trying to push off the half-formed thoughts still drifting through his mind. Tyelpë. He was out here to find Tyelpë.

There was a low, questioning whine from Huan. “Are you alright? What did he do to --”

“No, No, I am...fine. Fine.” Tyecomo felt off to even be saying it somehow. But..he was. His mind in fact felt far clearer than it had before…

And now, thinking on it, there was something about the question the Hunstaman asked that Tylcormo did not like, not with the way the Huntsman was looking at them, sizing them up like harts for the kill.

~*~

It was not a question the Raven King himself much liked either. A trap, either to expose hypocrisy on his part, or to feel out whether these men here, these ‘friends’ as the Huntsman -- Sacha was the name he used here -- called them, were free for the taking. There was no good answer of course. There rarely were in such situations. And so John said nothing, simply shrugging the words off as though they were nothing, not even worthy of his consideration.

To this, Sacha simply laughed. He quickly shook his head, swatting aside his own words as though they were so many buzzing flies. “Oh, but no matter, I certainly hold nothing against you. Is that Prince Fëanáro I see?” He leaned forward on his horse, eyeing John’s guide, before slipping down and striding nearer.

The Hound lept, suddenly between the Sidhe and John’s guide, leaning down low, teeth bared as he snarled.

In surprise Sacha stepped back, his eyes wide, yet in a moment he was laughing once more. “Ah! And one of Arōmēz’s mighty hounds as well! Which means…”

He was gone, suddenly there behind John, standing there before the Rider, lips curling into a cat’s grin. “The third one, the hunter. And a handsome one he is, as well…” Sacha reached up, as though to brush his hand along the Rider’s jawline, but the man stumbled backwards.

John’s guide-- Fëanáro, apparently -- nearly growled. “Get away from my son.”

Blunt, perhaps too much so, though here at least John could not fault him. The man protected what was his. Would he, himself have not drawn such a line just as clearly?

The other son -- the father of the boy who was missing, that was -- was bristling by now, reaching again for his knife, and the hound was now wildly barking, readying itself to pounce on the Sidhe.

By the time the Hound bounded forward though, even as the missing boy’s father had freed blade from scabbard, Sacha was gone, once more standing before Fëanáro. A brief drama was quickly unfolding across his features. His brows shot up, and he looked at Fëanáro as though he’d just been shouted at by an ant-hill he’d kicked over (truth to tell, he likely would have been less surprised by shouting ant-hills). That surprise lasted only a moment though, before his expression morphed into a wide grin.

“Ah! You must forgive me!” The Sidhe said, hand to heart and bowing his head, “To speak of you without speaking to you! How rude indeed! I had no idea that you might understand, however! And, of course, young Starling here” He gestured back towards John at this, as John gnawed at the inside of his lip, forcing down rising irritation, “Does not speak Quenya.”

With the sort of whimsicality that could be posessed only by one of the Sidhe, Sacha immediately brightened then,“But that is no matter now, of course. Though I must admit I am rather surprised at running across you out here! Should you not be in Tirion, astounding all with your latest creation?”

There was silence in that first moment, as Fëanáro stood there, blinking. Just trying to trace out just how the conversation had found itself here. Despite himself, The Raven King could not help but find himself just slightly amused by it. Going by the expression the man wore, it seemed Fëanáro was not often one to find himself dumbfounded. All through the Huntsman’s speech he’d looked suitably unimpressed, and now that the Sidhe was here speaking to him as though they were old friends?

“And who are you to ask?” Fëanáro asked, finally finding his voice.

Painfully blunt, and with a Prince’s pride.. The Raven King sighed from where he stood watching. He should expect no different of course.He should have recognized it from the first. The man had the pride of a King’s son, after all -- and there shone a sign one could spot whether it was Faerie, England, France or Scotland who’s earth they stood upon. No, the Raven King knew the air royalty carried about it by now. He was unsurprised.

He was not pleased with it -- neither that pride nor whatever rash actions would be taken to soothe it. But he was unsurprised.

And now, before things grew too out of hand, it seemed he would have to intervene…

“He is a Sidhe Lord,” John interjected, “and perhaps one of the mightiest within the regions of Faerie that border your realm.” Perhaps the flattery would mollify Sacha. He was hoping at least the words would give the Prince hint enough to get him to stop talking.

“Quite. Who am I indeed!” Sacha scoffed, turning back to John, “I would advise you against taking with you such an ill-mannered creature --”

“What did you just--”

The rest came out a strangled sound, leaving Fëanáro wide eyed and clutching at his throat. His sons were shouting, just behind John, rushing towards their father as he gasped and mouth working, yet no sound emerging.

“Really now!” The Sidhe rolled his eyes, and he let his hand fall back to his side and turned to John, saying so casually, “I am half tempted to kill him, you know. The night’s hunt has been frustrating enough as it is.”

The tension in the air suddenly increased a thousandfold, underlined by a low snarl from the hound, as it’s master’s eyes flashed.

The look alone that the Raven King gave the Sidhe was a warning in and of itself.

“Oh, you know I would never. There are laws and customs, after all, and I am no barbarian! They are yours, these Elves, and I would not interfere!”

The Raven King responded with a low hum. “Yet all I have seen would suggest otherwise.”

Sparks lit in Sacha’s eyes. “Oh, is that so, now? Is something amiss, young Starling?”

A shrug was all the Magician gave in reply, as his gaze glanced back over the Huntsman’s shoulder. “You are missing two amongst your number.” He murmured.

“Hrmmm?” The Sidhe’s brows shot up and he glanced backwards. “Ah! So it seems!”

“Who is it?”

“Come again?”

“Who left?”

“Why, Starling, What interest you seem to be taking in the going on of my court!”

A faint smile just touched at the Raven King’ lips. It was not a pleasant smile. “Should I not? I came here in hopes of solidifying an alliance with you, after all.” The rest of that sentance, ‘I should hate to leave instead an enemy.’ was left to hang silently upon the air.

There was a moment, just briefly, where Sacha held the Magician under his gaze, regarding him almost thoughtfully.

“I have had some trouble in keeping track of Tethil recently. He has always been one of my more flighty companions, of course, and since his cousin arrived in my realm for a visit…?”

“Cousin?”

“Oh, I forget his name...some young Lord or King from the other side of Faerie, nearer to your own realm I believe...”

“I see.” Nearer to his own realm...huh, well it seemed now this short detour was now spanning across Faerie...

“If either have crossed you, I should like to know about it.” Sacha went on. The corner of John’s lips quirked upward at the tone in his voice. If they were crossing him, they were endangering this alliance for their Lord. Getting in his way. And that, John doubted, he would appreciate much at all.

“Perhaps I shall leave it to you then. For now however…”

“Yes, you must find them, I suppose?”

“Indeed. Better luck on your hunt, Sacha”

“And I wish you the same on yours, Starling.”

And with those words the Huntsman turned and mounted his horse again. Heels digging into the magnificent creature’s side, he urged it onward, plunging into the night air, cloaks and manes swirling and snapping behind them as the shining company thundered past.

Even before the distant rumble of hooves against the hard packed earth stopped echoing in the Magician’s bones, he was turning to face the other three. They had already gathered together, each with a face like granite as they stared John down

“Enough of this.” It was the Rider who spoke, standing nearest to John. “what was that? You owe us something of an explanation. We go no further with you until we know just what is going on.”

Until you know what happened to you… John could not help but think. The man was still grasping onto his knife blade, only sliding it away, back into it’s scabbard once he realized that the Raven King was indeed looking. It had been a patchwork of a spell, that he knew. He’d not had enough time to do the magic properly of course, to call upon the bees and the moon --if she could even hear him here! But it seemed it had served him well enough, in the circumstance.

Nail his hand with an iron nail so that he shall not raise it to do the deceiver's bidding.

Or, well, a hunting knife could serve just as well in a pinch.

“Then that is your choice to make.” The Raven King replied, quite simply. Fëanáro and the lost boy’s father were now turning, wide eyed, on the Rider, clearly with something to say for themselves about this. Why would they not have? They were the ones who needed his help, after all.

The Rider simply smirked, however, nodding back towards the Trees. Out of the corner of his vision John could just catch the motion of white flapping wings. A hoot as the bird settled on a nearby branch. “Yes, and I am sure Lady Varda will be glad to hear that you have gone.”

Clumsy. But it was a start now…

John canted his head to the side, brows edging up his forehead.“I owe it to you, is that so?” he repeated.

“Yes.” The Rider insisted, staring stone-faced right back at John.

“No. I owe you nothing.” Indeed considering what he had just saved the man from it rather seemed the other way around. But John gave a shrug and there was a short pause. The Raven King raked his eyes over the Rider, and the missing boy’s father beside him. “That said, I will tell you, if only to prevent any further foolishness along the way.”

At this the Magician’s eyes fell squarely upon Fëanáro, who opened his mouth to protest --only for silence to emerge.

“Now,” the Raven King said, crossing his legs beneath him as he sat upon the forest floor, looking as at home in that very spot as he might have upon a throne, “Where shall I begin?”

[fuckingfinwions]

Deerskin (aka Donkey Skin) fairy tale au Finwe/ Feanor

Wikipedia: “One day his wife died, after making him promise not to marry except to a woman whose beauty and attributes equaled hers.  The king grieved, but was, in time, persuaded to seek another wife.  It became clear that the only woman who would fit the promise was his daughter."

_-_-_

Miriel died, and Finwe grieved. He knew that never again would he find anyone with such beauty and such passion as hers. Their only son, Feanor, was the one bright spot in Finwe’s days, even as he mourned that Feanor was alone. He had always dreamed of a large family, with all his children playing together. Instead Feanor was serious and solitary, isolated by genius and royalty and his mother’s death.

The years passed, Feanor grew, and Finwe tried to move past his wife’s death. None could match her of course, but perhaps he could find someone to be content with. He began spending time with Indis of Valmar, who was pretty and smart and would make a perfectly fine mother.

Feanor was enraged at the attempt to make a new family - one that he saw no place for himself in. Oh, Finwe claimed that they would all get along, but that was an obvious lie. There would be a succession of little children who would all play joyful games Feanor, already old enough to be apprenticed, was too old to be entertained by. So he would be off to the side, not hated but simply not considered, and the pattern would not break when the children did grow old enough to be interesting. They would have their jokes and memories that Feanor had no part in, just as every other group Feanor had tried and failed to join, and those would be what they built their relationships as adults on. And Finwe would see the chance of pleasing Feanor alone or all the others, and as the just and wise king would do what worked for the majority rather than privileging one.

Feanor would not stand for that to happen. He yelled and screamed as he had not before. He made eloquent speeches on the dignity of marriage, and biting insults to Indis and the Vanyar in general.

Finwe was entranced. He had never seen this side of Feanor before. He did not back away from his pursuit of Indis, watching every time as Feanor became more wild in his fury. Finwe even went so far as to petition the Valar for allowance, though he knew by now that he could never be content with Indis.

In time the Valar agreed that remarraige could be permitted in this case, and all of Tirion was awaiting an announcement of the wedding day.

Then Finwe broke off his engagement.

Indis was confused, but Finwe spared her little attention as she returned to Valmar. His thoughts were on Feanor, and how to spark that passion and creativity.

Feanor was off balance, as if a boulder he'd been pushing with all his weight was suddenly removed. He wanted to feel happy, but instead was nervous that his loss of Finwe had only been delayed, not prevented. He snapped at his father and argued, trying to see why Finwe would go to all this trouble to be permitted to start a new family, and then back down at the last minute. Finwe would engage and argue, but only ever to a limit. Then he would go silent, and Feanor could tell there was a tremendous secret his father was hiding.

Was Feanor himself so inadequate, that Finwe could not bear knowing that Finwe would never get another try at a child? A remarraige to anyone, to get any child at all, would be sufficient to surpass him? Feanor didn't like the idea, but it fit.

Feanor refused to accept that. He would become the greatest of all, so Finwe would have no choice but to respect and treasure him, even if the love went away. He left Tirion and apprenticed himself to a blacksmith.

The royal guard brought him back less than a week later. The master blacksmith was asked to move into the palace though, and agreed, so Feanor studied under him. Feanor didn’t understand why Finwe cared so much to keep him close, but he was glad of it.

Finwe watched Feanor learn about smithwork and grow in his skill. Feanor needed little provocation to speak at length about the latest technique he had mastered or a difficult piece he was working on.

The passion in Feanor’s voice and the spark in his eye at such discussion was just as enthralling as Miriel expounding on her weaving.

Years passed. Feanor became friends with the master blacksmith, and friendly with the smith’s children, but always Finwe was first in his heart. 

Feanor was a wunderkind of a smith, mastering the basics in a few years and inventing his own improved techniques before he had studied for a decade. Though typically an elf was not declared a master of their craft until after they had reached their majority, it was obvious that there was no reason to hold Feanor back so. The ceremony was planned for nearly two years before Feanor came of age, on the first day of spring.

Feanor worried greatly in the weeks leading up to the ceremony. Finwe had not spoken at all of marriage since Indis, and Feanor had no idea why. Finwe obviously wished for love and companionship beyond that of a son, as well as for more children to raise and take pride in. The silence was hiding something, some reason Finwe didn’t want Feanor to know. And the silence would be broken someday, as Finwe would not be content to be single indefinitely.

There was one obvious reason that fit. It was cause enough for Finwe to not share his plan with Feanor, and had a deadline after which Finwe would remarry without guilt: Elves view their offspring’s childhood as a time of greatest importance. A new romance would draw Finwe’s attention away from his eldest son as Feanor grew to maturity. So Finwe was playing out the clock, focusing on Feanor now so he would not miss anything irreplaceable if he ignored Feanor later.

And Feanor was nearly an adult.

The day of Feanor’s graduation same, bright and clear with the first flowers blooming. Feanor managed to look solemn and awed rather than on the verge of tears. The festivities lasted all day, but at last Feanor was able to retreat to the solitude of his chambers.

When Finwe entered the room, Feanor’s heart started to pound. When he said he had a serious matter to discuss, that he had waited until Feanor was old enough to fully understand, Feanor clenched his fist to keep from shaking with terror at the obviously imminent breaking of their relationship.

Feanor nearly wept in relief when Finwe revealed his true intentions. Finwe did not wish to be parted from Feanor at all! Instead he loved Feanor far more deeply than Feanor had ever suspected.

Finwe asked Feanor to consider marrying him, and think on it for however long it took to be certain of the answer.

Feanor responded by kissing his father on the lips. If the way to keep Finwe close was simply to love him, and let him love Feanor, that was a price Feanor had no questions about paying.

Their wedding ceremony was combined with the celebration of Feanor coming of age, the single day being the largest celebration Tirion had ever seen.

[aipilosse]

Feeling bold, so I'm finally going to do a pinned post of my writing.

The main 'verse

These absolutely don't need to be read in order — each is standalone. I also reserve the right to decide something I wrote at an earlier point was stupid at any time and contradict myself. Nonetheless, these do all have recurring OCs, locations, headcanons, and pretty persistent characterizations. Listing them in chronological order, more or less.

Fair They Wrought Us

Multi-chap, Teen, Gen

The story of Celebrimbor in Gondolin, snatching some joy and friendship between fallen cities. Making weird UT lore work, so I can have Celebrimbor live in Gondolin, reignite his friendship with Idril, become friends with Coroniel, and craft the Elessar.

What Joy Here is Left

A collection of ficlets done for tumblr requests, Teen, mostly gen although some Silvergifting slipped in. Most take place in the Second Age, although there are a few Fourth Age pieces.

The Evil Ex-Boyfriends Club

Multi-chap, Explicit, Celebrimbor/Fingon.

YES. You read that right. The first fic I ever wrote was Celebrimbor/Fingon, and I still think they work as friends with benefits - maybe I should revisit this pairing. After returning from Mandos years after everyone else in his family, Fingon has a difficult time coming to terms with his past. Aredhel thinks a change of scenery will help. Elsewhere in Aman, Celebrimbor is also trying to cope.

Feanorian Week One Shots

I wrote a collection of one shots around each of the sons of Fëanor leaving Mandos. Most are G, one is Teen.

What Brings Us Together

WIP, Mature, Silvergifting

My attempt at making post-canon Celebrimbor/Sauron work. Featuring a cat named Miaulë, a hotly anticipated wedding, and Galadriel losing her goddamned mind.

Other One Shots

Works I didn't really envision as being part of the main 'verse. Most were written for exchanges and events.

Goldilocks and the White Bird

G, Gen

Written for TRSB '21 and comes with beautiful art! When a strange white crebain shows up at Bag End, Goldilocks and her brothers are determined to find out everything they can about their visitor. Their discovery brings about a summer full of magic, machines, and trying not to let their parents find out what they're up to as they try to help the bird.

Greetings, O Favored One

Teen, Gen

Written for the B2ME Mini-Spring Bang and this *also* comes with beautiful art! Six encounters Celebrimbor has with the Maiar and the perils and blessings of the Holy Ones favor.

Darkness Inescapable

Teen, Gen

A pinch hit for TSS '20. Elrond dreams of Númenor.

You are the New Day

G, Silvergifting

Written for TSS '20. I love a good torture fic as much as the next person, but sometimes you need soft, holiday silvergifting too.

The Yawning Grave

Teen, Gen

Eluréd knew there were rules. He chose to break them. A dark fairy tale re-telling of the Second Kinslaying.

Prophetic Tears

Teen, Gen

Idril Celebrindal’s life with a Cassandra twist

The Porn

Listen, we all love gen, and the Tolkien fandom is full of it. But sometimes you need some smut.

You can stop at any time

Silvergifting

Annatar really only has himself to blame. That just makes things worse. Featuring orgasm delay/denial and cock rings.

Brim/Gil stuff

Three one shots featuring Celebrimbor/Gil-galad. Indulging my need to write slutty Celebrimbor. That's all you really need to know.

The Nature of Stone

Galadriel/Melian

Written for MSV '21. Melian is an excellent teacher, and Galadriel is eager to learn everything she is willing to share. Featuring object insertion and the chillest Thingol you will ever meet.

Alas, I don't think I'm going to succeed in finishing the Season of Kink bingo. But here are the three fics I managed to write:

Tools of the Trade

Silvergifting featuring pervertables and light bondage. Perhaps the most Red-Flag-Annatar I've ever written.

Disastrous Expense

Reincarnated Feanor/Nerdanel featuring breath play and soul bonds.

Submission

Sauron/Ar-Pharazôn featuring a submissive Sauron. He's also throwing red flags left and right, but Ar-Pharazôn is a bit too conceited to detect them.

Getting Along

Galadriel/Celebrimbor/Sauron written for undercat. I cannot believe this trio didn't exist already.

[tanoraqui]

#sons of feanor #tales of yore #:munches popcorn: oh i love this #always here for feanorian fairy tale monsters #you could probably write an entire library of the way those stories mutate outside of numenor #both before and after its fall #boys get to be vague mythic archetypes referred to across middle-earth #it's maybe not what they deserve but it's what they asked for (@feanorianethicsdepartment​)

Most of Fourth Age Eriador holds the mischievous fox as the greatest of thieves. And the worst of them all is the King Fox, with the reddest coat anyone has ever seen, who covets not just chickens but gold and jewels. The King Fox only has one front paw, from the time the other got so caught in chicken wire that he could only escape the Farmer’s wrath by gnawing it off. But he didn’t learn his lesson! Instead, when word got out that he could be recognized thusly, and so better guarded against, he conned the clever Crow into making him a beautiful wooden paw painted the same bright red as his fur. So now he can once more masquerade as a perfectly ordinary fox—not that you should trust any of them!

The tribes of South Harad’s Great Desert, being often at war between themselves and constantly beneath the blazing sub-Equatorial sun, have many spirits of both fire and battle in their mythologies and folklores (which are themselves as varied tribe to tribe as an ethnographer might dream in their wildest fantasies). So it is difficult to say if the “sons-of-the-Sun”, spirits of fire and bloodlust with bodies of heat haze, who seek to possess warriors to better carry on their endless battles, are a Númenorean carryover or convergent evolution. Certainly the majority of these desert peoples call themselves “Children of the Sun”, and have done so since long before they encountered the Númenorean Empire. And the common story that the sons-of-the-Sun have been required (or cursed, or set a friendly or fierce challenge…) by their father the Sun to fight until one emerges completely supreme has also been said of the tribes themselves. But the consistent description of the sons-of-the-Sun having “hair of flame” or sometimes “hair of streaming blood”, and that they appear fair until they possess a warrior, at which point the scars of every wound they’ve ever taken appears on the warrior’s skin, does suggest Númenorean influence. That two of the three most west-ranging tribes say that the sons-of-the-Sun have all had 1 hand replaced with a sword, to aid/necessitate their constant battle, is certainly a product of intersection with Númenorean folklore.

Around the Sea of Rhun there is a popular story about a princess in a tower, usually called the Daughter of the Waters, who is approached and seduced by a handsome traveler who introduces himself as her betrothed, the Son of Fire. She’s heard nothing of any such betrothal, but he is handsome, with his shining eyes and fire-red hair, so she lets him into her tower and lets him court her… But alas! He is not truly her betrothed but a liar and thief, who has come to steal the three precious magical rings left to her by her mother (or which she made herself, in some versions). One she wears on her right hand, one of her left, and the third and greatest on a chain around her neck. How he goes about this theft may depend on the storyteller and the raunchiness of the audience, but usually riddles are involved…and once he has two of three, one on each hand, he declares that he now has the greater power, so she’d better just turn over the third without a fight!

The princess, however, is a practical woman. She cannot deny that these two rings are his, now…so she cuts off one of his hands, so he can only wield one at a time. Either one of now-his rings is weaker than the one still safe on the chain around her neck, so supremacy is once more hers—and with it, she either casts him from her tower or marries him as he’d originally claimed to be here for (depending on the storyteller and the audience, and what lessons are being taught).

The only indication that Númenoreans encountered the once-roaming People of far southern Middle Earth is the People’s cultural mythology—there is no indication of trade, technology, or anything else. However, the mythology is proof enough: despite the vast geographic distance between them, no other culture’s lore more closely matches the Baggins Quenta Silmarillion, on which primary and secondary sources (Elvish) are generally agreed to have been verifiably consulted. The seven heirs who lose everything and descend one by one into madness and then death as they search for their mother’s stolen treasure—alternately rare gems, three immortal horses, or her heart… The princess who proves himself worthy of her mother’s throne by going on a heroic quest with ten followers and one friend… The man appointed by the wind-gods to be a star…

Most telling of all is the traditional start to stories among the modern [Fifth Age] People: where you or I might say “once upon a time”, they say, “I have this from my grandmother, who had it from her grandmother, who had it from the Sea”—itself a shortening of “Sea-spirit” (common until the mid-Fourth Age) and even earlier (Third Age) “Sea ghost.” At minimum, it’s the Númenorean concept of the Sea retaining memory of ancient times. More likely, a lone, very lost ship of Númenorean refugees, likely mostly female scholars to a) have such knowledge of already-then-ancient tales and b) be respected as lore-keepers by the People, washed ashore near where the ancient People grazed their horses each spring, and married in with nothing but their history recitations as dowries. (“Ghost” referring to the relative paleness of Númenorean skin and perhaps, poetically, the way they came from a land now “dead.”)

I read your Elwing's 14 recently and I'm curious, what do you think most of the Numenorean myths about the Anzor Manothari are like? Are there lots of stories, or just the one? What do they attribute to them beyond just red hair and being scary, if anything?

Hmm…

Well, the standard traits include tall, red hair, no right hand, disfiguring scars, and scary.

I think the base folktale is very simple — the Sons of the Spirit of Fire exist, they are or were or take the appearance of elves, they rejected and were rejected by the gods, they will never find peace, they slaughter all who stand in their way. Beyond that there's no real story at the heart of the myth, nothing else most people would agree on.

But there are a lot of localized variations. Sometimes someone came into contact with some better-recorded history and tried to fit it into the legend — some versions will have them seeking a stolen treasure or hunting a fleeing maiden, or say they're revenants of noble lords. Sometimes someone had no access to better history but still tried to reverse-engineer a backstory — all right, why did the Anzôr Manothôrî reject the gods? What is the Spirit of Fire, anyway? Is it an elf? Is it some sort of dark spirit that had children with elves? And so on.

[radioactive-earthshine]

Could Bilbo be Related to Maglor (distantly)... Proposal.

Sometimes I like to think that the “fairy” who allegedly married a Took and bred into the hobbit line was in fact... Maglor.

The usage of the term ‘fairy’ in this case more likely refers to an elf or one of the ainur, and considering the murky line of canon and plausibility in many things revolving around whether this could occur or not it is fair to assume one or the other (or even both givin the fact that elves and maiar can and will breed considering Luthien exists).  There are certain things which make this proposal initially difficult to fully regard as possible. One of the main details that prevents this is that it was cited in The People’s of Middle-earth that Maglor had been married before his exile to an unnamed elf (or was it?). His marriage and the fact that Eldar elves were hyper-monogamous make it somewhat doubtful that he would remarry or have a casual encounter that would result in pregnancy. However, there is evidence that it is not impossible for elves to remarry and have children with others who are not their original spouses; case in point Finwe.  

There is also speculation that mortal bodies capable of carrying children simply cannot survive a pregnancy from an elf or one of the ainur. This is insinuated in LACE when the subject of elvin biology is referenced; in a pregnancy both parents are essentially involved in the nurturing and growth of the child. @hazelnutshippingco went in-depth of this process and detailed *why* it is possible that we do not have an instance of a mortal woman being courted by an immortal being that leads to reproduction. Her analysis concluded that it was very likely the process would lead to death of the one carrying, or the death of the child as mortal bodies cannot handle the sheer immensity of an immortal soul. Of course this is just one perspective, one meta, one interpretation and cannot be regarded as the whole collective truth but rather is valid to accept. 

Given that the question of whether a hobbit with a uterus is capable of carrying a child from an elf is not entirely a proven “fact” and the evidence that elves are not quite so hyper-monogamous as is led to believe - it is not impossible that Maglor sometime during the beginnings of the third age could have had an encounter with a hobbit that led to marriage and children.

Having Bilbo also distantly related to Maglor may explain some of his prose for poetry and it just makes me smile. Because if he is distantly related to Maglor he is also distantly related to Feanor, which would explain the sheer amount of dripping sarcasm and sass he harbors. Him being a possible descendant of such a prominent line of elves gives a whole new perspective to not only his story (having it echo in many ways the flight of the Noldor) but also the stories of each of his relatives (Frodo, Pippin and Merry). 

These are all incomplete thoughts and I may expand this more in the future with proper citations and a more thorough analysis. But seeing as how at the time I queued this it is one thirty in the morning I am calling this good and done for now.