#Maedhros angst

[woodsmokeandwordscosplay]

Maedhros in Angband A treasured set of photos taken years ago by Imogen.Constance in her basement. I reached my peak angst potential here, still looking for a way to top it!

[doodle-pops]

Tears of the Sun

Maedhros x reader

A/N: Since this came in 2nd on the poll, you all can have the treat you've been voting for. You all have no idea how long I've been dying to release this :) 🙈

Warnings: 3rd Kinslaying, death, blood, heavy angst, hurt and not an ounce of comfort (the bucket is dry), major character death

Words: 1.6k

Synopsis: We always regret the things we do when the worst happens, and Maedhros finally seems to have enough.

His body moved with less grace and more aggression, leaving behind a trail of victims struck down by his ruthless blade. The horror and grief in the eyes of each lifeless body meant nothing to him; they were just obstacles on his path to his ambition. Their deaths only fuelled his determination, pushing him further up the hill and past the point of no return. His once–pristine armour was now stained with splatters of crimson, matching the colour of his hair and sword. His usually well–kept hair was matted and frizzed from the chaos of the battle, and his helmet lay discarded in the heat of the mindless fight. None of his opponents were formidable enough to engage him in a true battle of skill; they were merely obstacles to be obliterated.

He found himself growing bored with the resistance he encountered. He had come for his treasured heirloom, and the stubborn defence he faced only made him scoff. He swung his sword recklessly, striking down anyone who dared to challenge him. If kindness couldn’t win him what he desired, he would take it by force. The last shreds of sanity that had held his emotionally compromised heart together had shattered, leaving him with no option but to resort to raiding and plundering. Blood was his familiar companion—it was what he had come to know intimately, the colour of his hair and the blade he wielded. The hand he had been dealt in the losing game of life resembled his sword’s hue: crimson.

Existence was his only reality, a reality driven by the notion that death wasn’t yet ready to claim him. He existed because he couldn’t die, and death toyed with his life as though it were a mere game of chess. One moment he was a pawn, the next a bishop, then a king, and back to a pawn. It was a cruel dance of fate, and he had long accepted his role as its unwilling participant. In this twisted game, he found a perverse pleasure in taking what he believed was his by-right, regardless of the consequences.

But you changed everything. You brought light into his world, giving meaning to the bleak and dreary existence he had grown accustomed to. A smile, a look from you, and his heart would soar, mending itself and allowing him to experience the simple joys he had been denied. With you, the cage he had felt trapped in was shattered, and he no longer felt like an animal awaiting its inevitable demise. You gave him purpose, a reason to believe in something greater than the cycle of violence and death he had become ensnared in.

A scoff escaped him as he remembered your influence on him. He wiped away the blood that had trickled down his brow, the metallic scent of iron filling his nostrils. The smell was familiar, a reminder of countless battles and massacres he had orchestrated. Despite the carnage around him, this was a relatively minor raid, akin to dealing with a few dozen orcs. Most of his men had switched sides to prevent further destruction, but those who had stood against him now lay lifeless, their bodies strewn across the ground. The balance between valuing his soldiers’ lives and discarding their lifeless forms after insubordination was a precarious one, and in his current state of mind, the line was blurred beyond recognition.

He continued his macabre dance, his temper a raging fire that consumed everything in its path. Lifeless bodies, once vibrant with vitality, now littered the streets. The urge to be repulsed by the sight was a fleeting burden; he was too consumed by his frustration at his failure to reclaim the Silmaril.

“Háno!” A pained voice, his brother Maglor’s, reached his ears, and his heart clenched with dread. After coming this far, losing another of his kin—his last kin—would be the final blow, shattering what little remained of his fractured soul.

He rushed forward, his steps heedless of the broken bodies that lay in his path. He cut through the streets of Sirion with a single–minded determination, following the urgency in his brother’s voice. What he found was a scene of sombre desolation. Maglor stood there, his sword hanging limply in his hand, his shoulders slumped, his legs wobbling, and his head bowed in defeat. A pit formed in the depths of his heart as he approached his brother’s broken form, his own anger momentarily forgotten.

And then he saw you, lifeless. Your body leaned against the wall of a nearby home, your form covered in your own blood. Your expression held a haunting mixture of pain and resignation.

He didn’t want to accept what he was seeing. It felt impossible, like a cruel illusion playing tricks on his senses. You were supposed to be safe, wrapped in comfort and far from the clutches of death and destruction. This had to be the work of darkness, a sinister fabrication that twisted reality into something nightmarish. This couldn’t be you lying lifeless before his eyes; it had to be some twisted trick, a distorted reflection of his fears.

Convincing oneself of falsehood, even in the face of an unfathomable and horrifying sight, was a coping mechanism that allowed one to shut their eyes and turn away. He chanted to himself repeatedly that what he saw couldn’t be true—it couldn’t be you lying there lifeless at the cost of his hands. His footsteps, once soundless, turned into thunderous beats as he rushed toward where you were slumped against the wall. The scene before him was surreal, and he desperately needed some kind of proof that what he was seeing wasn’t real. His trembling fingers inched closer to touch your form, seeking that moment of realization that would tell him the world had deceived him.

His eyes were narrowed in disbelief, his brows furrowed, lips pursed, and fingers trembling as he gingerly reached out. His boots made contact with your foot, and he half–expected to hear your familiar ‘Ouch’ in response, a playful reaction you often had to his touch. But there was no response, no movement from you. Your eyes were cast downwards, avoiding his gaze, avoiding him. He knew that after your last bitter exchange, you wouldn’t want to look at him. He understood that. Yet, the sight of blood staining your clothes and your lack of breath sent a spike of panic through him.

He blinked back tears that threatened to spill, his teeth gritted, nostrils flaring. Slowly, cautiously, he extended his hand to touch your head. He crouched over your lifeless form, keeping a respectful distance as if he feared that even in death, he was intruding on your personal space. His hand made contact with your head, and when you remained unresponsive, he slid his hand lower to cup your face, lifting it to meet his gaze. But your head lolled limply in his hold, and the puppet–like motion of your head sent waves of terror through him. A cold heat engulfed his body, sending shivers down his spine.

The motion of your head was unnaturally limp, like that of a puppet with its strings cut. His hand quivered as it cradled your face, his thumb brushing against your cheek. “Y/N?” he called, his voice cracking with anxiety. The silence that followed was deafening, and suffocating, and he could feel his heart pounding in his chest.

“Háno, they’re dead—” Maglor’s words were met with a feral growl that erupted from the depths of Maedhros’s chest. He snapped his head in Maglor’s direction, his eyes blazing with a mixture of rage and desperation. A mere glare and a low, menacing command silenced his brother’s words.

Sinking to his knees, he carefully gathered your lifeless form into his lap, cradling you close. He adjusted your position, holding you as you liked to be held, your head resting against his chest so you could hear his heartbeat. His mutilated hand cradled you, his fingers gently caressing your skin. He rocked you back and forth, murmuring soothing words in a broken symphony of promises that he knew he might never be able to fulfil.

“It’s alright, it’s alright,” he whispered, his voice a fragile melody of reassurance. He pressed rough kisses to the top of your head, his lips brushing against your hair. “I’ve got you now, I’m here. I’m going to keep you safe when you wake up.”

The juxtaposition between the past and the present hit him like a wave of sorrow. He remembered the times he had pushed you away, the harsh words he had spoken, and the pain he had caused. And now, here he was, holding you tightly, his heart breaking with the weight of his regrets.

“This will be over soon,” he promised, his voice laden with emotion. “You’ll be safe and happy. I promised you that, didn’t I? I’ll keep my word, my love.” He continued to sway with your lifeless body, refusing to acknowledge his brother’s pleas for him to accept the reality.

He whispered to you over and over, his tears mingling with the blood and sweat on his face. The saltiness of his tears against his wounds was a numbing sensation, a reminder that he was still capable of feeling something amidst the darkness. He was hollow, consumed by the curse of his actions, bound to live with the consequences of his choices—he took your life with words. A simple command and you fell innocent to his sword.

The cycle of violence and suffering that he had perpetuated had led him to this point, where he held the lifeless body of the person he loved more than anything. He had pushed away his chance at happiness, his heartless actions sealing his fate.

In his arms, he clung to you, the only source of light in his life, hoping against hope that this was just a nightmare, that you would awaken, and that the blood on your skin was nothing more than an illusion. But deep down, he knew that he was living the nightmare he had created, unable to escape the prison of his own making.

Masterlist

Taglist: @lilmelily @mysticmoomin @rain-on-my-umbrella @asianbutnotjapanese @batsyforyou @sakurayaxd @ladyenchanted @stormchaser819 @aconstructofamind

If you would like to be tagged, click the taglist link.

[ladyofthestarlight]

Headcanon! What if Maedhros and Maglor found Elwing instead of E&E

She has a silmaril, but Maedhros is already regretful of the battle and her family’s deaths so he spares her and takes her (kidnaps). Found family and enemies to friends to family to enemies! They become like a dad and a daughter but Elwing holds a deep hatred for him. “You’re my father but you killed my father so i hate you”.

-my art

[eunoiaastralwings]

Oath Over Vows !

featuring maedhros x reader

fandom tolkien- the silmarillion

a/n from the imagine here I sent into @imagine-all-the-elves but unfortunely went in as anon for some reason - dealing with a lot angst lately I thought to put into words XD. thank you @theladyvanya for your feedback on this one as well as the amazing title ;)

warnings angst, no comfort

With the pristine white veil now over your face, you awaited your call. Your dress carefully chosen and handcrafted by the finest craftsmanship of the Teleri, decorated in silver and complimented your figure. 

Your eyes twinkled and your lips stretched into a smile. The day when you would finally wed your beloved Maitimo was here, with nothing to stop you. From the early dawn you prepared yourself, wanting to look no less than perfect to your beloved Maitimo.

With your hair braided into intricate and exquisite patterns, you awaited sitting in front of the mirror, holding the bouquet of Teleri flowers in your hands. 

But that was this morning - before the news of all that of the Nolder was delivered to you by your maia friend that rushed through into your chambers with teary eyes. Then slowly, with every word delivered to you, the twinkle of your eyes dulled and disappeared, replacing itself with tears and the smile that your wore crumbled away and sobs now escaped your lips.

You had run out, not caring to even adorn your feet with slippers or boots as you ran to your beloved Nolder prince - ignoring every pain that infested your body, as your bare feet suffered sharp edges of the rocks and rubble it had to endure because of your running. Your body shaking with every cry of heartache.

Your heart was beating erratically - it was drowning out every other voice that desperately called after you as you ran. It was only the words screaming your head and your painfully beating heart that you could hear.

Meldanya. . .

Please, no - let it be not true.

It cannot be true !

No please, it cannot be true.

Please, please !

Maitimo

Your feet lazily and hastily climbed the steps, not caring for the amount of eyes casted on you as you watched upon the ner who was supposed to be your beloved stand in front of his respected father - with his head bowed in submission. 

Maitimo. . . 

You wanted to call out. . . but your voice died in your throat when the crown prince, now King of the Nolder spoke of his oath, in order to reclaim what was once his in front of the Valar without fear and utter dedication, holding no hesitance that made you shiver.

The very rocks Maitimo had worriedly talked to you about many nights ago as he lay on your lap and welcomed your fingers into his hair as you gently brushed it.

Your whole body froze - unbreathing for a second as the ner you were supposed to marry suddenly raised his silver blade in submission to the oath. Your hands that were still holding onto the bouquet of white and blue orchids suddenly heavy and slipped through your fingers, landing on the ground near your feet.

It seemed the voices and yells that disappeared as Maitimo - No ! Nelyafinwë - turned to see you. Your eyes met and the sapphire color of your supposed groom blinked in horror and disbelief as he saw you. 

You could only imagine what you looked like; tear dried face and unblinking wide eyes. . .unbreathing as you looked at him in utter betrayal with the ends of your pristine white wedding dress ripped and dirted.

Your eyes were unblinking as a stray tear caressed down your cheek and he gulped at the sight.

Your body begged to release the sobs you were holding in - the unshed tears that gathered in your eyes weighing as if it was a tidal wave.

Nelyafinwë stepped towards you for a moment, but as soon as he did his name was called over his shoulder - his father’s voice loud and stern.

Slowly you shook your head - almost silently begging him not to leave you. But he did not. . .-he could not pay heed to your words and turned away from you, wincing at the startled and unbelieving gasp that left your trembling lips.

The same lips he had kissed yesterday speaking of all and more, promising you nothing but your happiness and health as he held tenderly close - but now he turned away throwing you into icy depths, where the once warmth you felt faded away into nothingness.

Especially when you had heard of how himself, along with his brothers and father had brutally murdered those of yours, leaving you bloodied and bruised.

Your white dress covered in the red blood of those your considered your kin and friends and your heart endlessly cried.

The Maitimo you loved was no more. . .

Taglist form

silm taglist: @doodle-pops

tara’s taglist: @aeonianarchives @mslizziesblog @spidergirla5 @fizzyxcustard @wandererindreams @ranhanabi777 @asianbutnotjapanese

[a-world-of-whimsy-5]

Hi anon for kiss 6 here! Can I change the character to Maedhros if you write for him and Finrod if you don’t? Thank you!!

Image from Unsplash

I actually don’t write for any of Fëanor’s son’s, but I’ll take up the challenge for this request.

Prompt 6 out of the kiss prompt list: on a falling tear.

Pairing: Maedhros x Reader (elf | second person POV)

Themes : Angst

Warnings : Kissing

Minors DNI | 18+ | Rules and tag form here.  

Summary : Maedhros has to leave you after having sworn an oath to retrieve the Silmarils.

There was no going back now. Maedhros had sworn the dreaded oath and pledged his sword. He would follow his father to Middle-Earth and beyond to find the Silmarils and strike down anyone who stood in their way.

This was more than you could bear. "This is folly!" you said, even as tears ran down your face. "The Valar will not forgive this. You and your kin may never be able to return!"   Maedhros continued to arm and armor himself. "The Valar will do nothing," he answered gravely, and turned to face you. "My grandsire has been slain and the silmarils stolen, yet they expect us to wait while they dither, and Morgoth laughs at us all."   "So you will honor the vow you made with your father?"   "To the last letter."   "What about your vows to me?" you plead, hoping to sway him. Your head swam dizzily, and you realized, with a sudden start of fear, that if Maedhros left, you may never see him again. "Do they mean nothing to you?"   "They mean everything to me." Maedhros tried to harden his heart but failed. There were many things he would willingly bear, but not your tears. He came to you, his boots barely making a sound while he crossed the stone floor. Maedhros slid his arms around you, burying his face in your hair as he always did. "But I must see this through. I will return, I promise. Then we can finally wed and start our lives together."   He drew back just a little and studied your face. It wounded him to see you grieve so deeply. "Have faith in me," he said, and leaned in. His lips brushed over one tear, and the other, and the other. "We will be together again, I promise."    You slid your arms around his broad waist and shivered. There will be no hero's welcome, no tender reunion. You saw his doom as clear as glass. Maedhros was never coming back.

[eccentricmya]

When Maedhros had—during an evening of drinking under the stars in Himlad—confided to the middle three of his brothers about his fear of being ignored after the incident at Thangorodrim, Celegorm had loudly proclaimed, "there shall never come a day where you call and I do not answer. Not as long as I yet dwell among the living. This I swear to you, brother!"

That had led to much alarm among them, oathbound as they were. Yet Curufin had repeated Celegorm's words, swearing to always respond whenever Maedhros called him. And before long, Caranthir too had sworn the same despite Maedhros' vehement dissuasion. "Oaths are not to be trifled with", he'd said.

"All the more reason for us to swear this," Caranthir had countered. "There are no insincere oaths, but false promises aplenty."

And Maedhros would deny tearing up at the underlying warmth in his brother's words. He was not a morose drunk, no matter what Curufin asserted, so it must've been the smoke from their campfire, for none of his brothers had commented as he had swiped under his eyes. Celegorm hadn't even looked at him as he'd spoken into the silence, "you were forgotten once, brother. Never again."

True to their words, ever since that night, every time Maedhros called, his brothers responded. None of his letters to them went unanswered, not even when he worded them less than affectionately amidst some ongoing disagreement. Never did it happen that he asked them something, rhetorical it may be, and his brothers stayed quiet. Even in sleep, if he called their name to check if they were awake, their fëar would reach out in response, reassuring him that they heard him.

So when, in Doriath, he called, "Curvo! Moryo! Tyelko!" and they answered not, nor did their fëar weave with his own, he knew.

He knew that there lay no beating heart inside their bloodied body. No breath left in their lungs to say, "I hear you, brother."

He knew. His calls will remain unanswered.

He knew. He shall be unheard once again. For the day had come when he called and his brothers did not answer.

He knew their oaths to him stood fulfilled. For they dwelt no longer among the living to keep it.

Maedhros knew. His brothers were dead.

[ithildin15]

I can't describe how good this is! 😭😭😭 Thank you for writing this! 💖

Vilomah

Request: Can we get a aftermath of how Baldur's death affected both mc and Maedhros as a person emotionally and how it changed their relationship? Please 🥺🙏 I hope this isn't too much to ask. I love you ❣ Take care ❣❣

Pairing: Maedhros x Reader

Genre: Angst

TWI: Character death :)

Summary: Vilomah, against the natural order. That is what they call a parent who lost their child.

AN: eeek angst warning. But hopefully you guys like it. Multiple POVs. Thanks for requesting!

Please read this to understand the context: Part 1

Ailya's pen glides across the paper, transcribing your words as you speak, knowing that these notes will eventually meet the same fate as countless others – erased, discarded, forgotten. The thought of giving up this futile task crosses her mind, a voice of reason suggesting that she should just listen to your story, unburdened by the act of documenting it. After all, what's the point of writing when the words will vanish into oblivion?

Yet, she can't bring herself to stop. Not when you sit before her, shrouded in heavy cloaks, eyes filled with fragility. It's a heartbreaking scene, and her heart compels her to continue despite the inevitability of erasure.

Your presence as her patient stretches back over a century. Ailya is the sole healer of the mind in Hirming, and she had once attended to Lord Maedhros, helping mend his shattered psyche after his rescue from Angband. But that chapter has long concluded. Now, it's your narrative that she captures in her notebook.

She knows your story well – the miraculous reunion with your love, Lord Maedhros, a tale of star-crossed lovers reunited after misunderstandings tore them apart. It's a story that has touched the hearts of many, but Ailya recognizes the bittersweet undertones that color its pages.

Your reunion came at a cost – the life of your son, Baldur, your own shattered spirit, and a fleeting existence that seems to slip away like sand through your fingers. You, Y/n, the Lady of Hirming, are fading away, a truth only Ailya's notes bear witness to.

As you continue to speak, Ailya's pen moves in tandem with your words, etching each detail, each emotion into the parchment. Yet, her heart aches for you. It's a secret she holds close – that your fading presence, the toll of your reunion, is a fact that only her notes preserve. These notes, so carefully written, are destined for destruction, consigned to the flames at the hearth of the healer's office.

She is powerless to stop it, following orders from the princes themselves. Concealing your truth from their elder brother, Maedhros, is a painful necessity. The true notes are swapped for ones that don't reveal your condition, all in an effort to protect their brother from further anguish.

In the adjacent room, another healer busies themselves with concocting false records for the meeting, notes that will be sent to Lord Maedhros, reinforcing the illusion of your well-being.

Ailya's thoughts snap back to the present as she returns her gaze to you, her heart a mix of empathy and sorrow. She watches as you fiddle with your fingers, avoiding her gaze, a picture of vulnerability. “Baldur loved the color red…his father’s color,” Your words are no different from any other session but Ailya wishes they were. 

Your sessions with her have been deep dives into the lives of Baldur and Maedhros, with little of your own self shared. It's as if you're a mere observer in your own narrative.

"My Lady, how is your sleep?" Ailya gently guides the conversation back to you. Your confusion is evident, your vulnerable expression striking. Ailya notices the bags under your eyes, evidence of sleepless nights.

You tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, a nervous gesture Ailya knows well. It's a quirk that surfaces when you're faced with discussions about your struggles – sleeping being one of them. The loss of sleep has become synonymous with the loss of your son, a state unimaginable even for an Elda.

"Have you been taking your meals?" Ailya continues, unfazed by your silence. "If you don't take care, I might have to discuss this with Lord Maedhros." The color drains from your face, replaced by panic, at her last words.

An empty threat that leave you a mess of ushered apologies.

Some days, a haunting question gnaws at your thoughts – why wasn't your love enough for Baldur? Could it be that your love was insufficient to secure his happiness? If only he hadn't cared so deeply for his father, he might have found peace by your side. It's a bitter pill to swallow, yet your feelings are not tinged with resentment towards your husband. Instead, it's a heavy acceptance of your own perceived shortcomings. You believe you should have tried harder, found a better way. Baldur deserved more than the tragic fate he met. He deserved a chance to know his father, and his untimely end feels like a cruel twist of destiny.

These thoughts become a nightly torment, causing you to gasp for air in the quiet of the night. Beside Maedhros, you lie awake, avoiding sleep as if it were an adversary. In the Lord of Hirming's chamber, you stand sentinel, vigilant in your wakefulness to protect your beloved as he sleeps.

Maedhros is never at peace in his slumber. His brows remain furrowed in a perpetual frown, betraying the nightmares that grip his dreams. Your sleepless nights become devoted to erasing that frown, your tender efforts aimed at soothing his troubled rest. Sometimes, it's a whispered melody that you offer, while on other nights, a gentle touch is enough to coax him back into peaceful slumber. Over time, you've learned to interpret the subtle nuances of his facial expressions, identifying the antidote to his nightmares.

Yet, despite your tireless attempts and countless remedies, sleep eludes you. Every time you close your eyes, your dreams transform into heart-wrenching visions of your son. You witness him on the battlefield, calling out for his father. In these dreams, you relive the painful moment of his death, unable to alter its course no matter how hard you try. Irmo, the master of dreams, grants you no respite from this torment.

You often find yourself facing your son's questioning gaze, the same inquiry etched into his eyes – "Why did I have to die, amme?" It's a question that pierces your soul, and you awake from these dreams with your heart heavy and your eyes damp. The ache of his absence haunts you, a relentless reminder.

Maedhros grapples with an unsettling truth – he cannot remember his own son. Despite gazing at old portraits and listening to your meticulously detailed stories, no sense of connection or recognition stirs within him. He may detect a flicker of his own features in his son's face, but the bond that should exist between a father and a child remains absent.

Maedhros acknowledges that he should feel grief, mourn the loss, and carry the weight of unbearable guilt, but the emotions he should feel are elusive. Instead, it's your sorrow that resonates deeply with him, tugging at his heartstrings.

Your grief, etched in your eyes, becomes a burden Maedhros can't ignore. The pain of Baldur's death lingers in your very being, and it's this anguish that affects him the most. Struggling with his own lack of emotion toward his son, Maedhros harbors a secret he dares not share with anyone – an unwarranted resentment toward his own child. It's a sentiment he detests in himself, a contradiction that breeds shame.

His son's selfless love becomes an ironical source of discomfort for Maedhros. Baldur was the reason for his prolonged separation from you, the cause of your prolonged agony. Yet, now, the same son is also the reason that Maedhros finds himself poring over the healer's notes every fortnight.

To the Lord of Hirming, only hope remains in your presence. You have finally come to his side as his wife. As the Lady of Hirming. So, even without a whisper of complaint, Maedhros listens to your every word about your son. Aiming to piece together a fleeting image of his son.

“Open the door that once,” Ailya cannot control the anger seeping into her voice. The sight of latched wooden doors leaves her vision red. She after all carries the blood of Noldor in her. The guards remain unflinchingly vigilant even as they bow to her, “We are sorry but Lord Maedhros has forbidden it. No one must open the door.”

"What reason could be there to lock the Lady in this manner?" Ailya feels a layer of dread settle over her. It numbs the rage. A realization lingers on the horizon.

"This is all for her safety. She cannot accompany him on the patrol," another guard replies.

Behind the doors is a light thud, a constant ever since Ailya’s presence, perhaps way before it. “Please…please open,” pleading noise barely travels through the sturdy wood that separates the captive from the rest of the world.

The said captive is none other than Lady Y/n. “let me go…Maedhros don’t go. I must stop him,” you continue pleading to the elf who has long left the walls of the castle. 

“My Lady,” Ailya tries to call for you. 

Followed by shuffling is you eager voice, “Ai Ailya, by Eru you are here! Please let me out. Ask these guards to let me go. I need to stop Maedhros…he’s gone…no no no he can’t no Baldur call Baldur,” your voice raises unlike the soft pleading before. You sound out of breath as you plead to Ailya who fruitlessly tries to comfort you. 

“Ailya please please I beg you stop Maedhros,” hysteria fills your voice. “He cannot go…not like Baldur. Stop him,” Nothing budges the guards who keep you locked by the orders of their lord. 

Food, sleep, and comfort of any sort leaves you. Leaving behind a wraith. In a way, Lord Maedhros has announced your doom. Ailya stays next to the door for weeks, trying to help you. 

No burned notes, no hushed secrets, no siblings, no locked doors would spare Lord Maedhros of this grief. The grief of the loss of a spouse, of a fading spouse.

The sight of Elros and Elrond, surrounded by the aftermath of their kin's bloodshed, halts Maedhros in his tracks. Their appearance bears no resemblance to the descriptions you've given of Baldur. Their features don't carry a hint of your characteristics or Maedhros' likeness.

Yet, there's something about them that triggers a memory deep within him – a glimpse, a fleeting moment he once experienced when you first visited him with your son, who was at that point of time cradled in your arms. How deeply Baldur's eyes had searched for him. Even as a child in your arms, his son had tried to look past his father;s rejection.

It was a time when he foolishly turned you both away, mistaking his own flesh and blood as belonging to another. In that moment, when he saw you both leave, Maedhros felt a pang of regret, a sting of longing for the son he never knew.

Now, in the face of the Peredhel twins, the floodgates of grief he has kept restrained for ages begin to open. Surrounded by the weight of his sins and the memory of his losses, Maedhros allows himself a brief respite. The sword that has served as a symbol of his responsibilities, his duty, is sundered, his sins momentarily stepping back as he mourns.

This is a rare moment of release, a break from the relentless burden he's carried since the day you were taken from him. You were torn from his side even before he could return from his patrol, your departure orchestrated by Mandos himself. It was his doing – his refusal to listen to your pleas, to see your fear, that led to your demise. He had locked you away, shrouded in his own selfish justifications of duty and authority, as he went about his responsibilities.

He had been the reason. It wasn’t the grief of Baldur’s demise that killed you but the fear for his life that did. Maedhros deserved every ounce of pain that it lent him. He had been the one to leave you locked in the room for the sake of his subjects and his territory. He had not spared a moment’s considerations to your pleading. You had begged him to stay back. He did not care.

Instead, bound by duty, Lord of Hirming had resorted to locking you in his room as he fulfilled his role. He had ignored your fear. How did he not understand the turmoil of your heart? How scared would you have been? Alone.

And when Maedhros had returned, he found the latched door and vigilant guards. But he also found Ailya, right by your door. Except he did not find the determination of a healer in her eyes but the resignation of fate. 

Behind the closed doors lay plates full of untouched food, umade bed, unkempt room. How could he have done something so heinous to you? Something he had borne in the halls of the dark lord.

There was no resentment on your face. The dead seldom carry it. Only proof of your agony was your bloodied fist that had knocked on the door for days. Hand tissues were torn and your nails cracked and broken. Nothing else betrayed your pain. 

How scared, how terrified must you have been…

By the Havens of Sirion, Maedhros dares look at the children who remind him of his son. In the moments of peace he can’t help but imagine how much they would have endeared you. 

As the flames of his end close in around him, Maedhros' thoughts turn to you, the woman he loved and wronged. In the searing heat that mirrors the pain within his heart, he wonders if you would forgive him once more. Could you find it in your heart to let go of the resentment, the suffering he caused, and embrace him again?

In the throes of his impending doom, Maedhros yearns for redemption, for a chance to be reunited with you and Baldur. He envisions a scene where he holds his son as he has done for the twins, Elros and Elrond. This thought carries both hope and regret – hope for a future where his mistakes are forgiven, and regret for the time he lost, the love he denied himself.

As the flames consume him, Maedhros clings to the possibility that in death, he might find a glimpse of the love he lost – a sight of you and Baldur together, a chance to finally make amends, and a moment to hold his family close, even if it's in the realm beyond life.

[curiouselleth]

Nerdanel’s first project after each of her sons were born was a statue of them. Carved from a stone Feanor helped to craft, the stone would grow as they did, and as they changed and grew, so did the statues. All on their own.

Even as her sons wandered to the edges of Aman, the statues would still change as they did. They cut their hair - a chunk of statue falls to the ground, the lines shift, to reflect it.

When Celegorm got his tattoos as one of Orome’s hunt, they too appeared on the statue, as though the color of the stone changed to match from some natural process.

The day of the darkening, and those immediately after, nothing seems to change. But their eyes do. They take on a strange look, one Nerdanel does not recognize.

Then they follow their father. They leave. Nerdanel is left with just these statues of them, wondering if they will continue to change as they do. If she will still be able to see her sons.

To her relief, they did. But far too quickly her relief turned to horror. As she saw the stone of Amrod’s statue melt on the surface and glow, leaving terrible burns. The statue remained standing.

As she saw lines and cracks begin to cover Maedhros, water turned red from iron in the stone pouring out of these cracks, and though she would scrub and brush them, the stain would not leave the cracks. So many times, she wished to destroy it. All of them. But she couldn’t. They were her only tie to her sons. She watched as the joyous look on Maglor’s face turns to one of severity and sorrow, as the scars on Maedhros multiply. Celegorm and Curufin become more harsh, Caranthir more closed off. Amrod recovers some, he and Amrod too become more harsh and wild.

Until one day. When the right hand of Maedhros’s statue snaps off. She clutches it, holds it as she once did. She sobs. She does not return to see the statues for many years.

Until she does. She cannot bear the uncertainty. They all still stand. The lines covering Maedhros have faded. The expressions of the others less harsh. She hopes.

For a long time, little change comes, and she hopes. The occasional scratch or crack comes, but so few, so infrequent. She hopes. Until one day, new cracks, wounds, appear on them all. But they all still stand.

She watches as Celegorm and Curufin’s faces turn dark. Until one day. When three gain great wounds, then… the statues fall. Nerdanel does too.

Long she is there, amongst the ruined statues. Until one comes, picks her off the ground and embraces her, takes her away, and has the statues covered.

None go in that courtyard after, the rubble of the statues remain on the ground.

One day, a servant peers out into the courtyard. Two more statues have fallen. Word is sent, and she returns.

She does not cry, no tear is in her eye. She already cried them all when the first three fell. She stands amongst the rubble, in dry eyed shock. Her youngests were gone now too.

She uncovers the two remaining. Traces the new scars with her fingers, brushes their cheeks where paths from tears have been carved. But their expressions too stand empty, and no tear falls.

Not long after, a ship arrives. Tells of what happened.

Nerdanel cleans up the rubble of the fallen statues. Carefully tucks it away into chests, set deep in the keep in a room where none go. She stands before the two that remain. She screams. She begs. Why. There is more anger, more outrage, then there is sadness. More confusion too. How could her sweet boys do this?

The war begins to close, or so they hear. She checks on the statues again, for the first time since cleaning up the fallen.

She is there as Maedhros’s statue, in a brief, brilliant moment, glows brighter than the silmarils. Then it crumbles into glowing hot rubble. She sobs. Turns desperately to Maglor, and sees a burn appear on his hand. She knows, it was a silmaril.

She stares, but the statue does not fall. Days, she barely left. Until the hosts return, and tell of his fate. Free. But lost. Never to return. She never goes back to the courtyard again.

[victorie552]

Ok, so Noldolantë, "The Fall of the Noldor" is a lament composed by Maglor about what happened before, during and after First Kinslaying at Alqualondë. It's such a good song that it's played regularly in Aman and Valar listen to it often (I swear, I swear it was in the Silmarillion I just can't find it now).

It's also a more or less common fanon that Maglor continues writing Noldolante through the whole First Age. Makes sense - it's about fall of the Noldor, and Noldor did a lot of falling back then.

Headcannon time: So my first thought was that Noldolante must a long, long, long epic of a song. So it probably has many parts, right? Iliad has 24 books/parts, somehow I think Noldolante would be at least just as long, and there are longer epics. And again, just like Iliad, unless you're a scholar, in the daily life you don't really listen to/read the whole thing, just reread and repeat the most dramatic fragments. What I'm trying to impress upon you all is that the story would have different segments, or chapters, if you will.

And if Maglor continues to write the story during the FA, there would absolutely be a moment in the lament where the OG Noldolante becomes Noldolante 2, and even Noldolante 3. There may be the same musical motif or something, I decided that Maglor IS that good of a bard to keep it all consistent enough so you know it's all the same story, but the style changes a lot - it's been 400 years in the making, let The Music Elf have fun!

So, Point 1: Many, Many Parts, basically Maglor's FA WIP

My second thought was that, while Feanor invented his alphabet, elves learned their history mostly through oral tradition aka songs and spoken stories. Noldolante is definitely a historical record, where a historical event was archived for future generations.

(It was a also a way to deal with grief, guilt and blame Maglor and all Noldor have faced regarding First Kinslaying - free therapy! But that's not what this post is about)

Archived.

My 2.5 thought was that Noldolante isn't just recallings of how pretty and horrified the beach looked during the murdering or how mad and sorrowful the sea was at everyone during the voyage or even how awesome and charismatic Feanor looked during his speeches that every single Noldo was ready to fight Morgoth barehanded in his name - no, this is a record of who killed who, who got killed by whom, and how.

Noldor and Teleri knew each other (were friends, even!) before the First Kinslaying, so I'm confident that after a lot of interviews, detective work, and cross-referencing, Maglor could and would create a very good... name list. Practically every Noldo and Teler present during First Kinslaying would get a stanza in a song, more if he killed someone, most if he killed many people. Killers and killed would show up twice, first in a fragment listing the killers and their victims, then in a part listing the victims and their murderers. Basically it's the same thing twice, but from different POVs. With when, where and how included.

(It was seen to be in bad taste to compare kills during Maglor's Regency, when most of his interview-part work happened. People did it anyway. There were a Saddest Kill, Funniest Kill, and Weirdest Kill discusions. There was a Tier List. These were weird times to be a Feanorian Noldo.)

(It WAS in Bad Taste, but at least people talked about it. I cannot stress enough how much free therapy this lament provided)

(Little did they know, when Teleri started getting reembodied in Aman, they had very similar discussions, but more in a "I can't believe he killed me like THAT" way. Long, long, long after the First Age. Noldolante is a gift that keeps giving)

So, Maglor had all the historical grith and no common shame to create a "We Killed All These People And We Feel Bad About It" banger of a song, and every Noldo had a very personal reason to at least remember the fragments they are in. It's a hit on a scale never seen before.

(I'm not sure how to tackle the issue of Nolofinweans and Arafinweans learning about Noldolante after crossing the Ice. But there were discussions. There was anger, there was "????", there was controversy. Basically, the song got bigger and bigger rep no matter what your opinion on it was. By the time of Mereth Aderthad it was an important cultural and political piece and at least Fingon's forces were included in the main song. It had parodies.)

Point 2: Archive Function/Kill count storage. Cultural phenomen, every Noldo included

This is where my personal nonsense begins: Main Noldolante was done, there was nothing more to say about First Kinslaying, all killings and deaths were well documented.

But the Siege started. And the Noldor kept dying.

It was less dramatic than it sounded - between the big battles the siege was maintained, but orc raids also happened and sometimes one to few Noldor died in skirmishes. The legal procedure was to document the death of a fellow elf and send a word to king Fingolfin. The cultural procedure, technically started by Feranorians but adapted by many more, was to send the name, common characteristics and cause of death to Maglor's Gap. After few months, King Fingolfin would send reinforcements, short condolences and financial compensation if they had family. After few months, family of an elf would also receive a personal lament for them and a place for them in a Noldolante.

Yes, every lament Maglor created in that time was technically part of the Noldolante. Noldolante 1.5, if you will. Laments make in that time were very customized, and simpler than Noldolante Main, but were still considered a part of the same song. Of course, nobody was expected to know and remember laments for every single Noldo, younger Noldor born in Beleriand could even only know fragments about their family members. Only Maglor would ever know Noldolante in full, but it was understood that everyone had their place in The Song.

The results of Great Battles were harder to document, but Maglor did that. Of course, Dagor Bragollach was hard on him personally, but he worked his way through.

(High King Fingon forbade creating laments for his father. There were no songs for Fingolfin. Apart from in Noldolante, of course. Of course. Maglor did not share the lament with anyone, but he sat long hours and many nights with a blank paper before him, looking at the candle flame and thinking of the past and the future. The song unsung, but there)

Nirnaeth was... Maglor was never more hated and more approached at the same time than then. Still, Noldolante grew and grew, as if people knew the end was near.

It was Second Kinslaying that destroyed the myth of Maglor's song. Feanorians didn't know the Sindar they killed, but surely, they couldn't just left their names unmentioned like they did with orcs? So, Noldor talked, but the battle happened in caves - it wasn't uncommon to find dead bodies in empty rooms, with no witnesses to what happened. Surviving Sindar didn't want to share any names, even when Maglor strong-armed some into talking with him, and good for them. Maglor made a big lament anyway. Maglor, wild, with no shame and dead brothers, with legacy crumbling around him. Noldolante, with holes.

After Third Kinslaying, Noldor didn't want to talk. Lament for Sirion didn't have any names. Clearly, songs weren't a way to go anymore, it was always about live witnesses. And so Maglor raised the twins.

Lament for Maedhros was sung repeatedly. There was no one to hear it.

Point 3: Only Maglor knows Noldolante in full. But that doesn't matter, because everyone knows the important part: the Noldolante is finished. The Star of Hope rises in the West and the story goes on. The Fall has ended.

[nerdanelschildren]

Do you all think Maedhros ever told Fingolfin about how he saw him from Thangorodrim and screamed for him but Fingolfin didn’t hear it?

Do you think he ever told Fingon?

[imakemywings]

The fact that Turgon possibly sees his wife and all three of his siblings die, and also gets his dad's corpse delivered to his doorstep like...this man needs THERAPY

[elfy-elf-imagines]

— Out of the Woods | Maedhros *✧･ﾟ

▹ Pairing: Maedhros x Reader

▹ Genre: Fluff and Angst

▹ Words: ~8k

▹ Summary: Thrust into the world of Arda, you find yourself enraptured by the elven lord Maedhros. Yet nothing is ever easy in times of war as your love story unfolds and then unravels.

▹ Notes: Hi, hello, this is about 6k words longer than I intended. Oh well. This is a rewrite of a oneshot I wrote yearsssss ago, but thought it deserved a rewrite. I hope you guys like this because I deleted the original. You have no choice, YOU WILL LIKE THIS MORE. Please tell me you like it, I crave validation. Jk, jk...unless.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ

Golden. 

Glittering and gleaming. 

Opulent in an understated way and all too beautiful to be real. 

It was the only way to describe the lavish keep the armored guards escorted you into. Men with delicately pointed ears and unnatural beauty were both your protectors and jailers as they paraded you through the city. You weren’t familiar with your surroundings, never even heard of it. You feel as though a place as beautiful as this would be pasted on every tourist’s brochure and dream board. And yet there was nothing familiar.

Even the people seemed so different from you.

“You have brought a mortal woman before me; why is that?” his voice boomed as he sat straight back and stiff as a board on a lavish throne. You were speaking with the presiding ruler if the golden crown atop his head was anything to go by. He was tall and regal, only made taller by the raised platform his throne was built upon, his figure looming over you with an intimidating presence. 

His hair was like fire, falling in perfect waves that reached the middle of his back. His skin was porcelain and perfection, clear of any slight imperfections or marks that marred your own. He wore formal attire made from silk, with details of glittering gems that made him look like a sun. The heavy crown resting up his head was made of pure gold and dotted with jewels, each worth more than you’d ever make in a lifetime. But what captured your eyes were his own. Light green, they shone like the reflection of emerald leaves off a crystal clear lake. No poem or ballad could ever capture the beauty he possessed. 

He was ethereal, the poster child for what a king should be. 

One of the guards pushed you forward, and you nearly stumbled to the ground, but you’d caught yourself in time. You looked up at him, not even knowing his name yet and already being enraptured by him. A god, that’s what he has to be. There’s no other way he could look like that.

You must’ve died and now stand at the gates of heaven. In your current situation, the most illogical answer has become the only one that made any sense.

“T-they found me, your grace, in the...woods.” He raised an eyebrow at you, and your face flushed hotly as red stained your face. Did you address him adequately? Was there any correct way to address a literal angel? 

His gaze on you was sharp, making you shrink within yourself. His hair may have been made of fire, but he was entirely crafted from ice. Cold, biting, and bitter, you were surprised your skin wasn’t frostbitten. 

���She was rambling like a mad woman when we found her. Despite that, she seems harmless. We thought it best to present her for your judgment, your grace.” The guard spoke with a smooth and even tone, able to look at the elven man unflinchingly. Does one become accustomed to staring at the sun? They must if the guards can directly look at him.

“And so you deign to bring the mad woman before your lord?”

“Times are strange. She may be a gift from the Valar.”

A hush fell over the onlookers before a flurry of whispers filled the courtroom. The lord returned his attention to you, raising a single, inquisitive brow. He was assessing you, determining if there could be any truth to the guard’s words. It made you squirm under the weight of his eyes. They were too piercing and too invasive. He could see past your soul. Your deepest fears and thoughts were laid before him.

“Perhaps there is some merit to the words my guard speaks,” There was a lilt of amusement in his otherwise smooth, dulce voice. It nearly seemed mocking, the way he looked down on you. He leaned to the left side of his chair with his knuckles tucked under his sharp jaw, momentarily taking a more relaxed posture. Yet his gaze on you didn’t lighten; if anything, it became heavier.

“Have you been sent to us by the Gods?”

The throne room became quiet once more. 

Your heart hammered against your chest, a lump stuck in your throat. All eyes were on you, the undivided attention making you want to curl in on yourself. 

“I don’t know.” You mustered up the strength to speak, attempting to keep the fear drowning you out of your voice. Would he cast you out of the kingdom, leaving you to fend for yourself? You couldn’t survive in the woods alone, but you didn’t want to lie and be heralded as a sign of divine intervention. 

You were stuck between a rock and a hard place, the room’s walls closing in on you.

All there was to be done was hope he was as kind as fair.

He hummed in response, neither angry nor pleased. There was no grand statement or judgment, instead, he continued to inspect every detail of you. His eyes scanned you up and down in an almost clinical manner like you were a new art exhibit in his favorite museum. He took notice of your odd clothes, maintained teeth, and healthy hair. Strange for a human in these lands to be so… well groomed. Even with the mud that caked your body, you were cleaner than the other humans before you.

“You place me in a strange place. If I send you away, it may anger the Gods, yet if I allow you to stay, I may be dooming the very people who’ve put their belief in me.” He spoke in such a calm tone as if the fate of your life didn’t rest in his long fingers, each embellished with a ring. 

The anxiety made your body weigh a thousand pounds. You weren’t even sure your heart was beating, the impulse to check your pulse growing stronger. There was worry in your eyes, creases above your brows that were pulled together tightly. 

Yet you didn’t speak, unable to make your tongue form words. 

“Will you not plead your cause to me?” He leaned forward; both brows pulled upward, an almost challenging smirk pulling on his lips. 

Rendered speechless and playing the fool, you opened and closed your mouth as you tried to remember how to speak. 

He clicked his tongue against his teeth, leaning back into his seat, his smirk pulling back into a nearly disappointed frown. 

“Very well. I shall make the decision for you.” 

You prepared to be condemned to the wilds, thrown to the wolves who would surely tear you apart. Head lowered, eyes counting the reflections of sunlight inside the room. Tears threatened to fall, but you forced them away. You would face your imminent death with pride.

“You will stay here.

Gasps of surprise filled the room, followed by mutters of the courtesans. You made no such noise, head snapping up to meet the elven lord’s gaze. There was surprise evident in your wide-eyed gaze. You’d expected the worst, yet that was not what you’d been given. 

“In time, we will learn if the Gods truly sent you to us.”

He nodded at the guards around you, and they helped you stand. Shaking and nervous, the guards held your body up as they guided you from the throne room to what would become your quarters. But over your shoulder, you spared one last glance at the elven lord, his green eyes watching your form disappear. 

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ

“Sinome maruvan ar Hildinyar--” You stumbled over the elvish text, unable to translate the rest of the sentence. There was a crease above your furrowed brows and a slight frown on your face. 

It had only been two months since you were unceremoniously dropped here, yet it felt as if no time had passed, but not in a good way. You were like a newborn babe, stumbling in the dark as you attempted to gain your bearings. The faint throb in your head warned you of a headache, encouraging you to put the book down. A warning you didn't heed, you were stubborn, determined to prove you could assimilate. 

The court has been a dizzying experience to get accustomed to. Most courtesans treated you like a curiosity, a pretty bird for them to teach silly words and feed salted crackers. They were nice enough and greeted you with pleasant smiles, but it all felt patronizing. As if you were nothing but a simpleton child, but perhaps that’s just how they viewed you; elves were immortal, after all. Nevertheless, they have treated you kinder than expected, correcting your choppy Quenya with lyrical giggles and coy smiles. 

The giant oak doors swung open, startling you. Looking up, you watched as Maedhros swept through the library. He grabbed a few books from the shelves and went to a table opposite the room. His hair was pulled back into a loose braid, and his clothes were more casual than what he would don at court. Your eyes followed his form, only looking down when he briefly looked up from his book. 

Heat flared to your cheeks, eyes returning to the book before you. You haven’t spoken with him since your initial meeting. He’d never invited conversation, and you were too terrified to do so. Instead, you stole glances at him whenever the moment presented itself, content to daydream about the Maedhros turning his eyes to you. 

He’d say hello, inquiring about your stay in Himring. You’d answer him shyly, looking up at him through your lashes. So enchanted by your beauty and quiet whit as the conversation continued, he’d invite you to take a stroll with him around the gardens and then--

Your daydreams were cut short by the loud thump of a book falling. Turning, you watched as one of the library attendants scurried towards the fallen three or so books. A soft sigh left your mouth, and your attention returned to the book you were struggling through.

Picking up where you left off, you struggled through the same sentence. No matter how many times you re-read it, the translation wasn’t clicking. What did tenn’ mean again? A grunt escaped your mouth, the pulsing headache returning. You shut the book, perhaps harder than necessary, and opted to fiddle with the bracelets you wore. 

Was it even worth struggling through this silly language? Surely you’d return home sooner or later and this grand delusion would be broken.

Yet the longer you’d spent here, the less likely the prospect seemed. You poured over every map and searched every geographical book, and nothing seemed familiar to the home you’d known. 

Lost in your mind, you didn’t hear the scratch of a chair being pushed back nor the light padding of footsteps approaching your table. Only when you felt someone’s presence beside you and red hair loosely hanging did you look up? Maedhros had stood beside you, leaned over to be at eye level with you. His expression was perfectly neutral, not portraying a single thought in his head. Tucked behind his back was his left hand, which he’d lost many years ago. There were whispers in court about how it happened, being hung from a cliff for thirty years. How terrible that must’ve been.

“You seem frustrated.” His common was not as smooth as his elvish, yet speaking a common language with someone was nice. Most of the elves here only spoke their native tongue. 

“It’s nothing, your grace,” you looked away from his gaze that was entirely too invasive. You didn’t want to risk that he really could read your thoughts; you didn’t want him to see how often they lingered on him. 

“Your lie would be convincing if you hadn’t spent the past hour stuck on the same page,” he breezily replied, pulling up a chair to sit beside you. 

Has an hour already passed? 

And how did he know you hadn’t flipped pages? Had he paid that much attention…? 

“Some words are confusing in their translations; no need to be concerned.” You didn’t want him to burden himself with such a silly thing. This wasn’t something a lord needed to concern himself with. There was also a flush of embarrassment creeping up on you. You wanted him to see you as competent and intelligent, not fumbling over simple translations.

“Allow me to offer insight. It is my native tongue, after all.” 

You stared at him for a moment, lips pursed. His expression never wavered, and you couldn’t think of any reason to dissuade him from helping you. Apprehensive, you grabbed the book you’d previously pushed away. There was a light shake in your body from nerves, and you prayed to whatever god there was that Maedhros wouldn’t notice. 

Flipping through the page, more delicate with it than usual to avoid Maedhros thinking you disrespectful, you pause on the last page you’d read. You point at the sentence you were struggling with and push the book toward Maedhros. 

He leaned forward to read the sentence, and you took the opportunity to appreciate his side profile. His facial structure was sharp, with a tall, noble nose and a strong jawline. Pristine and void of imperfections, he was even more beautiful this close up. With each breath taken, the warm, heady cologne was enough to send you into a dizzy spell. It wasn’t fair for one person to be so…perfect. 

He whispered the sentence under his breath, then straightened his posture. As he did, you moved your eyes from his face, looking at the book as if that was where your eyes always were. His eyes met yours as he began to speak. 

“Sinome maruvan ar Hildinyar tenn' Ambar-metta.”

You mimicked his pronunciation, awkwardly fumbling over the words as you did. The faint whisper of a smile appeared on his lips. However, as soon as it was there, it was gone. 

“Do you know what it means?”

“No, I was having trouble translating.” 

This time he allowed his lips to turn upward into a faint smile, eyes glimmering in the dim lighting of the room. 

“It’s no wonder. This is in Sindarin. My understanding is you’ve been learning Quenya.” He reached over and grabbed the book, pulling it closer to him. 

“What’s the difference?” 

“Quenya is an older dialect, though many of the Noldar still use it, whereas Sindarin is a newer version of the Eldar language.”

You didn’t respond, simply nodding your head as you fiddled with the fabric of your dress. Maedhros closed the book much more gently than you initially did, though he made no move to stand.

“I apologize; I have yet to inquire about your stay here. Have you found the accommodations to your liking?” 

His question was nearly word for word what you fantasized he would say to you. Was he teasing you? Could he truly read your every thought, or was it just a coincidence?

“They’ve been great, better than I could’ve hoped.” You were nervous, so nervous it wasn’t even a joke anymore. Why couldn’t you just be normal?

“And how do you find yourself settling in?” He seemed so relaxed and at ease; why can’t you be more like that. 

“I’m getting accustomed, but it’s all so different from the home I knew. I will admit, it is refreshing to speak with someone in a language I am familiar with.” 

Maedhros pauses, slightly tilting his head to the side, something flashing across his face.

“Forgive me; I did not think about how few people share a common language with you.” 

You shook your head once again afraid of accidentally offending him. “It’s no issue; if anything, it forces my Quenyan to improve.” You wanted to be reassuring, to show that you were more than comfortable with your current circumstances. The last thing you needed was the king thinking you were being difficult or ungrateful. 

“But it must be frustrating not being able to convey your thoughts clearly.”

You merely shrugged in response. It was, and sometimes it made you want to scream and break something, but you couldn’t admit that. You didn’t want to seem ungrateful. 

Maedhros hummed in response and pushed his chair back, now standing at full height. 

“I must part from you, but perhaps we could meet here again tomorrow, if only so I may offer my translating abilities.”

A tentative smile appeared on your face, and you nodded in agreement. Maedhros tilted his head in a slight nod and turned, exiting the room with a flourish. 

Only once you were left alone did you let a high and girlish giggle leave your mouth. It echoed in the quiet library, and unbeknownst to you, Maedhros heard it on the other side of the door. 

And so a new tradition began as you and Maedhros met in the library every evening. You’d spend hours with one another, and within the first week, the excuse of studying linguistics had been forgotten. Enraptured in the presence of one another, you were both entirely unaware of the impending war.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ

 You were waiting by the gardens. 

Wearing a new dress, fiddling with the bracelets that adorned your wrists. You were so nervous yet equally excited. Maedhros had broken tradition, and instead of meeting you in the library, he asked to meet you near the gardens. 

Your heart was in your throat; nervous goosebumps were all over your skin. It was truly as if all of your fantasies had come to life. Light footsteps echoed on the marbled flooring, and it made you turn. Maedhros, your intended partner, walked towards you, taking long strides. 

A smile was placed on your lips, and Maedhros matched it. Long ago had he shed the detached demeanor he so often presented to the rest of the world. Instead, he was open with his emotions - both good and bad - allowing himself to be vulnerable with you in a way so few people have witnessed. 

“You came,” he spoke as he closed the distance separating the two of you.

“How could I refuse?” Your smile widened, eyes in the shape of crescent moons. He laughed, low and smooth, offering his arm to you. Your hand wrapped around the crook of his arm, and it fits as if your hand was met for his. 

“Shall we?”

You motioned with your hand towards the gardens. “We shall.”  

The two of you walked in near perfect sync, wandering through the gardens, making quiet conversation with explosive banter. He was not as stern and rigid as he once appeared. With the moonlight reflected in his eyes and the stars making him shine, he seemed more like an innocent child than a hardened warrior burdened with war and trauma. 

You wanted to see this side of him every moment of every day. To see his eyes resemble glass and to hear his hearty chuckle as he threw his head back. Eventually, you gave up the guise of being interested in the flowers, even though they were quite beautiful. All your attention was focused on Maedhros, a sight you were determined to imprint in your brain. 

If you were to wake up tomorrow, back in your old bed, in your old apartment, you’d be happy to remember this moment and this moment only. You’d dedicate the rest of your life to writing poems about him, painting portraits, and writing overly embellished love stories. Anything to commemorate Maedhros and everything you’d wanted with him. Even if he didn’t return your affections quite as fiercely. 

“Tell me about your home. You never speak of it.” 

Your expression fell, your smile dimmed, and your eyes downturned. Home. You hadn’t really thought of it as much. It used to be a constant thought, a thing you wished on every falling star to return to. But now… You couldn’t remember the last time you made that wish. 

“It’s…different.” You fumbled over your words. How do you explain something you yourself hardly understand?

“In what way?” Maedhros pries, wanting to know more information. You’d be flattered in any circumstance or with any different topic. Yet the subject of home was complicated and one you hadn’t dared to broach with anyone.

“In every way.” A breezy laugh escaped your mouth, hoping to distract how tense you suddenly became. 

“I’d like to hear it all if you’d be willing to tell me.” 

“I--” You stuttered over the words, a lump caught in your throat. You wanted to tell Maedhros to bear your entire soul to him, but an inkling of fear gave you pause. Would he deem you a mad woman? Distancing himself and becoming as aloof as he once was.

Yet the two of you had grown so close as of late, and if you’d ever hoped to be more than friends, it would only be fair, to be honest.

“I don’t think I’m from this time.” You began, unsure of the best way to start.

Maedhros stopped, turning to face you. You nearly stumble but manage to catch yourself, meeting Maedhros’ gaze. 

“In what way?” 

You swallowed the lump in your throat, pressing your hand into a fist. Fortune favors the bold. You have to be bold if you want this.

“I believe when I was dropped here, I was dropped in the past. My world is so different and so much more advanced in terms of technology.”

He gave you a hard stare, not speaking for a few minutes. The moments of silence dragged on, and you were half tempted to flee and never return. Yet your body had become so heavy, and your feet were bolted to the ground. There would be no escape. 

“I don’t know why, but I believe you.” He spoke slowly, as if unsure of his own words as he said them. “At the very least, I believe you believe in what you say, and you have given me no reason to distrust you.”

Your breath that had been caught in your throat was suddenly released as your body slackened. The wide grin you previously wore returned to your face, all the worry lines and creases on your face melting away. 

“You have no idea how relieved I am to hear that.” You were breathless, a weight you hadn’t even realized was weighing you down, relieved from your chest. 

“I can only imagine how you must’ve felt, how confused you were.” His tone was soft and took a somber note, his eyes closer to an emerald green than the light color they previously were. 

“I managed to get by.”

Maedhros nodded, a smile tugging on the edges of his lips. 

“Well, please indulge me then, and tell me all the wonders of your home. I’m sure you’ve longed to do as such; you assimilated so quickly, I never would’ve thought you were from a completely different time.” 

You stared at him a moment longer, a breath caught in your throat. Yet this time, it wasn’t from nerves or anxiety; no, the pounding in your chest was for an entirely different reason. It had everything to do with the softness in Maedhros’ eyes as he looked at you. 

And so you indulged his every question and whim, the two of you wrapping around the garden a million times, talking until the moon was at the highest point in the sky, and all was silent. 

You were exhausted, holding back yawns every other sentence, but you pushed through, soaking in the time with Maedhros. Who knew when you’d get another chance? But eventually, he caught on, noticing the droop of your eyes and the lethargic pace you walked with. 

He guided you back to your chambers with all the chivalry gone from your world. You expected him to say farewell and give a single nod, as he always did when parting ways. He did bid you farewell, his smile warm and vibrant, and he did dip his head into a nod. 

But he also placed a kiss on the very edge of your lips before turning and disappearing down the hall. 

Frozen, you stood there for who knew how long, face awestruck and hand resting where his lips previously had been. 

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ

Time had seemed nothing more than an illusion. 

It seemed to move around you, yet you were the same, unchanged by it. Physically, you may appear the same, yet everything is so entirely…different. Maedhros made quick work of letting you know he intended to court you, and who would you be to deny it. 

All the formalities and technicalities that came with courting royalty was dizzying, but Maedhros was always there to center you. Strolls through the gardens and long evenings in the libraries; it made everything more bearable. It was also worth the stiffness that came with court to see the child-like grin that would light up Maedhros’ face when it was just the two of you. 

But doubt was a terrible thing. 

You constantly feared you wouldn’t live up to not only his expectations, but the expectations of his people. You were a human among elves, and despite not aging, you knew the court talked. Their fascination with you long died out, and anyone who believed you were sent by the Gods was the minority. They hid sharp words behind pretty smiles and musical laughter, but you could see through the fakeness all the same. Their cruel words only helped reinforce the doubts you already had.

And you weren’t the only one weighed down by it.

Maedhros was a far cry from what he used to be. Before the oath, before the torment, and before all the death at the hands of his kin. Could he really be so selfish as to tie you down to him? You were blind to this of course. You knew he suffered from PTSD and trauma, but even as you held him under the light of the moon, you were never aware of just how deep his fears went. 

How when he wept in your arms, it wasn’t only for what he suffered, but what he may suffer when you decide you want better. When you finally realized he wasn’t enough for you. 

His anxiety twisted into something harsh, manifesting as anger rather than sadness. Yet even as he lashed out, you stayed. Your face would remain perfectly passive, seemingly unbothered by it. 

It was another one of those nights.

You both sat on the balcony attached to his chambers, feet dangling over the edge. It was improper for you to be in his bed chambers, especially so late at night, but you couldn’t care about court etiquette at a moment like this. 

Your arms were wrapped around Maedhros, keeping him as close to you as physically possible. His head rested in the crook of your neck, eyes shut as his breathing matched the rhythm of your heart. All was quiet except the occasional sniffle from Maedhros. But after a few moments he was the one to break it. 

He pulled himself away from you, not an inch of his body touching yours. His relaxed posture suddenly seemed so tense and proper; an austere expression falling over his face. The sudden change was enough to give you whiplash, all the worst of your insecurities coming to head.

A moment passed before Maedhros stood, returning to his chambers. Tentatively, you stood, following after him. What made him suddenly change, as if a light had been switched?

He walked across the room, to the decanter holding a red wine. Maedhros took his time pouring it into a crystal glass before bringing it to his lips and nearly downing it all in one drink. He sent it down and refilled the glass, continuing the same pattern. 

The entire time he refused to meet your gaze. Awkwardly you say at the end of his bed, intertwining your fingers in an attempt to distract yourself. It hadn’t worked, all your fears growing the longer Maedhros held the silence. Was it a contest? Was he waiting for you to poke and prod?

“We should dissolve our courtship.” 

If you hadn’t already been sitting, you could’ve fallen to your knees. One simple sentence, that was all it took to make the past years come crumbling to nothing. 

“What?” Your voice was barely louder than a whisper. “Why?”

Another glass of wine drank and another glass filled before he dared to answer.

“While I have enjoyed your company, I do not believe us suited to continue any further,” he said. Even still, he refused to meet your eyes. His hand gripped the table he stood before, his grip so tight you were half surprised it didn’t crack under the weight of it. 

“So that’s it.” Your voice was like stone; hard, cold, and unwavering. “You decide to end our courtship, yet you can’t even look me in the eye as you do it.” 

Maedhros didn’t move from his position, you however, stood from the bed. 

All the anger and frustration, needling insecurities and self doubt came bubbling to the surface. You didn’t bother to push it down, or rationalize it so much you can’t even feel anymore. It came together in one chaotic concoction and exploded. 

“Look at me.” You weren’t shouting, but there was force behind your tone. A warning and a threat all in one. Yet Maedhros still kept his back to you. You took three more steps towards him, nearly behind him. 

“I said look at me.” The volume of your voice became louder, the stone facade breaking and cracks of desperation shone through you. You couldn’t understand why he was doing this, you’d thought he loved you the same way you loved him.

Had it all been a mistake, were there signs and clues you’d missed along the way?

Finally Maedhros turned to face you, and within moments all of your anger dissipated. Tears streamed down his cheeks, unshed ones exaggerating his red rimmed eyes. He looked absolutely broken, the worst you’d ever seen him. 

“Why are you doing this?” You dropped the facade of nonchalance. Tears began to well in your eyes, a slight waver in your voice as you spoke.

Still he didn’t speak. 

You closed the distance separating the two of you, grabbing his hand in yours, but he pushed you away. Still you attempted to grab it again and this time he didn’t bother rejecting your touch. 

“Mae please, what is the real reason for this?” You looked up at him like a doe, so wide-eyed and teary. Any shred of conviction he previously held onto crumbled as he looked at your face. 

He thought marrying you would be selfish, but perhaps this was the more selfish option?

“You deserve better. I can’t give you what you deserve.” 

A crease formed on your forehead as your brows furrowed. 

“Fuck it.” 

Maedhros blinked, stunned by your brash words. For a moment he thought he might’ve misheard, he’d never heard you speak like that. But it would appear he hadn’t misheard you.

“What?”

“I said, fuck it. I love you, and you love me, and god dammit, if you’re not best for me then I don’t want better.”

You moved one of your hands from his, cupping his chin, forcing Maedhros to meet your gaze, an attempt to show the sincerity in every word spoken.

“I love you, and there’s not a damn thing you can do about it.”

Your words hung in the room, imprinted on the floorboards and the walls.

The Maedhros’ lips were on yours. The kiss was quick and fervent, expressing everything he’d never be able to put into words. All the love and fear that clung to him like a shadow; his entire soul was laid before you. It was dizzying - you were drowning at sea, and Maedhros was your only lifeboat. 

You clung to his form, never able to get close enough, one of your hands wrapped around his lithe form while the other reached towards the nape of his neck, gently tugging on his hair. He groaned against your lips and you swallowed the noise, deepening the kiss. 

Closer, closer, you needed to be closer. 

He pulled you just as tight as you were pulling him, just as desperate if not more so than you were. His one arm wrapped around your waist and held you against his body. His scent was intoxicating, that same heady cologne he’d been wearing when you first spoke in the library. Your teeth clacked against his, but you couldn’t find it in you to care. You needed him to know that every word you’d said, you’d meant. 

There wasn’t a universe you wanted to exist in without him. 

And while that thought terrified you, you repressed it, opting to deal with it later. 

Maedhros needed to know you were all in, and you’d spent the rest of eternity convincing him if need be. 

At some point he pulled back, the rise of fall of both of your chest and heavy breathing the only sound in the room. 

His hand moved from your waist and into your hair, finger combing through it. There were stars in his eyes that you surely replicated. 

“Forgive me, I was being foolish. I don’t want our courtship to end, you’re the woman I want to marry. I never want to leave your side and I promise to never send you away, I swear it.” 

A smile, small and delicate, lit up your features as you frantically nodded in response. Maedhros huffed out a laugh, pressing his forehead against yours, muttering elvish endearments against your skin. 

You closed your eyes, basking in his presence and the musical sound of his voice. 

Oh to freeze this moment and live in it forever. 

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ

 Everything was silent and calm, but not in a way that would be soothing and leave behind a sense of weightlessness. Instead, it was harsh and grating, mile-high walls building up around you as you subconsciously prepared for...something. Anything that would cause a ripple and disturb this illusion that encased you. 

You couldn’t deny it anymore and continue to make excuses for what was so clearly right in front of you. War had brought devastation, and with that came change, and with change came the end of a life you’d built. For so long, Maedhros was able to ignore the Oath he and his brothers had sworn. The Silmarils were forgotten but only for a time. Word had reached Ossiriand that the son of Beren and Luthien had inherited the Silmaril his parents had recovered. 

Maedhros, once noble and as bright as the sun, now appeared worn and haggard, his eyes bearing the weight of a consuming madness. Restlessness gnawed at his soul as his insatiable quest for the Silmarils tightened its grip on his heart. 

It was only a matter of time before the bubble burst, and you could no longer delude yourself into thinking he was still the same man you fell in love with. 

“Maedhros,” you said quietly in hopes of not sparking another argument. “Are you certain this is the wise decision?” 

He turned to you, his eyes stern and calculating. It was a stark difference from the love and warmth they used to be lit by. Instead of looking into the sun, you were staring into a fiery furnace.

“It is my duty, as well as my brothers, to honor the Oath we swore to our father. I have no doubt this is the right course of action.” He sounded so detached when he spoke to you. It was the same way he talked to commanding officers and diplomats, not how he should speak to his wife. Not the way he used to talk to you. 

The fear you’d felt, the drop of your heart each time you looked into his eyes, intensified. He was teetering on the precipice of madness. You bit your lip, mulling over the right words to keep him from falling off the ledge. 

“I understand your quest,” your voice trembled with slight trepidation despite your best efforts to keep it even. “But Maedhros, the toll it’s taking on you…I fear for your well being.” 

His eyes bore into yours, a mixture of frustration, impatience, and slight madness evident in his gaze. It made you nearly flinch, but you held your ground. 

“You doubt me?” His voice had an edge so sharp it cut you like a knife. It intensified your anxiety, but you swallowed it, steeling yourself against your nerves. 

“I don’t doubt your intentions, Maedhros,” she replied, her voice steady now, “but I fear for what this obsession is doing to you.” 

Your words seemed to strike a chord within him, his anger momentarily giving way to a flicker of doubt. A moment of clarity within his addled mind. “You think I don’t know the burden I bear?” he murmured, his voice softening now, but the anger still lingered beneath the surface. 

“I know, my love,” you replied, much softer this time. You crossed the room’s threshold, gingerly sweeping your knuckles across his cheek. His eyes flutter shut, momentarily allowing your soothing touch to wash over him. “But I can’t bear to see you suffer like this. Your people need you. I need you. Not just as a leader but as a husband too.”

His eyes opened, and the green within them softened as his anger began to wane. Yet the turmoil was still evident within him. He was a man fighting two wars, one war with the forces of Morgoth and the second war within himself. 

“It’s not easy for me either, and I curse the day I swore that oath.” His confession made the flicker of hope within you get bigger. Perhaps you’d successfully pulled him from the ledge. “But I cannot turn away from my destiny.” 

Just as soon as it appeared, the hope was snuffed out; stubborn and proud, you now cursed what you used to admire about him most. 

“But at what cost, Maedhros? The Oath has led to nothing but tragedy and death. You are losing yourself in this darkness, forsaking all that once mattered. Look around you! Our people suffer, our family crumbles, and still, you are blinded by this madness!” Desperate and pleading, you tried to force him to see reason. 

As if your touch was made of acid, Maedhros pulled away and sidestepped you, a sea separating you from him. The anger returned to his eyes as they hardened once more. The brief moment of vulnerability was gone, and it was difficult to remember if it had ever even been there, to begin with. 

“And for what? For some gems that shine prettily,” you continued; he needed to hear your words, to taste the venom behind them. If he held even an ounce of love for you, he would heed your warning. But your words seemed to fall on deaf ears, lost amidst the blaze of anger that threatened to burn the whole world. 

“You know nothing of the weight I carry,” he snapped, his voice cutting through the air like a freshly sharpened sword. “You are my wife, not an advisor; quit constantly questioning me and stand by my side as you were intended to.”

The words caught in your throat faded, replaced with a bitter taste of the last bit of love and hope you held for Maedhros dying. Your eyes fell to the floor; there was nothing left to do. The butterflies he incited within you had turned to ash. Everything the two of you built crumbled, and Maedhros gladly helped, knocking down the pillars it once stood upon. 

The Maedhros you loved was long gone; what stood before you now was a shell of the man he once was.

“If that’s the way you feel.” It was all you uttered before exiting the room, leaving Maedhros in the dimly lit room with nothing but anger and regret. He wanted to call out to you, to beg you to stay and reassure you he hadn’t meant it. But the grip of madness was unyielding, and even in the depths of sorrow, it would not relent.

The Silmarils that had once been a beacon of hope now seemed to mock him, and the emptiness in his heart felt like a chasm he could never fill.

In the stillness of the night, as Maedhros lay slumbering, you stole away into vast open fields. Cloaked in the darkness that came with night, you ran, nowhere in particular, just so long as it was as far away from Maedhros. Your heart was heavy with the weight of your decision and the finality of the ending of a love you thought would last forever. Yet the echoes of the argument lingered; his harsh words and austere face were a haunting reminder of what had been lost. 

“It’s better this way,” you told yourself. 

You would carry the memory of Maedhros until your dying day, praying that he might find solace and release from his Oath. But you couldn’t count on it, and you wouldn’t waste your days hoping he’d change. 

“It’s better this way,” you repeated once more.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ

The warm glow of the sun was waning, warning you of the impending cloak of night. 

You stood on the cliffside, staring into the waters below, feet buried in the overgrowth and dirt. The air was cool, and the world was quiet. So serene and perfect that it was hard to believe it was real. You burrowed your feet deeper into the dirt, desperate to ground yourself into reality. 

The mellowness of your surroundings eased the grief within your heart. War was over, and the suffering you’d endured was but a distant dream. Residing in the lands of Aman, you could forget your life had been anything other than something full of beautiful poetic prose. 

Yet it was hard to let go of all of your pain. But as time passed, it became twisted, no longer the stabbing pain of a needle. It poured from you into a melancholia that you would use to paint all your skies a dark blue. It lingered in the edges of your landscape, blurred in the edges and nearly unseen by anyone except for you. 

A soft hum escaped your mouth as you allowed the sound of cascading waves to fall over you. Eyes fluttered shut, the faint mist of water touching your body. 

You only opened your eyes once the sound of footsteps was heard. Your posture stiffened, ears sharpening to hone in on the sounds of the intruder. No one dared to intrude upon you, and if they did, it was preemptively planned, never just a sudden visit. 

Slowly, you turned, but you were still surprised even though you didn’t know what to expect. 

Standing before you, as tall and proud as the day you’d first met, was Maedhros. He was vibrant and real, only a hint of tentative uncertainty marring his neutral expression. He stopped a few paces away, silent as you took him in. Framed by the soft glow of the golden rays of sunlight, he was just as you remembered him, yet with an unmistakable touch of time. 

It wasn’t in the traditional ways of humans; there were no wrinkles and lines imprinted on his face. It was all in the eyes, the centuries of wisdom, pain, and suffering making them heavier than they once were. 

He’d died. You knew that. He cast himself into the fire alongside his brother when he could no longer possess the Silmarils. It was said they burned him upon contact and it was a fate too terrible for him to live. You’d wept for days on end upon learning his fate. 

And yet here he was, as real as the day you’d met. 

“Maedhros.” His name hung in the air as if you were unsure it was truly him. He simply nodded, an affirmation that he was really here, standing before you.  

Silence stretched between the two of you, your eyes locked in a gaze that spoke the words your lips couldn’t find. There was a tempest of emotions within you - joy, relief, curiosity, and a lingering sense of hurt you couldn’t fully let go of. 

And then, like the first rays of sunrise, a smile graced Maedhros’ lips, and it was as if the years spent separated vanished. The arguments disappeared with them, leaving only an overwhelming happiness to see him standing before you. Your strides were sure as you stepped towards Maedhros, and he helped to close the gap, your arms weaving around his body as you embraced him for the first time in years.

He smelled just how you’d remembered, and you buried your face into his chest, determined to remember how his arm felt around your waist. 

“Is it really you?” you whispered, your voice trembling with a mix of disbelief and delight.

You felt the rumble of Maedhros’ slight laughter as he nodded his head. “ Yes, it’s me, my love.”

You pulled back slightly, just enough that you could see his face but close enough that you could feel the warmth he radiated. “I- I can’t believe it; how is this even possible?” You were nearly out of breath as you spoke, eyes searching for answers within his. 

“A twist of fate, I suppose. I was released from the Halls of Mandos, my time of repentance done.” A hint of a smile tugged at the corner of his lips, his grip on you tightening. “I should have listened to you the night that you left. You were right, and I was just to--”

You cut him off by placing a searing kiss on his lips. His words were forgotten, the long speech he’d probably been preparing since the moment you left cut off. There would be an eternity for forgiveness and apologetic words. Right now, you just wanted to remember how his lips had felt on yours.

He melted into the kiss, his lips just as sweet as you’d remembered them to be. The years melted into oblivion; it was just you and Maedhros, with nothing severing the love you held. The kiss was a mixture of vehement remorse and a promise to never forsake the promise of love he’d made to you. Time slowed as the two of you savored the moment, fully immersed in the warmth of his body and the taste of his lips. 

As the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of orange and pink, you and Maedhros stayed tangled in one another. You’d both been given a second chance, something you hadn’t dared to think would be possible. And yet here he was, so intertwined with you it was hard to see where you ended and he began. It was a chance to reignite a love that had never fully died out.

[doodle-pops]

Slow Hands

Maedhros x reader

Request: Hiiiii! (You're my fav Tumblr btw, this is my first ask I'm so nervous!!!) Please don't take anything from here offensivelyyyy! So I was going through your blog, and you know based on this ask, I found it rather interesting, and so I was hoping for you to write something based off on this? But personally speaking from House of Feanor, if not (completely your choice), then House of Finwe. Omg, Thanks so much, Love you and your blog! Good day!!!!

A/N: Next time, please state a character of choice. I was gonna make this a lot more angsty that I planned, but I was more in the mood for comfort.

Warnings: hurt/comfort, reader being a domestic abuse survivor

Words: 2k

Synopsis: A burst of anger leave both you and Maedhros in a quake of trepidation, cautious about your next move.

It was more than a week since you last saw his face. His perfect dimpled smile and pearly whites gleaming at you in contentment while his fiery ginger curls would swoop down to tickle your face as he leaned in for a kiss to start your day. No “Good morning, my love” or “How’s my sweet darling fairing on such a lovely day?” during your first meetings. His voice lingered in your mind for hours, for days, for a week and tormented you to think about it. You still craved his presence, you yearned for his silent smile or his gentle stormy eyes on you. They held so much affection, he still couldn’t believe he was capable of capturing.

Your bed was cold, not even all the lumber supply could maintain a fire hot enough to bring warmth. Anor could shine for days if it wanted to and not a single ray of sunlight would brighten your cloudy atmosphere looming overhead. The moment your fëa went cold, every crevice and crack did not escape your sullen mood. It was as if all life had been sucked out and there was no chance at anything encompassing. You felt like you were the anti-life.

To say it was your fault was not the route you should be taking to assessing the situation, but you assumed you had grown out of it and healed many years ago when all ties were severed. For the first time, his displeasure reenacted your fear from the constant abuse you once faced. A simple raise of his voice and the abrupt swivelling around to rake a hand through his hair prompted your body to jolt as though you were ducking an object being launched at your head. Your mind still replayed the images of his confusion and hurt at your response. You knew what his sorrowful eyes meant when they froze on your deer-like figure.

“You believe that I would harm you?”

To reach out and let him comfort you, reassure him that it was a reflex from trauma and not believing he was an evident failure. You could see how he stared at his hand and stump in disgust; memories of what he saw during his time in Angband flashed across and urged him to recoil entirely from you. If he saw those images of himself, then indeed you did as well. What would you consider him, an orc? Perhaps he was and never saw that image until now when you looked at him with trepidation.

How long would you wait? How long could you wait? You knew he wasn’t coming to see you, he was focused on distracting or hating himself. Did you have the strength to surpass the rod that aggravated your anxiety and pushed more horrifying images of him truly harming you or would you accept defeat?

Standing before his study, the guards outside had already informed you of his presence and all that was left to do was enter. Knocking was a no-go.

One hand was gripping your outer robes and tugging at the seams, the other was vibrating on the handle. Any moment and the door would begin rattling off the hinges. The drafts in the corridor weren’t helping your nerves, only pushing for goosebumps and shivers to ache your body, sending you into further agony. Sliding your eyes to the right and then left to notice if the guards saw anything, their heads remained ahead. You breathed a sigh of relief. The world was shifting and making you nauseous as if everything was against this one act.

The voice of reason picked at you endlessly to soothe your body and settle thoughts of assurance. “He said he would never hurt you and he would not. It was unintentional. Reason with him.”

Heaving, the handle was twisted, and your body inelegantly slipped through the opening and stood before the quickly shut door with hands fisting your robes. A beam of sweat rolled down your temple as you saw him. He was faring a lot worse than you could imagine. One might believe he was the victim of domestic violence—of course, you knew that he had his suffering similarly to yours.

His study was a hurricane, and at the centre sat him with a melancholy expression. His disposition reminded you of the stories of his early years after captivity. Your natural urge was to rush over and chastise him, but there was hesitation in your motion. You weren’t sure if he noticed you from his hunch and eyes on the horizon, but you saw a slight huffing when he dipped his head downwards before returning to the horizon.

“...Maedhros?” you timidly called out to him.

At his name, his body seized. The hands on the armrest instantaneously increased pressure in their grip; any moment now, they would crack under the tension. Though, the tension in the room was thicker than what the chair suffered. Yet still, he did not turn to greet you, only dropping his head to bite his quivering lip.

“Maedhros, it’s me, Y/N. I’ve...come to talk...” your words shook slightly at the consciousness of taking the upper hand. This was usually his line of action.

“Why....why would you still wish to talk to an orc like me?” his voice sounded like gravel scraping under a boot. His posture shifted from hunched to slouched, the last display of mannerisms you’d expected from the head of his household. The same person who chastised his brothers for their behaviour.

Shifting on your feet and blinking a few times, you gulped. You expected difficulty, but expecting and experiencing were always different. “You’re not an orc, Maedhros. I just wanted to tell you I’m sorry for flinching and worsening the situation,” you explained.

“Apologise?” He turned his head to finally meet you. What you saw was just as imagined; his eyes hallowed and darkened, lips scaled and face slightly gaunt. “You shouldn’t be apologising, I should...it was my fault for breaking your trust and making you feel unsafe...” His lis lips sneered in disgust as his eyes dropped momentarily to glance at his hands.

Denying his claims, you took the courage to step forward as more light was shed on the issue. You now stood before the desk, still five feet away. “No, it’s not your fault. It’s...I-...It’s mine. I overreacted.”

“You didn’t overreact Y/N, you acted as anyone would...and I’m sorry for making you feel this way. You no longer have to stay with me if I cause you distressing harm," he painfully clarified. His knuckles were turning white from the agony he had caused for himself. How was he supposed to continue living without you when your love turned into hate?

“Mae,” you called softer with fiddling fingers, “I know you would never harm me, but it was just my body doing a natural r-reaction. That’s all.” There were tears welling in the corners of your eyes the longer you explained yourself. Your throat was closing in.

He hated how you blamed yourself when the obvious enemy was him, but your words placed an arrow in his track. Yes, sometimes it was natural for someone to flinch if they were about to be struck, but you weren't nor were you about to be. Even if it was a spooked reaction, never in the manner you did. It wasn’t defence or flight mode, but rather a genuine dread. He saw this and he knew there was a trigger behind it all. Overreacting was never a justification for what you displayed.

“Y/N, is there something you wish to tell me? Is there something you aren’t telling me that resulted in your...response?” He wanted to remove himself from his chair, but that would be the worst mistake of his life following his question. Instead, he chose to remain seated and attempt to soften his gaze as he patiently awaited your reply.

“My...” your voice felt heavy and drenched as you spoke across the depleting tension, “...oh Mae. It’s...It’s hard to bring up. I’m...I-...so sorry.”

It slipped your mind how observant he was. Nothing ever missed his sight. You knew he would not be pleased with your response, undoubtedly, he already knew it but wanted the assurance. Nibbling on your top lip, you dropped your eyes to the floor and stepped backwards to plop down on the sofa. Your hands fell limp at your sides before you cupped them to your chest and held your heart.

As your body shook, you missed the sound of the chair being scraped against the carpet and the presence of a towering figure above you, crouching to your level. Maedhros sat on his hunches while you cried and cursed himself and your past lover for the reason why he couldn’t hold you as he now wished to. All he could do was watch as your trauma unfolded before his eyes and shed tears of his own. His heart clenched and bled rivers of tears for you. To cradle you like the most valuable creation in the world was his longing desire for more than a week, and he still could not.

“Ěrěmelda, please do not blame yourself. You are not to blame; you are not at fault. If anyone is to blame, it is that vile and disgusting person who did this to you,” he consoled. His eyes lift to stare at your hidden face behind your hands. Fighting the urge to reach out, wanting nothing more than to respect your privacy, he still needed you to see that he was no longer a threat and that he was here for you. 

His left hand cautiously inched forward and reached for your arm; he fell you froze making him freeze. Not pushing him away, he gently pried each of your hands away from your tear-stained face and cupped them in his hand. Using his amputee, he made the decision to swipe your tears off your cheeks and around your eyes. The action felt foreign to him. All the while, he remained diligently at work, tidying up your face like you do with him. When he was complete, he pulled back and offered an apologetic smile.

“Please do not blame yourself, you were mistreated and still the signs are present. Because I was not aware, I triggered this. I am sorry, I will watch my anger from now on,” he apologised, bowing his head and humbly submitting himself.

You watched his actions as though it was a scene from a fairy tale or some romantic novel where the male is always perfect in every way for his lover. The surrealism was perplexing. The last image you could ever conjure was a Feanorian humbling their pride and apologising genuinely. Your subconscious joked claiming that something had possessed his body.

Smiling at the thought, you called out to him with light in your voice. “I think it is I who should be apologising for not telling that important information. This could have been avoided if only I had.”

“I believe, we were both in the wrong and apology accepted. Please, do not wallow in guilt as I assure you, it shall never happen again,” his voice fell for a quick moment before perking up again, “what can I do to make it up to you?”

Feeling the corners of your lips tugging, your eyes dropped to his hands and then back to his face. “I’ve missed you these few days gone by, will you join me for dinner, followed by a bath and a nap together? I miss you holding me.”

The glow of a thousand radiated from within and burst through his chest. The last thing he assumed was that you would still request more time and space. “If it makes you feel better, then I would be most honoured, my dear.”

Masterlist

Taglist: @spidergirla5 @lilmelily @eunoiaastralwings @noldorinpainter @ranhanabi777 @mysticmoomin @rain-on-my-umbrella @floraroselaughter @singleteapot @asianbutnotjapanese @justellie17 @justjane @hoshinokurasa

[comeontakemyname]

Having some Fingolfin and Fingon family feels today to hurt myself.

I always hc that Fingolfin goes a little fragile - at least internally - with grief after losing Argon, his youngest son, right after arriving in Middle Earth. This is after he has been burdened by the loss of his father, his brother, his son and so many of his people on the ice. And I see him as someone who loves deeply.

And then, while the wounds are still fresh, Fingon goes to find Maedhros. His eldest, who I hc he has a very close relationship with, goes into literal hell for the cousin that abandoned them (they probably have not talked about the finer details of that fiasco yet) and Fingolfin can do nothing but watch and wait. He frets. He struggles. And he unravels. Visibly.

And when Fingon comes back with Maedhros, despite really wanting to stay with him, he stays with his father in apology. Because he can see the threads barely keeping him together. And so against his heart's wishes to go further east when the sons of Fëanor do so, where Maedhros is not as far, he stays. He stays for his father's sake.

And then Turgon and Aredhel dissappear without a word. Whispers say they are dead. Some whispers speak of a worse fate for Aredhel.

And Fingon stays because he knows his father cannot take another person he cares about leaving him. Just the same as Fingon can't lose his father. And so even though his heart aches, he stays.

Fingon stays and supports his father until the world is consumed by flames, and still, he fights because he will not leave his people. And he will not leave his father.

Until in the end, his father leaves him.

[annoyinglandmagazine]

The Sons of Feanor aren’t monsters. That would imply that they’re somehow different, that they were either born a certain way or were transformed past the point where they could be recognised as people. That it wasn’t entirely their fault that they were incapable of making the right choices because they were fundamentally evil through no choice of their own.

And I don’t think that that’s true at any point for a single one of them. Because they’ve all seen each other drenched in blood that wasn’t their own, hacking their way through orcs and elves alike and maybe it would be easier even if they could say that they didn’t recognise their brothers, that they had changed and become mindless killing machines, slaves to The Oath. And it wouldn’t fully be a lie. But it wouldn’t be the truth either.

Because they’re still the same people. They talk the same way, they make the same facial expressions, they have the same (though sometimes darker) sense of humour, Celegorm still tackles everyone when he sees them, Maglor still hums under his breath constantly, Maedhros still worries about them, Curufin still fiddles with bits of metal during meetings, Caranthir still likes his hair to be stroked just so and Amrod and Amras still pull faces at each other during meetings to see who’ll crack first. And when they’re killing they’re not different people then either. Because they still mourn, they still weep, they wake up in the middle of the night screaming, they shake and tremble in each other’s arms, and they know they’re monsters but they’re still people.

Sometimes one of them will think back to their childhood. Maedhros always took control of a situation, any argument. The expression of grim determination the lord of Himring later wore was not new, he’d worn it all his life as Prince Nelyafinwe when he’d been keeping all his emotions under wraps to maintain appearances as he witnessed all the most vicious manoeuvrings in court with no qualms.

Maglor’s voice had always been powerful, sometimes it had made things break with the sheer strength of it. Curufin had always been good at getting himself out of trouble and others into it, annoying all his cousins and brothers thoroughly in their youth. When Celegorm hunted he never blanched at the bloody entrails of the creatures he killed. Caranthir had gone into moods where he could be angry enough to try and fight anyone who so much as looked at him. They’d always agreed with all their father said with no hesitation, adored him fully.

All of this comes to mind sometimes when they think of all they’ve done, the familiar expressions, the same techniques and skills used for evil but none of them had been red flags. A red flag would imply that how things had gone was somehow inevitable, that it should have been spotted and predicted. But the thing about that is that it couldn’t have been predicted that they’d do this because they might not have. They could have been good people. None of their attributes had made a single one of them predisposed for the path they’d later taken. They’d always been flawed but they hadn’t ever had any desire to hurt other people, they’d had the potential to be not perfect but still good.

And they don’t lose that potential altogether. Maglor and Maedhros still find traces of it even after everything, damaged from disuse though it may be. They don’t lose who they were entirely, they haven’t fully changed per say, the difference is that now they know what the are capable of doing. They know that they will kill if it is necessary, that they will do anything for their father, for their Oath and they know that they always would have. No matter what good they do they always were and always will be capable of this. But they might have never known that. And that’s the tragic thing about them, they had the potential to be the heroes but were born into precisely the circumstances that would turn them into villains.

[a-world-of-whimsy-5]

Athelas Drabble Challenge - Storm

Pairing: Fëanor x Maedhros 

Themes: Angst

Warnings: Mentions of storms, ships sinking, drownings

Wordcount: 300 words

Summary: After taking the swan ships for himself and those that follow him, Fëanor and the rest find themselves caught in a storm.

Rules and tag form here.  

The waves were unlike anything he had ever seen before. They rose higher and higher, swallowing entire ships whole, pulling them and the elves that crewed them to the darkness beneath the roiling sea. All that was left were bits of splintered wood floating in the water. The storm dogged them every inch of the way, its fury unrelenting and unforgiving. Ossë loved the Teleri, and his rage was a terrible thing to behold.

Another ship listed and sank to the murky depths. And another. And another. Fëanor could do nothing but hold on for dear life and watch helplessly as ship after ship yielded to the powers of one greater than he.

Lighting split the inky black sky like a lance. The wind howled and hammered at the remaining ships, threatening to drag them all under. Someone cried out for orders. Perhaps it was one of his sons. Fëanor could not tell anyone apart amidst the chaos. He kept listening, hoping and praying Uinen would sing and soothe her husband's rage.

It never happened. There were no haunting melodies, no otherworldly song to temper the storm. They were alone, and no one was coming to their aid.

Someone cried out again. Maedhros this time, Fëanor was certain of it.

"Orders, father!" Maedhros fought his way to his father. "We need orders!"

Fëanor did not know what to say. He looked into the eyes of the others and found words failing him.  Maedhros grabbed him by the collar and shook him, his eyes bright with fear. "Say something, father!"

Another cry greeted them. "The sky is clearing! Look!"

The skies were indeed clearing, but the news gave him no cheer. Dread soon coiled within Fëanor's belly like a snake. Their trials were not over.  This storm was just the beginning.