#Maedhros just wants to have a peaceful night in his own land | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

youareunbearable · 3 years ago

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So if it's Fanon that Rog was a prisioner of Angband, then he must have known about Sauron's favourite slave, Maedhros. Here is my take on how a post Angband reunion would look like between Mae and Rog ( You can also read it on A03 with the rest of my Silm ficlets here)

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It had been eighteen years since Maedhros last walked upon the lands of Mithrim, and it’s warmth and beauty felt just as refreshing as it did in Fingon’s arms on the back of the Thorondor.

Fingolfin had called all the lords and the Noldor’s allies together for a large celebration. The Mereth Aderthad they were calling this feast, and what a reuniting it was.

Maedhros sipped his watered down wine and swept his eyes over the large hall once again. It was a habit he first started in Tirion, always on the lookout for his younger brothers or their father, seeing where they were, what they were doing, how quick he could get to any of them without causing alarm, and some easy access emergency exits for quick getaways if he couldn’t stop them.

It mostly was to stop Caranthir from splashing his wine at some offending Arafinwean cousins, or if Celegorm had somehow smuggled another animal into the party, or if, Eru forbid, Feanor made direct eye contact with Fingolfin.

Now, this habit was mostly kept by paranoia fueled by the need to make sure his loved ones were safe and within eyesight. Morgoth would be foolish to attack such a large group, but a party like this would be the perfect place to sow discord.

He swept his eyes over the party hall from his isolated place near the walls. Fingon and Fingolfin were chatting with some Sindar and Avari lordlings. He could see Oropher was amongst the group but his young son wasn’t at his side. A quick glance over to the refreshments table solved the question of where young Thranduil was. He, Idril, and young Tyelpe (who begged so desperately to be able to go to the feast so he can visit his cousin that Curufin was bullied by his wife and his brothers to let the lad go only if he brought Huan) were all having a strange competition on who could shove more salted crackers into their mouths. Huan’s tail could be seen peeking out from under the table cloth, wagging with delight as he was probably eating some stolen treats. Idril seemed to be winning their strange game by the gleam in her eyes and the determined squaring of the boys’ shoulders. Some servants were eyeing the children, one of them even had a new platter of crackers in their hands. Another had a platter of cured meats, which would most likely be going under the table to their furry guest soon.

Maglor was either flirting or starting to cause a diplomatic incident with how he was animatedly talking with Daeron. He hoped the Sindar wasn’t taking the intensity of Maglor’s passion too seriously, this was probably the first time his brother met an Elf that was on par with his own talents towards the musical craft. Maedhros really hoped they ended up tumbling in a bed later in the night, because if Maglor had somehow found a personal nemesis within Thingol’s loremaster, Maedhros would have to deal with the long nights of hearing Maglor rant about how “he really isn’t that talented” or “how he is just a total hack, a waste of lung capacity” until Maedhros would be forced to flee to Caranthir’s lands just to have some peace.

Aredhel was laughing and chatting with some Avari hunters, based on the gestures they were making, it looked like they were comparing some hunting sign language. Finrod was off being dazzling at a crowd of Sindar, he was probably the most bejeweled out of all the Noldor except maybe for Fingolfin himself. His younger sister looked like she was practically cornering some poor Sindarin lordling, and the confused thing looked like he didn’t know if he wanted to escape or lean in closer to her. Maedhros wrinkled his nose, he hoped that she didn’t somehow scare this boy off with her intensity, he looked like he might have been the highest ranking Sindar in the room, based solely on the braids and bells in his hair.

He took another sip of his weak wine and wished he could walk over to Fingon without intimidating their conversation partners. It had been years since his dearest cousin visited him in Himring, and he deeply missed the closeness of his presence. Sometimes letters just didn’t cut it, and Maedhros refused to let Fingon step into his frigid realm until proper measures were put into place. Like finishing that Hot Spring bathing house, or being able to equip the guest rooms with enough firewood or furs. Unfortunately, other measures had to be taken care of first before luxuries, such as the making of siege weapons and expanding the forges and store rooms.

With a sigh, Maedhros shook his longing from his mind and continued his sweep of the room. Children were still by the snack table, not too close to the opened window as to be victims of a ranged surprise attack, but close enough that if something was heard from outside Huan would be alerted. Fingon made eye contact with him from across the hall and gave him a bright smile. Maedhros smiled back and lifted his glass in greeting but made no move to get closer. Maglor was now very much in Daeron’s personal space, his ears and cheeks were flushed and Daeron looked very pleased with himself. That could honestly mean anything, knowing how dramatic Maglor was.

Over in a corner was Turgon with his posse of lords. Glorfindel was showing some Avari a simple coin trick, one that Maedhros had seen the other do with Idril and Tyelpe as babes, and Ecthelion was looking at Maglor and Daeron like he wanted to join the other minstrels. So maybe his brother’s conversation was not romance based, which was a terrible shame, as Maglor never kisses and tells. Maybe after this party he should send a letter to Caranthir to expect him in his lands as soon as he could shake Maglor. Beside Turgon there was another lord, and Maedhros didn’t recognize this one, he must be Sindar from his colouring and the lack of glow coming from his eyes, but he was vaguely familiar. This was strange as Maedhros didn’t know any of the Sindarin Vinyamar Elves, so the fact that one sparked something in his memory drew his sharp focus. Something about the scar across his lip…

Maedhros found himself walking towards Turgon’s little group. Groups of Elves parted in front of him like a boat parts the waves. Conversation hushed as he approached, some of the Sindar and Avari staring wide eyed at his scars, his lack of right hand, his regrowing hair. They whispered to each other in hushed and reverent tones.

“That’s the one that survived the horrors of Angband.”

“I heard he actually died and was brought back to life by the Dark Hunter’s Necromancer, and it is only by Manwe’s grace that he is no longer a thrall.”

“Slipped right through the Dark Hunter’s clutches, no Elf that walks freely from those halls isn’t a thrall in some way.”

“Look at those scars, I wonder if he’s close to becoming one of those Twisted elves?”

“He’s done nothing but stain the eastern mountainsides and snow black with the blood of orcs since he left eastward.”

“How could King Fingolfin invite such a savage creature to a party such as this!”

Maedhros ignored them all. Once, he would have been worried over his reputation in Court. But now, he knew he had more important things to worry about, more realistic issues than how others stared at his scars or thought of him as a beast.

They were right. He no longer was the beautiful Maitimo of Valinor, but Maedhros the survivor. Maedhros the Dispossessed and the Failed Former High King. Only a monster would cast aside all his father has worked for and coveted to his second greatest enemy.

Maedhros felt his lips twitch at the thought. He doubted his uncle Fingolfin would appreciate not only being the second favoured son in the eyes of his own father, but also the second villain in the eyes of his elder brother.

Turgon had noticed his approach and was already bristling in anticipated arguments. Fingon’s brother had always been bitter and over protective, but the Crossing of the Ice and the death of his wife had made those traits even worse. Maedhros knew from letters that Fingon worried that his younger brother would vanish and hide away from the rest of their family if they didn’t keep tabs on him.

Even though he would love to shake some sense into his younger half-cousin, Maedhros didn’t want to pick a fight and ruin all of Fingon’s hard work, so his eyes never strayed from the scarred Sindarin lord at his side. The shorter lord was looking at Maedhros with a look of suspicion and a vague spark of familiarity that made the taller’s heart leap in his chest. The taste of an almost forgotten name bloomed on his tongue.

Glorfindel made a motion that he was going to step in front of Maedhros when the taller Elf spoke up.

“Rog, is that you?”

Everyone froze around them, before the shorter lord took a step closer. “Ross?”

Maedhros felt a hysteric laugh bubble past his lips. It was him! “Rog, you’re alive!”

Echoing his laughter, Rog brushes past Turgon, ignoring the lordling’s squawk as he suddenly finds himself with another glass in his hands, and leaps at Maedhros. The Lord of Himring catches him and feels himself giggling helplessly. He pressed his handless wrist tight into Rog’s waist, his hand burying into the smaller lord’s hair as Maedhros laughed even harder and used the momentum of Rog’s impact to spin them both in a tight circle.

Maedhros felt like falling to his knees and crying in a way he hasn’t done since he realized Fingon saving him wasn't a strange dream but reality, but he couldn’t do that in this busy hall. He probably was already making a show of himself like this, and he couldn’t ruin Fingon and Fingolfin’s efforts to unify the races any more than he already had.

Instead, he took a deep breath, inhaling the smoky smell of the forge lingering on Rog’s hair -how is that still the same?- and pulled back, smiling so wide he could feel the scars on his cheeks pulling on his lips. Rog still had his legs wrapped around his waist, and one hand gripped at his robes while the other cupped Maedhros’ cheek. Rog was smiling and his eyes were even misty with tears. He still had the same two long scars across the left side of his face, and his ears were still notched which signaled his role as a slave worker, but with higher rank.

“I can’t believe you made it out of there. How are you still alive? When Gorthaur pulled you from the cell by your neck I thought for sure he was finally going to throw you to the werewolves.” Rog sounded breathless.

“Me? What about you? I thought for sure that once Þauron chained me to that cursed cliffside he would kill you.” Maedhros adjusted his grip on Rog, untangling his hand from the other’s brown hair to support his bottom and showed the other Elf his stump wrist. “Crown Prince Fingon cut me down and rescued me, otherwise I still would have been on that cliff face. How did you escape?”

Rog smirked. “I finished that chain link rope in the forges and used it to climb out the windows.”

Maedhros helplessly laughed, noticing but not really caring how the sound echoed in the now quiet hall. “You stubborn fool! I told you over and over that would never work! But look at us, I was rescued by a knight with a song and you escaped using Þauron’s own metals against him!” Maedhros couldn’t help it anymore and buried his face into Rog’s hair, his laughter breaking down into quiet sobs.

He could feel the other detach himself from his waist, and someone gently led him somewhere where the lights weren’t as bright and the ambient presence of a crowd was diminished.

Maedhros cursed himself for breaking down like this, but he couldn’t help it. Rog was a prisoner that shared his cell for almost twenty years. They comforted each other after private sessions with Þauron, huddled together to keep warm in the cold stone rooms, among other awful things.

Þauron wanted, above all, the brilliance and talent of Feanor to make weapons and objects of power for him and Morgoth. He thought they lucked out by capturing Feanor’s eldest son, but instead of smithing Maedhros’ skills lay in statecraft and diplomacy. Þauron was furious to learn that his prized prisoner was useless to him, and there were many harsh torture sessions that followed because of that. He always hissed that he would go after his brothers, maybe even steal away little Tyelpe and raise him to be the perfect little smith. But then, for some reason, Þauron decided that if he couldn’t capture a smith with Feanor talents, then he would make one.

He had taken Rog, a Sindarin slave with great talent in the forges, and tossed him into Maedhros’ cell and told them to make a child. Þauron couldn’t seem to understand that Elves couldn’t just, have sex and make children, that it was a conscious act that neither of them would ever do to an innocent life no matter how Þauron tortured them. Nonetheless, for the next two or so decades Maedhros and Rog were often each other’s only contact for kindness and comfort, even if that kind touch was sometimes forced while Þauron or someone else supervised.

When Þauron was finally fed up with waiting and just latched Maedhros to the cliffside to “think about cooperating” he was so worried that the corrupted Maiar would just get rid of Rog like he threatened so often to do. He didn’t know if he could handle having another Elf lay with him in a facsimile of a spouse as Rog had been forced to. While neither had a true marriage bond between them, they did have some strange twisted thing Þauron created between them, something that was weak and broke when they were finally separated by a greater distance. Maedhros took that Twisted bond breaking to mean that Rog was killed.

It took a while for Maedhros to realize that he was sitting down, that Rog was curled up in his lap, and that Maedhros was still sobbing into the other’s hair. Rog was patting his back, making comforting noises and Maedhros clutched him tighter for a moment before pulling back.

Wiping at his face with his tunic, he mumbled an apology for his behaviour and outburst.

“Nonsense, Ross! We thought each other dead or still within the clutches of Þauron, that is enough to warrant a few tears!” Maedhros looked up and saw that his friend also had wet eyes and cheeks. “Though I must admit, I had thought you and those brother’s you spoke of dead since your uncle is on the Noldor throne. When Turgon spoke of you and your kin, I thought it was another batch of cousins, especially since you Noldor have so many children and kin. You all breed like rabbits and it's hard to keep track of who is who.”

Maedhros let out a bellowing laugh. “Don’t fret, I too have bemoaned the fact that I have too many brothers and cousins to look after. One of my brothers is here, he was talking to that one Sindar minstrel Daeron, and my young nephew, you remember the stories of Tyelpe, right? He was at the snack table with Thranduil. It seems my efforts to make them friends bore some fruit after all.”

Rog’s face scrunched up in thought before his expression became sheepish. “Ah yes, the dark haired Elf that was flirting with Daeron. Well, I’m afraid that we may have ruined any chances for them to tumble into a bed together, for I saw him follow after us. It is a good thing though, for Daeron was a terrible lay, from what I remember of the court gossip of Doriath before I was taken.”

There was a muffled gasp of affront from behind the door and Maedhros gave a sigh. He knew that such a burst of emotion would bring Maglor after him like a hen after her chicks. Out of all his siblings, including Curufin who was a father, Maglor was the one with the largest desire to coddle and coo, and he often had a trail of children following him around the markets of Tirion.

There was a muffled smack and a hiss to be quiet. Maedhros had just enough time to look down at Rog with an apologetic smile before the door burst open and Huan came bounding in.

“Huan, no stop!” Maglor gasped, tumbling over himself as the door suddenly opened.

Fingon barely stopped himself from falling atop of Maglor, for of course Fingon followed as Maedhros was led from the hall crying. The prince would have fought anyone that tried to get between them.

Before Maedhros could snipe at them for sneaking after him and leaving the children unattended, Huan bounded upon Maedhros, and in turn Rog, as the other was still on his lap. The three of them tumbled off the bench, and Rog was laughing loudly as the massive hound licked both of their faces clean of tear stains. Maedhros pushed both of them away, and managed to wiggle out from under the hound and Sindar. It was hard not to laugh with a lapful of wriggling dog and friend alike, but he needed to not be laughing as he scolded his brother for eavesdropping like a child at the door. Or at least to eavesdrop with better skill.

Finally free he looked up and felt his heart soften as he looked at Maglor and Fingon. Both looked so happy, and he realized with a jolt it was because Maedhros hasn’t laughed so freely in years.

“Come, you both have heard of my time in Angband and you surely remember that I said that I wasn’t alone in my cell. Well, here is my cellmate, Rog. Rog, meet my knight in shining armour, Fingon, and my younger brother Maglor, who was King in my steed. And of course, Huan, Orome’s Hound who stays with my brother Celegorm.”

Rog laughed and pushed Huan to the side with a shove. “Ah yes! Fingon the older brother to my Lord Turgon! And Maglor the minstrel! I have heard many tales about the both of you in Angband, tales that warmed the cold heart! It is good to finally be able to put a face to your names!”

Maedhros reached out his hand, which Fingon was more than happy enough to reach past Maglor and grasp. The prince sat as close as possible to the red head, and Maedhros smiled as he heard Maglor grumble about the fact their half-cousin was always a glutton for his attention. Maglor instead sat on his otherside, squished between Rog and Huan and his elder brother.

He felt himself relax for the first time in decades as they chatted around him. A Mereth Aderthad indeed, for this was a splendid reunion he never thought he would ever have.

#maedhros #rog #silmarillion #lotr #silm fic #maglor #fingon #russingon #its implied but all my fics are russingon implied or just stated so im tagging it anyways #I think Mae and Rog could have been friends and bonded over Turama cause like no one else would know what he went through #sure they know its bad but the Noldor dont really have a scope of Oh God Awful yet or deliberate evil #especially the Sons or the other grandsons of Finwe maybe not even Nolo so they wouldnt really know how to help #so let Rog be here so they can Work Through It together #i think Rog would still have gone to gondolin cause he would jsut want to smith and live good life #where Mae is determined to keep his loved ones safe so hes gonna throw himself at the forefront of the battle #diff coping mechanisims for diff babes #amber rambles

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dialux · 4 years ago

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i tag-vomited in that Maedhros is a hill person while Maglor is a beaches person post about this, but upon some further percolation (as well as this map I saw from @thefatedfinwe) my ideas for the conversations in that time period have crystallized into:

The Ambarussa were, apparently, fairly young for everything Feanor was dumping on their shoulders (I’d guess elven late teens/early twenties?). And they were also probably surrounded by over-protective brothers, right up until Maedhros is captured and suddenly the two protective elder brothers have other things on their mind (Maedhros with... torture, and Maglor with ensuring the rest of his people aren’t dead), so these two are a) traumatized by their father’s death, b) being raised by Celegorm, a person who probably thinks dangling people over wells is a fun time, c) in a despairing, bitter environment. But they grow up! They take on responsibility, make others’ lives easier, etc etc etc.

And then Maedhros returns and his youngest brothers aren’t exactly the kids he left behind

How much lobbying did they have to do to get hunting lands of their own? They were probably supposed to go with Caranthir to Thargelion, only both twins were like How About No

Celegorm tells Maedhros that the kids are fine, they once got separated from the camp and took out a hundred orcs all on their own, they’re plenty capable of having their own lands and keeping them safe.

Celegorm forgets that he hasn’t told this story to Maglor, and, quite predictably, both Maglor and Maedhros spend a day shouting at Celegorm for being such a shit guardian

Maglor, on the other hand, might like horses, but he doesn’t like plains, and Maedhros decides to send him to the GAP, which has, like, a couple rivers and that’s it

Yes, Maglor’s pissed off about it. Yes, Maglor wanted Thargelion.

Thing is, Caranthir’s absolute shit at cavalry.

Thing is, Caranthir’s also good at trade.

Thargelion is a major trade center. Or it can be. And Maedhros does not want Maglor there for it, not when Maglor’s probably going to sell half their provisions for the finest quality harpstrings the dwarves can produce.

So Caranthir gets Thargelion, and also gets some peace and distance from the cousins he’s infuriated recently.

Maedhros initially thinks he’ll take Himlad. He’d like to be on the frontlines, yes, but Himlad’s really close to the Girdle and he doesn’t trust either Curufin/Celegorm to not cause some.... diplomatic shenanigans.

And then he realizes that he’d much rather deal with diplomatic shenanigans than Curufin ‘I take calculated risks only’ and Celegorm ‘but BOY am I bad at math’ on the frontlines against the Vala who killed their father

Curufin and Celegorm are, as might be expected, irritated with this protectiveness

Curufin and Celegorm are also, like, happy to be together, yeah, but would like it noted that they’re unhappy that it’s just assumed that they’ll stay together. Just for the record.

On that note, Celegorm claims he’s there to look after Curufin. Curufin, who knows exactly how obsessive Celegorm can get if he doesn’t have someone to tell him to calm down, thinks he’s there to look after Celegorm. Caranthir, who’s got 10% more braincells than his brothers, is disgusted with their codependency.

Caranthir is vaguely insulted that he’s being shuttled off to the literal other end of the continent. What does Maedhros think, that he can’t control himself? It’s only when Maedhros talks to him about the trade routes that Caranthir acquiesces.

The Twins are also quite irritated at the assumption that they can’t handle danger. They want to get the Gap because they’re the horse experts of the family, not Maglor.

Maedhros genuinely bursts into tears when Maglor walks in that night. He tells Maglor that if he doesn’t take the Gap right fucking now he’s going to tie all of them up and install them as courtiers in Fingolfin’s court, damn the idea of having lands of their own.

This is the first time he cries after his rescue. Maglor’s completely freaked out. He agrees.

It becomes legend: the only people who can get Maedhros Feanorian to cry after Morgoth’s tortures are his six younger brothers.

None of them are completely happy, but Maedhros insists that unhappiness is the sign of a good compromise. Maglor’s glaring at the rest of them hard enough that they don’t dare to complain.

#i just want someone to write me a story where all the brothers are bitchy and immature and selfish #is that too much to ask??????????????????#silmarillion #my writing #feanorians #right i need a tag for the feanorian family feels

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feanorianethicsdepartment · 3 years ago

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more thoughts about the homecoming au, the au where maedhros and maglor get brought back to tirion after the war of wrath to be prettied-up trinkets on finarfin’s shelf, with painted-over scars and muffled screams. it is dark, it’s full of all kinds of emotional and caretaker abuse, and the brothers weren’t exactly in a good state of mind before any of this happened. @sunflowersupremes wrote the initial au that wasn’t even meant as horror, @outofangband - this au is as much theirs as mine, several of the concepts here were originally theirs, and a lot of this originally came out in dms with them. part 1 is here. this part contains gaslighting, loss of autonomy right at the end, more suicide mentions (thanks mae) and just general abuse from people who care more about their own comfort than the people they’re supposed to be caring for. it’s worse than the first part, honestly

most of the stuff the fëanorians had on them when they surrendered got taken away pretty fast. which is honestly understandable; some of it was cursed, a lot of it was weaponry, all of it stank to the high vault of the stars

but they both managed to hold onto some personal effects, or get them back before they went in the incinerator. a broken locket, a torn-up book, nothing fancy, nothing large, but things that still mean a lot to them

the valinoreans aren’t entirely comfortable with this. they find a lot of the brothers’ comfort items mildly disturbing, stained with darkness and (occasionally literal) blood as they are. maedhros had this dessicated finger he refuses to explain anything about that got disposed of very quickly

maglor has a few strands of brightly coloured thread, spun around each other somewhat inexpertly. he tends to pull it out when he’s feeling depressed, working it between his fingers until he feels like he can face the world again

one day, one of his minders who gets along better with him asks where he got it. from the twins, maglor admits. it’s part of some embroidery elrond abandoned when they left -

and it’s snatched out of his hands. his minder looks down at him compassionately. ‘i know you miss them, but you caused those boys a lot of pain, you know? you shouldn’t romanticise your relationship with them’

which - maglor’s relationship with the twins was complicated, and while it wasn’t nearly as hellish as elwing fears, it wasn’t entirely healthy. maglor was dependent emotionally on the kids a lot more than any adult should be to children, and vice versa

because the twins were the last people he had left. when maedhros executed celegorm’s servants with no warning at all, this rift began to grow between the sons of fëanor and their followers. they’d always been terrifying, but they’d also been comradely and inspiring, the white-hot stars around which their people orbited. but when they turned their fangs on their own host, all that started to fall away, leaving only the fear behind

it got worse after sirion. by the time vingilot rose in the sky, maglor’s only real remaining relationships were with maedhros, who he hated as much as he loved, and the twins. watching over them, talking to them, not hurting them - it kept him grounded in reality, kept him sane

he knows, he knows, he knows, they’re better off without him. but his time with them is the only happiness in his memories that still feels real

but the valinoreans can’t accept that. the exile was an awful time with nothing in it worth keeping, and the sooner he can recognise that the faster he’ll be back to his old self

besides. their caretakers don’t like being reminded of their more... unpleasant deeds

(elwing sidebar: elwing and eärendil are having an easier time, because the teleri have experience dealing with trauma and are also just more accepting of the right to have your own take on your own experiences. still, though, elwing occasionally hears that a proper telerin mother would have stayed with her children, even if she had to give up the treasure her people died for to the monsters of her childhood nightmares)

(elwing was a young adult in a horrendous situation with no obvious way out, elwing is dealing with her own damage as best she can, elwing is valid, we stan elwing. she’s also one of the few direct-ish sources the noldor have for beleriand and what the fëanorians did there, and her (perfectly reasonable!) perspective colours a lot of their treatment)

in general the valinorean noldor are quite sure they know what beleriand was like and how it felt to be there, and aren’t particularly interested in being proven wrong

it was miserable, it was harrowing, it was nothing anyone should want to think about. it was a long nightmare maedhros and maglor are so fortunate to have finally woken up from

and you can kind of see why they think like that? the ones who have seen the hither shores saw them when ash rained from a void-black sky and almost everything was dead, and the survivors told stories of a long hopeless defeat and cruelties beyond imagining

but that deep black image blots out the genuine joy they felt in those five hundred years, the chance to prove their own greatness, the knowledge they were doing something good, nights when music echoed across the gap, warm hands in a cold fortress. there were things in beleriand worth remembering, aspects of the people they became there legitimately worth keeping

and even if there wasn’t - five hundred years. the scars on their bodies make it plain to see, every little piece of who they are was shaped by beleriand, for worse and for better. they just can’t leave it behind

their valinorean caretakers find this horrifying

maedhros likes to exercise. it keeps him calm, gives him something to do. it’s not something nelyafinwë was super into - he was more the peripatetic type - but it’s a feasible hobby for a noldorin prince to have, so he’s allowed to do it

sometimes, though, he’ll unconsciously shift into the old combat forms, precisely timed drills ingrained into his bodies. the first few times he does this, his minders are bemused more than anything, but then one day he happens to have a stick in hand to use as a mock-sword

then every time he starts to slip away into that meditative trance, hands reach out to stop him and hold him in place. ‘there’s no need to fight here, maitimo,’ an elf he knew before the unchaining tells him ever so gently. ‘you’re safe now’

... they say that, but maedhros’ nightmares keep getting worse

it’s like that with everything that makes the valinoreans uncomfortable. whenever they try to speak of their time in beleriand, no matter what they say, they’re told that oh, they know it was hard, but it’s all over now and they don’t have to dwell on it

but even after they’ve spent years in paradise, maedhros and maglor still won’t let go and allow themselves to heal

they just can’t come to terms with the truth of their ordeal

the narrative the valinoreans have constructed erases all of the bright spots, but it also bleaches out the true darkness

certainly they did horrible things, but did they really have a choice? in such a harsh world, they always had to be on guard, lest they themselves be killed. these poor boys never meant to harm anyone, but their father’s cruel madness and the painful chains of their oath and the vileness of beleriand forced them into atrocities they never wanted to commit

(surely the monsters the sindar spoke of wouldn’t cry. they wouldn’t lose themselves in waking nightmares or curl up shivering in well-hidden closets, they wouldn’t jump away from a casual touch or watch every new person like they might be a threat. they wouldn’t convince themselves the children they stole were happy, or talk to the shade of a dead kinsman they abandoned. surely they wouldn’t. surely)

(because if they are, and they’ve let a couple of orcs loose into the royal palace...)

(maglor and maedhros’ movements are pretty restricted. this is mostly for their own protection, but it’s partially - well, just in case. just in case)

this rankles at maedhros, though he tries not to show it. terrible they might have been, but his choices were his own

he was a warlord, he was a king. he expected to be hated for the things he had done. he didn’t expect to be pitied. he didn’t expect to be dismissed

sometimes, when he’s surrounded by people earnestly telling him that he’s not a bad person, he never was, it was all pressure from his father and the oath, he wants to scream that he chose to attack sirion because he was so, so tired of diplomatically dancing around problems he knew he could solve with his blade

but he stops himself, always. he knows how much what little freedom they do have is based on them not being a threat

and he will not wash this peaceful, innocent land in blood. he’ll kill himself first

maglor has lost all such scruples

it’s not often, but when they’re behaving themselves and no one who’s likely to take offense is in town, the brothers get taken out to court events

they paint makeup over their scars (which still won’t heal, everyone is concerned by the implications of this) dress them up in finery, string them with jewels, and show off how well they’re doing

(even if maedhros rarely says anything, and they never leave each other’s side)

tonight, it’s a feast. a minor celebration, nothing too crowded, nothing too loud. there’s revels and merrymaking and all kinds of fun

and after the food has been cleared away, there’s music

would his nephew like to play something, finarfin asks. it’s hard to tell if it’s a request or a politely phrased order

maglor decides he doesn’t have the patience to be taken aside and tell how much everyone wanted to hear his music, and accepts

finarfin smiles kindly. he’s thinking about how maglor’s minders have been talking about how he’s finally stopped trying to sing depressing or horrifying songs and how his voice grows more melodious by the day

maglor is thinking about how they won’t even let him sing about his wife. he wrote no odes to her beauty or her skill in the forge, but he sang ballads about the swiftness of her spear and her laughter after a battle

none of which the valinoreans want to hear. they want to pretend that love never existed, that there could be any joy found in darkness, that she’s at all worth remembering -

he gets up to play, and launches into the most vicious, most hopeless, most painful part of the noldolantë

they try to stop him, but he’s the greatest warsinger the world has ever seen, he’s sung with blood in his lungs over the roaring of dragons, there’s little they can do to block out everything they’re trying to ignore. he wails defeat and death and grief and death and despair and death

when they finally manage to knock him out, their whole petty festival in tatters, shock on their faces, tears streaming from their eyes, all he can think is that if they understand now, even a little, it’ll have been worth it

for the first time, but not the last, he wakes up in a cell

finarfin comes to visit, and starts giving a very disappointed lecture maglor is in no mood to hear. instead he just snarls that nothing they’ve been doing is helping him at all, and he’s so sick of false sympathy and no one listening to what his actual problems are

finarfin shuts his eyes, says ‘i’m sorry to hear you feel that way’ and leaves

a few days later he wakes up with a collar around his neck

it’s demeaning, but he gets released that morning, so he rolls with it. he gets told to never do that ever again, first by his minders and then by maedhros

his minders he nods at until they leave him alone. maedhros he snarks back at that it’s not like he’s doing anything to improve their condition

only he can’t

the words don’t just freeze in his throat, they can’t even form in his mind. what’s happening, he can’t say. what did you do to me, he can’t say. he can’t even scream

as maglor is clutching at his neck (he can’t get it off he can’t get it off) and all the colour is draining out of maedhros’ face, the minder in the room smiles

‘see? this way you’ll stop making yourself and everyone around you miserable. you can still talk about happy things -’

‘they did this in angband!’ maedhros roars, a statement that provokes his first actual fight with their minders. he’s harder to pin down than maglor. bigger

but their caretakers are becoming annoyed with the brothers’ obstinate refusal to let themselves get better. they may be content to wallow in the misery of their past, but inflicting it on others is a step too far

they clearly aren’t going to move any further down the road to recovery on their own volition, so it’s become clear they need a gentle push. is it a little distasteful? yes, but such things are sometimes necessary in medicine

the bright cheerful princes they will be again will thank them for it

oh god how did this end up so long. the last one should be shorter, it’s mostly clearing up some loose ends. why did i write this

#maedhros #maglor #homecoming au #my terrible fic #finarfin #noldor #late stage feanorians #abuse //#mental health issues ///#suicide mention //#gaslighting //#eeeeeeeeesh #i am not sure what i was trying to get across actually comes across in this #i ran out of unova pokedex before i ran out of fic #(the long one from b2w2. no i'm not explaining that)#it is three am!#and i'm not trying to start anything with that section about how the noldor minimise the feanorians' deeds #other people have their headcanons and that's cool. i have mine #i don't see them as 'entirely evil' (whatever that means) but i have felt like my own imperfections mean i don't deserve help before #... can you tell this is a vent fic yet #mags gets more focus because mags is the character i project onto #i've thought about him more; i have a more solid grasp of what i think his character is #'s why i got nelyo in on this. they're the creme de la creme at bad shit happening to maedhros and i wanted someone to cover his corner #this au is awful why am i writing it

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matchasparrow · 4 years ago

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Exploration of a Maglor AU - part 3 - On Doriath and the fate of the Silmarils

Part 1 Part 2

Now the important question - the first kinslaying - what happens?

Dior has a Silmaril, her brothers need the Silmaril.

Maedhros sends letters after letters, asking, explaining, apologising.

There is no reply, no other answer than Dorinthian pride.

Maglor goes. She travels through the dense forests and spell woven woods, through wildlands and settlements of Nandors alone. Her sole company being the memory of Aredhel speaking to her.

She stands before the proud lords and ladies or Doriath, before beautiful Dior, and sings as Luthien sang before Mandos. She pours her grief and guilt and the darkness that is the doom. Sings of a future, free of blood oaths and darkness and hateful fueds. There were few dry eyes in the audience. But Dior still sits, eyes sombre but unglistening on Thingol’s throne. Even her voice does not have the power to erase the sins of the Noldor in the eyes of Luthien’s son.

She kneels. Both knees on the ground. Scarlet dress stained with mud spread out on pristine white marble floor. Voice still carrying the lingering notes of the song.

“Please. Give me a chance to make this right. “ she pleaded, tears flowing unabashed.

A heavy pause. They look into each other’s eyes, hooked and searching.

Dior waveringly stood, and treaded towards her. He bent down and delicately took the starlit gem from around his neck and dropped it into her palms.

“Then make it right.”

------------------

Or at least, that’s one version of the events.

In this version, Maglor collects the Silmarils. So how did Eonwe and the host of the Valar come to middle earth without Earendil and Elwing and the Silmaril? How did Earendil even meet Elwing?

The Silmaril leaves Doriath, Morgoth attacks. Doriath’s been vulnerable for years, and he wants revenge. The slaughter was merciless. Reinforcements poured in from Himring and the Pass of Aglon on Maedhros’ orders, but they were too late. Dior and Nimloth were dead, along with a fifth of the people in Doriath. Elwing survives, carried by her nursemaid and a horde of guards, they fled to Sirion along with the rest of their people. Elurin and Elured were missing. Taken by the enemy, perhaps. They hoped that they were dead. Weeks passed, and there were no taunts, no mock ransom from the enemy. And thereafter nothing were heard from the sons of Dior ever again.

(Perhaps, in the chaos of the invasion, the boys ran and ran, directionless and fearful, till they reached the dark lands of Nan Elmoch. There the boys clung unto each other, cold and famished in the abandoned, drowsy woods. They curled up under tall, unfamiliar trees as they breathed in air laced with heavy magic. - except - it was not wholly unfamiliar. They were the scions of Luthien, of Melian. And the life of the forest responded to these part Maian creatures. They unfolded their secrets to them - the sweet honey and rich purple fruits offered themselves up for their tastes, the low humming plants sang them to sleep at night, moss and vine stitched themselves up to be their blankets and cloaks. Leaves sheltered their way and white luminescent flowers bloomed for them, lighting their way to each other whenever they became separated. They were enchanted, and the enchanter. They loved these woods and the woods loved them. And together, they sunk to the bottom of the ocean as tall waves rolled over Beleriand.

Perhaps the trees again wove themselves into a net, warding the forest from the water, sealing themselves off from the world, and forever hence Elured and Elurin wandered the woods as princes of an Atlantis. )

---------------

Back to Maglor.

So there is a greater force this time since they were on heavy guard against an attack and reinforcements, though late, did arrive.

And the survivors were stronger, Sirion was a refugee camp, but it was also powerful - and now all the forces of middle earth were united, martyred by evil.

Maglor was a Feanorian. Her brothers felt no urge to snatch the Silmaril from her hands, so in turn, Maglor used the light of the Silmaril to help Sirion grow whenever she visited Sirion, which was often. The Feanorian forces defeated much of Morgoth’s forces when they attacked at Doriath, so Maglor could worry less about retribution and attack on their own forces, at least for the next few years - so Maglor, guilty about the sacrifice of Doriath, spent a lot of time with Elwing in Sirion, and almost helped raised her along with the courtiers and Celeborn and Galadriel.

Being at Sirion was an advantage in other ways too. It was at the crossroads of many lands and peoples, and a perfect place to perfect strategies and alliances.

Elros and Elrond are born. They adored Maglor with her stories and songs. And always they want more, more, more. Their hands always tugging on her dress and getting her to play catch with them on the beach.

---

They are stronger, but it is not enough.

It was peaceful. Too peaceful. The calm before the storm, the silence of a predator before he pounces.

Sirion and Himring and Nargothrond are attacked. They win. They lose more than a quarter of their people. Celegorm and Caranthir die. They cannot hold on much longer.

Idril and Tuor left, and they have not returned. Earendil sits at the docks every day, sometimes with his family. Elwing lace her fingers through his, but there is a disquiet and restlessness in his heart that she cannot understand.

Earendil sails. He comes back more tired and defeated every time. He cannot reach Valinor.

“He thinks he needs the Silmaril.” Elwing said to Maglor.

Maglor stands with her on the edge of the cliff, looking at the far horizon for lands that she has not seen in centuries. She sees nothing. She closes her eyes and searches within her bond with Nerdanel, and she feels nothing. This is the long defeat, and she will lose her brothers one by one, with or without the one Silmaril she has by her side. “I think so too.” she replied.

She gives the Silmaril to Earendil, and says nothing of it to her brothers. For all they know, the Silmaril is still with her. She could tell them, she suppose, what could they do to Earendil, far out at sea. But she is caught between lying to them, and betraying their trust in the worst way. She feels sick to the bones, as she answers them with cheerful letters from afar, casual to ease suspicion. “I’ll come to visit soon” She lied.

Could she tell Maedhros? Who’s now aloof and half-mad with grief? Curufin was the one brother she has never quite been able to control. They loved each other, despite everything - every fight, every hair pulled, every disappointed look - but Curufin would be the last person she would confess to. She could not bear looking into the ghost of her father’s face to tell him that she has given away his most prized creation (prized above his children, she’s sure) to the Sindar, all for a chance of bribing the Valar to their aid. A bitterness grows in her heart, and she cannot swallow it down. The Ambarrusa are good secret keepers, but she will not burden them ...with what? She asks herself. With the task of forgiving you? So you can feel absolved of your guilt? And feed your fantasy? The days without a reply or sign grew longer, and she began to despair.

---

Her brothers grow uneasy, something burns in their chest. They think it’s the other 2 Silmarils calling to them. “We must attack.” Curufin seethed at every opportunity, eager for revenge.

The time is indeed coming, Galadriel has sensed as much.

---

A new star appears in the night sky. And that’s when they knew. Hope and despair and fear jugged for space in her heart. But in the end she will not be conquered, she gathered her troops, checked the defenses, and prepared for attacks.

No letter of accusation and rage came from any of her brothers. No letters came at all. She writes to them, letters of confession and apologies and firm reasons. Still, there is no reply.

Finally, Maedhros writes a letter telling her to return to the gap, for they sensed an attack was imminent. It was signed “Regards, Maedhros Feanorian”

She goes.

The Ambarrussa dies. She never got to apologise to them face to face, nor hear their forgiveness. She would hold their hands again, hear them laugh, and run through the woods, free and unburdened, she resolved. She would not let them fade in the void. Curufin's empty eyes stare into her, and it burns her promise into her fea the way the oath burns into theirs.

---

The host from Valinor arrives.

They finally got the other 2 gems together, this time, she did not have to steal them.

Earendil descended from the night sky. He could not touch the ground, but there was no rule about her going up. The last 2 Feanorians stood on Vilgront and held the 3 Silmarils together for the first time in an Age. She feels no different, but Maedhros slump in relief. “We’re free’ he said, and he gave the Silmaril back to Earendil. “May your hope shine on middle earth and bring aid to all those who need it” He gave his blessings and turned to Maglor.

“Thank you, for eveything” and clasped her so tight she couldn’t breathe. She held him, wrapped her arms round his tall, slender frame and tried to picture that she’s embracing Celegorm, Caranthir, Curufin, Amrod, Amras and...father.

She cries, tears flow unabashedly and she’s just so happy that they’re free - free from darkness, free to start anew, free to go home.

---

They readied the ships back to Aman. One Silmaril they gifted to Earendil, one they gifted to Gil-galad and Elrond, to give aid and light to whoever is in need in middle earth, one they brought with them back to middle earth, as a symbol of victory and remembrance.

When they go back, their brothers and mother are waiting for them on the shore. This time, the Valar were merciful.

#i realise that this probably should have just been an no oath Maglor!Au #but happy ending #there are other endings of course #maybe i'll post the other stuff later #maglor #Maglor AU #fem!Maglor #Silmarillion #Feanorians #Elurin #Elured #Elwing #Elrond #Valar #The Oath #Earendil #Doriath

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saelwen · 4 years ago

Text

Pure Blood

Maedhros x Oc

Chapter Five

Summary: We all born with white blood which symbolizes our pure soul. As we grow up, our blood can change to red and become darker if we begun doing cruel things. The darker the blood, the cruel you are. Mine’s occur to be pure white but will continue to be after i meet my soulmate?

Warnings: Kinda smut

Words: 1,821

Masterlist

"And where in hell have you been, young lady??" Dad asked with a furious tone as I stopped the wagon. He grabbed Dante's reins and glare at me. "Your mother and I have been worried! What happens?!" He asked while he pats Dante's neck.

I sign and climb down from the wagon seat, trying to come up with an excuse since I don't want father to know about my little thing with Maedhros.

"I was hungry after I closed the bank so I went to eat something at the tavern nearby," I say with a sweet smile. "That's all." Well, I wasn't technically lying

He looked at me with a suspicious face, his eyes studying me carefully. "Mhmm...You better not be lying to me, Young lady." He starts unstrap Dante from the wagon and leading him into the stables. "You better go inside and see your mother. She is worried to death."

I nod and walk inside. As I open the door, my mother pulls me into a bear hug. Her voice was full of concern and anger at the same time. "Young lady! Where have you been?? I've been worried sick!"

I sign and told her what I've told father. She wasn't very happy but let me go back to my room and rest.

I close the bedroom door behind me carefully and a grin appears on my face as a giggle fell from my lips.

My fingers touch my lips, the early events coming to my mind. Remembering how good his kiss felt, how perfect his soft lips felt against mine. My heart was beating like hummingbird wings and my blood rushed to my cheeks.

Patting my cheeks and taking a deep breath, I walk to my window and open it. Letting the cold air from the night in. I look up to the moon, marveling at her delicate beauty. My mind is still filled with Maedhro's thoughts.

"My life is turning into a fairy tale romance... Who would know..." I say with a grin.

///

Maedhros walked back to his rented room with a big smile on his face. Feeling emotions that he hadn't felt in decades. Happy, at peace, and excited. But all that vanished when he opens his bedroom door.

Staying there in the middle of the room was a cloaked figure. Maedhros quickly took his sword from his belt and pointed to the stranger.

"Who are you?" he growled.

The stranger chuckles and turns around slowly, his dark cloak floating gracefully around him. "Is that the way you treat an old friend, Mae?" Maedhros's eyes widen as he sees Elrond's face, his grey eyes calm but Maedhros could see a little anger in them.

"E-Elrond? How-" Elrond cut him off with a wave of his hand.

"How did I found you? Well, that was quite easy if I may say," he says as he starts looking around the small room. "I just had to follow the angry crowd of humans. They don't like you very much...except one." That made Maedhros growled which made Elrond chuckle.

"Who would it bet that the might Noldor Prince would fall in love with a mere mortal. I think your ada must be throwing a tantrum in Mandos Halls with this news," he says as he stopped in front of Maedhros.

"What do you want, Elrond?" Maedhros growled in annoyance, not liking how Elrond talked about his ada.

Elrond sighs, gazing seriously at Maedhros. "I've come here to propose something... Come with me to Rivendell. I will grant you a safe home and a place in my court."

Maedhros glare at the half-elf in front of him and put his blade back on his belt, walking towards the small table and fill a cup with cheap wine.

After a moment, Maedhros looks back to Elrond. "No." he says simply. "I finally found peace and happiness in the town and... I have Rose here." He took a deep sip on his wine and filled his cup again. "Also, I don't want to spend my days being glared at by snobby elves." He says with a chuckle, knowing that any elf wouldn't want a Noldor Prince in their city. Especially, a Noldor Prince that has been in two kinslays.

"You have your head at price, Maedhros," Elrond finally says with a deep voice. "You aren't safe here and... and you are putting Rose in danger too."

Maedhros looks back to Elrond, his stormy eyes full of anger and concern. "How do you know that?! Who wants my head?"

Elrond sat on the small and old bed, and rub his hand on his face. "Some human band... They know what you and your family did to their ancestors and want revenge," he says. "Their group may be small but it's growing day after day, gathering more people that are bloodthirsty for the Noldor."

Maedhros throws his cup to the wall and growls in anger. He was tired of conflicts and war. Tired of running. Tired of killing. Tired of being hated by everyone. All he wants now is to have small land, build a house for him, and for...Rose. To grow a family with her and wake up every morning with her sweet smile.

Elrond stood up and put his hand on Maedhro's shoulder. "I leave by dawn... You can join me if you want." with that, Elrond left the room.

Maedhros looks to the massive moon shining brightly in the dark sky. He knew what he must do but it hurt him so much.

Sighing, he put his cloak on and storm outside, climbing to the back of his horse and leave the town at full speed. If he needs to leave the town...to leave his dear Rose. Then he will do one last thing.

///

Humming softly at a lullaby that mother used to sing to me when I was a child, I comb gently my wild dark hair, trying to tame it but failing completely.

"Come on, hair! Stay straight for just a godamn minute." I groan.

Suddenly, I hear something hit on my window. I stood up and walk quietly towards the window, scared to see what's there.

I peek out carefully and sigh in relief when I saw Maedhros standing there. I smile gently and shook my head. "What are you doing here? It's late." I whisper.

He gave me a small grin and wave his hand at me. "Can I come in?" he asked.

I nod eagerly, watching him climb gracefully the vines on my window. My breath got caught as he stood there on my window sill, his stormy eyes looking at me filled with love and passion. I took a step forward and cup his cheeks in my small hands, pulling him into a deep kiss.

He moans against my lips and wraps his arms around my waits as he comes inside the room. I was wearing only my thin nightgown and I knew he could feel my erect nipples against his chest. I've never felt this much desire before. I just want to rip his clothes off and have his soft skin press against mine all night.

He pulls back and pushes a dark lock behind my ear. "I've missed you so much." He whispers.

A giggle fell from my lips as I kiss his chin. "We were together some hours ago, you silly."

He chuckles as he sits on my bed, pulling me to his lap. "I know but it wasn't long enough," he says as he rests his forehead against mine. "I love you." He whispers.

I notice that something was wrong but I push it away, knowing fully well that Maedhros was a hard one to crack.

Smiling softly, I kiss his lips. "I love you too....with all my heart," I whisper back. I began playing with the straps of his shirt, slowly undoing them. His eyes never leaving mine. I feel his large hand rubbing up and down my waist, moving lower to the back of my thigh.

I took his shirt off and help him take my nightgown off, seeing how his pupils dilated when he saw my naked body. He cups gently my right breast, his thumb stroking small circles on my nipple.

A lewd moan escapes from my lips, making me blush deeply. I lean down, nuzzling my face into his neck.

"Hey... it's okay. You can make all the noises you want but I recommend that you don't make any since your parents are right next door." He whispers with a chuckle, making me giggle.

I could feel his own arousal between my legs, feeling a massive tent on his pants. Moving my hand down, I undo his pants and gasp softly as his member slips out. I never saw a penis before, so I was marveling down at the massive member between my legs.

I wrap my small hand around his shaft and gave it a gentle stroke. Maedhros moans and throws his head back. "Rose..." He groans softly.

Seeing him this vulnerable and full of pleasure, made my own arousal runs down my thighs. I lower my hips on his member and gently start taking him inside.

"Wait! Rose...wait...OhEru!" He moans as his stormy eyes watch his member disappearing inside me.

I bite my lip as I feel a sharp pain, noticing some blood on his shaft. I look to his eyes, my eyes wide and filled with fear. Quickly, Maedhros cups my face and kisses me deeply.

"Shh...It's okay. It's normal... just take your time." He whispers. "Breath, Rose. Breath."

I nod and took a deep breath, helping my body relax. After a moment, I couldn't feel the pain anymore, instead, I feel pleasure burning my body. I began rocking my hips, taking more of him inside.

"Ahh...M-Maedhros... So good..." I moan as my movements become faster and harder, his thrust meeting mine.

He kisses my jaw and my ear, biting gently my earlobe while whispering 'I love you' over and over.

That night, we made love for hours. I exploring his body and him exploring mine. After all that action, I fell asleep in his warm embrace, humming in pleasure as his warmth lulled me to sleep.

"I love you...never forget that Rose"

///

Climbing gently to the back of his horse, Maedhros looks back at Rose's window. He knew that he should have to wake her up and try to explain to her what he must do but he was a coward and didn't want to see her tears while she asks why.

"This is for the better," he whispers to himself.

Sighing, he goes back to the town where he will meet Elrond and go back to Rivendell with him.

I love you, Rose He thought.

Hey Guys!! Here's finally a new chapter of Pure Blood and oh boy, what Maedhros is doing?! I hope you guys enjoy this chapter. Feel free to comment and tell me what you think!

Also, if you like my stories, you can donate on my Ko-fi and support my writing there!

☕Ko-fi☕

XOXO

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arofili · 4 years ago

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some Turgon thoughts

so @siphilemon asked on discord for Turgon headcanons and I, a known Turgon apologist, was all too happy to oblige! I rambled for awhile and thought that maybe some other people might be interested in my thoughts, so I’ve gathered them here. under a cut because it’s a Lot.

General Turgon HCs

Turgon is fiercely devoted to his family, whether that's his siblings or his dad or Finrod or Elenwë and Idril...and he outlives. all. of. them. except for Idril and the Fëanorians, who he does NOT like

He's grumpy, more of an introvert than Fingon and Finrod are for sure, he was never really fond of the Fëanorians (esp Maedhros) but that was more because “someone in the family has to stand with Dad against them and it isn't going to be Fingon or Aredhel, so I guess it's gonna be me” and then add the whole thing with Fingon and Maedhros being in love on top of that...he's protective of Fingon

And then. things get bad.

There was never any question that Turno was going to follow his family to Middle-earth, he's devoted to them above everything - and I think he and Elenwë were very much in love and devoted to each other (some of my personal Elenwë hcs is that her parents weren't very excited about her marrying Turgon, and she kind of chose him over them, hence her being the Only Vanya who leaves with the Noldor) and he knew Elenwë would go with him

That's why Baby Idril went along on the Second Most Dangerous Road Trip In All Of Arda (which after the burning of the ships becomes the Most Dangerous Road Trip, surpassing the Great Journey)

but I don't think that (at first) Turgon was very excited about going to Middle-earth for himself? it isn't until Ulmo gives him the dream about Gondolin that he really gets the idea of creating a city of his own, a land of his own

And Gondolin is said to be Very Much reminiscent of Tirion - and Turgon is the one who keeps sending messengers back to Valinor - he missed his home

And he blames the Fëanorians for everything that went wrong. Morgoth too, but he's always kind of resented the Fëanorians, and then Elenwë died and it's all Fëanor’s fault but then when he arrives in Middle-earth Fëanor is dead so he shifts his anger onto Maedhros instead. Maedhros is a very sore spot between Turgon and Fingon.

And after Fingon dies.....well, Turgon blames himself, but he's angry with Maedhros. IMO Turgon is very much a hypocrite - he hates and hates and hates but does the same damn things he hates people for doing (i'm a sucker for Finrod/Turgon which is a juicy parallel to Idril/Maeglin...)

Turgon & Idril

Turgon is intensely protective of Idril, almost suffocatingly so

he was always kind of inclined to be an anxious helicopter parent but after Elenwë dies (it's fucking canon that both of them nearly die but Turgon has to choose between saving Idril or Elenwe, which fucks me up to no end) he's literally Never Letting Her Out Of His Sight

In the immediate aftermath of Elenwë’s death / the rest of the journey across the Ice, that's fine? it's a survival strategy, a coping mechanism, and Idril is traumatized and doesn't want to leave her dad

but then they get to Middle-earth (and Turgon loses his little brother, which makes him cling to his daughter even more) and Idril starts to grow up. IMO she was pretty young when they left Valinor, and she comes of age in Middle-earth. She can finally walk around barefoot in the grass again, and she starts making friends and learning to live without her mom.

which is something that terrifies Turgon, because he doesn't know how to move on without Elenwe, and he's always always looking back to Valinor but Idril barely remembers Valinor by the time she's older, and he's terrified she'll forget her mother

Idril loves her dad but he's very controlling and overprotective - and the dangers of Beleriand only make him more paranoid, even after the Dagor Aglareb ensures the Long Peace...

When Turgon builds Gondolin of course Idril is coming with him. He doesn't even ask her. She wants to go, she loves her dad even if she kind of resents that he still treats her like a child, but she wishes he'd asked her how she felt about the whole thing instead of assuming

(In general Turgon is really really bad at communicating. Elenwë was good at teasing out what he was feeling and getting him to talk but after losing her he shuts out the world. Finrod - whether we're going in a shippy context or not - is also good at understanding Turgon, and that night at the river they have an almost breakthrough together... but then Ulmo visits them and clouds their memories and they forget about it until way later)

But back to Idril: once they're in Gondolin and she can Literally Never Leave, Turgon relaxes a little bit, gives her some more freedom, because this is his city and she's safe here, right? But then everything happens with Aredhel and he's terrified again because if he can lose his sister what about his daughter---

Except now he has Maeglin to take care of too. Turgon is torn between parenting both his daughter and his nephew and ends up not doing a good job of either even though he tries...and Idril doesn't want to be parented at this point, she's a grown ass woman! Maeglin however does need a parent-figure and Turgon "Bad At Communicating" Nolofinwion horribly miscommunicates a lot of his intentions toward Maeglin

Anyway - I think Turgon is oblivious to Maeglin's feelings re: Idril? Until Tuor shows up and he can see "wait this mortal is in love with my daughter and is acting suspiciously like Maeglin...oh shit"

part of his motivation for letting Tuor marry Idril (aside from her being like "Dad I am gonna do what I want and you need to accept that") is fuck she can't marry MAEGLIN

Turgon & Aredhel

So I think that Turgon and Aredhel were the middle siblings who always kind of picked on each other in a loving sibling way? Like Finno is the Golden Child, the Responsible One, the Big Older Brother who adores them both - if they try to nag him it just bounces right off

but they know exactly how to push each other's buttons

and in Valinor that means they get into a lot of low-stakes petty fights that always resolve with them fiercely loving each other

after the ships burn Fingon is just...broken by Maedhros' betrayal. Aredhel, however, is fucking furious that Curvo and Tyelko would do this to her and she starts to channel that fury into hating them as much as Turgon does - which brings her and Turgon closer together

they forge a very deep bond on the Ice, especially with Aredhel kind of stepping in to help parent Idril after Elenwe dies

but unlike Turgon, when they get to Middle-earth Aredhel starts to heal (like Idril). she fights with C&C and then forgives them, and they go back to being friends. she gets to be carefree and happy again. and she'd still die for Turgon, she still looks up to him and loves him, which is why she follows him to Gondolin, but it was inevitable that she would get restless in Gondolin

Turgon resents Fingon for having Maedhros (i think he knows about their relationship and hates it but won't like, spill their secret bc he does love his bro) and he resents Idril and Aredhel for moving on from Elenwë & Argon's deaths because he can't do that, he feels like he's shouldering all the responsibility among his siblings

But most of all he resents himself for not being able to save them, and not being able to move on like a normal person (he's got some massive undiagnosed anxiety/depression). He kind of feels like he's suffering so his family doesn't have to, and since he loves his fam so much he thinks this is the "right" decision

(He's very hung up on morals for someone who is bad at following his own moral code)

So yeah he's angry that Aredhel wants to leave this safe place he created, but they fight and she pushes his buttons and he pushes hers except they're hurting still (aredhel is affected by everything that's happened, she just tries to focus on the positive) and they don't have time to makeup before Aredhel up and leaves

But he's not going to tell her she can't go because he does respect her decisions and her autonomy. and then when she disappears he's worried and then she comes back and he's overjoyed (and disturbed about what happened with Eöl) and then she dies and it's his fault and he blames himself....but Maeglin is also blaming himself and their self-pitying and grieving is magnified by being close together and they both come away worse for it. Maeglin thinks Turgon blames him, and Turgon thinks Maeglin blames him

And yeah, there is some I told you so in there, Turgon feels he was right, but he hates that because he'd rather be wrong than have his sister be dead

#turgon #turukano #silmarillion #silm #headcanons #my meta #meta #silm meta #look i just...Love Him #he's my Problematic Fav #aredhel #idril #maeglin #elenwe #fingon #tefain nin

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absynthe--minded · 4 years ago

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If Supernatural Can Get Fifteen Seasons, The Silmarillion Can Get Fifteen Seasons: An Overview

I’m going to be going into much more detail in individual season-specific posts, but for the moment, here is the extremely condensed look at what each of these seasons would entail plotwise. I’ve included a cut for length; I hope this translates to mobile well. I’ve followed chronology more or less as closely as I can, adding additional time in places where I thought it made sense or moving events closer together for thematic resonance, and I’ve included Russingon because I’m me and of course I did.

The idea is that this is a 2D animated series rated TV-MA (comparable to R for feature films in the US, or any of HBO’s shows) with fifteen seasons, 26 hourlong episodes each.

Season 1: Valinor, and the unrest between the houses of the Noldor, interwoven with stories about the beginning of the universe/the Great Journey from Cuiviénen/etc. Establishes our core Valinorean cast, and hints at Thingol being a presence later. Main storyline involves Finwëan Family Drama, with bonus Melkor Fucking Shit Up. We meet Maglor's secret wife Aeriel, Curufin's known wife Annamírë + his son Celebrimbor, and become aware of Fingon and Maedhros's love affair. The Sword Incident and Fëanor's banishment to Formenos are featured. The audience knows Melkor is plotting something but doesn't know what. Series finale is the Darkening of Valinor - like, the last thing the audience sees before the series ends is the elves' festival in Tirion and then everything goes dark. Roll credits.

Season 2: Cold open on Maedhros and Maglor and Celegorm finding Finwë's body + realizing the Silmarils are gone. Flashback to Melkor's plans, and we see the Darkening from his perspective. He flees across the ocean and Ungoliant vanishes. Cover the drama between Fingolfin and Fëanor over the crown, Lalwen and Findis and Finarfin rallying around their brother, etc. Maedhros and Fingon marry. Fëanor convinces nearly all of of his loyalists to leave specifically to avenge his personal losses, Fingolfin has a larger amount of people who want to go East to fight Morgoth. Set up a conflict between Fingolfin and Fëanor here - Fingolfin does actually want to defend the elves still living in Arda proper and the soon-to-come Men from Morgoth's influence, while Fëanor is raving about how I Will Not Be Replaced. (This is not strictly canonical, but it is a good contrast of their leadership styles, and it widens the gap between them/adds another reason why Fëanor would perceive Fingolfin as a threat.) Kinslaying at Alqualondë, Finarfin and his people noping out, Fëanor seeming to forgive/make nice with Fingolfin after his people joined in the fight for the ships. He offers to sail East first, with the justification that if there is danger there he'll be the first to encounter it. Maedhros is reluctantly parted from Fingon. Maglor reveals to Amrod that he was married, and his wife died in the battle. They arrive at Losgar, empty out the boats, and make camp for the night. Amrod goes back onboard the ship to sleep. Maedhros wakes up early, finds his father awake, and asks if he can take the boats back West to pick up Fingon et al. Fëanor loses his shit and starts rousing everyone for the shipburning. Maedhros asks him not to, and reveals his marriage, and Fëanor's response is to throw the first torch. Amrod dies, and none of his brothers can get to him. Fingolfin's host sees the flames from across the ocean, and turn towards the north and the Ice. End season.

Season 3: The host moves inland to Mithrim and begins to set up camp. They've met some Sindar by now, and they carry word back to Doriath that Finwë's son and grandchildren have come back to Arda. Thingol tells Lúthien, who is just past her majority into adulthood, a part of his life story that she hasn't heard yet: that Finwë was his best friend, and that he'd been on his way to see Finwë when he was sidetracked by Melian. He decides to let Fëanor and his host stay in Mithrim in memory of that friendship. Dagor-nin-Giliath happens, Fëanor dies at the end of the second episode. Episode 3 deals with Maedhros being hastily crowned, and receiving word from Morgoth that he'll parlay for a Silmaril, and him riding out despite his brothers' suspicions. He's taken captive, end episode. Episode 4 is after a 58-solar-year timeskip, revealing the fate of Fingolfin's host on the Ice. We open on a dream of Elenwë drowning by Turgon; he wakes to reassure himself that Idril is all right and then everyone continues on. The whole episode is taken up by the Ice and the Battle of the Lammoth, ending with Argon's death and the rising of the Sun. Next episode starts with the elves but cuts over to humanity, newly awakened in Hildórien - this is a hint of what’s to come. Fingolfin's host challenges Morgoth and goes unanswered, and then return to Mithrim and settle on the opposite side of the lake from the Fëanorians, who are doing SUBSTANTIALLY better bc they stole a lot from their fellow Noldor and they also don't treat the land they're living on like Thingol's, vs Fingolfin who refuses to do anything except the bare minimum his people need to survive until they get Permission. Basically the rest of this season is some of the events of Blessed Hands, with Maedhros's rescue and recovery and ensuing family drama. Five solar years pass, and the season ends with him and Fingon riding up to the outskirts of the Fëanorian encampment.

Season 4: Season opens with Maedhros being reunited with his brothers and opening formal negotiations for an apology to Fingolfin. Thingol opens formal negotiations with Maedhros and Fingolfin, but neither one reveal to him why they've come to Beleriand/the circumstances surrounding their departure. Fingolfin wants to speak to Thingol personally, and Maedhros defers to him. Permission is granted for the Noldor to settle in the north of Beleriand. A council meeting is held to settle the matter of the High Kingship; Fingolfin is elected and Maedhros votes for him, angering his brothers. He offers to take up residence in the northeastern mountains near Angband, and Fingolfin grants him and his House lordship of that region. The Fëanorian host begins to depart, but postpones their journey for the Mereth Aderthad. Beleg, Daeron, Mablung, and a few other Sindarin elves attend the feast. Orodreth meets his future wife. Last half of the season covers 40 years - Turgon and Finrod have their visions, the Noldor begin to construct multiple settlements, and attack Morgoth with renewed strength. Season ends with the triumph of the Dagor Aglareb and the departure of Turgon from Nevrast with his host.

Season 5: Season opens in Doriath, with Galadriel having taken up residence there. Brief summation of the beginning of the Siege of Angband. Angrod pisses off Thingol and causes the Ban on Quenya, and news of this is carried to Himring, Nargothrond, and Gondolin, giving us a sense of their status/construction. Caranthir meets the Dwarves of the Blue Mountains and strikes up a friendship/partnership with them. Fingon visits Himring once it's finished. Gondolin and Nargothrond are completed. Orcs attack Hithlum by coming up the Lammoth but are turned back. Maedhros, Caranthir, Maglor, and Celegorm go to Barad Eithel for the bicentennial of the Mereth Aderthad. Tension here is primarily political/slice-of-life - it's peaceful, even if it's a watchful peace, and it seems like Morgoth is pretty effectively held at bay. The only exception is Aredhel, who grows dissatisfied with Gondolin and finally leaves after a massive fight with Turgon about everything from his family loyalty to his politics to his taste in clothing. Young Glaurung is turned back easily by Fingon and a few other soldiers. Season ends with Finrod getting separated from the sons of Fëanor while on a hunt and encountering Men in the woods, changing everything.

Season 6: Speedrun Part Two! This is the Season of Men and Politics, covering 145 years. We see the Edain choose to integrate into Noldorin society, with all the lumps and bumps this causes, and how they respond to the elves around them. Bëor, Marach, Haldad, Haleth, Haldar, Malach, Zimrahin, Hador, Adanel, Bereg, Amlach, and Andreth all become important characters. The Green-elves can't stand Men bc they're insufferable vegans, the Sindar are isolationist and suspicious save for a few of their Marchwardens/soldiers, and the Noldor are eager to make new friends. Focus is given to the tensions between the different Edainic groups and philosophies, and how different Houses and clans interact with elves and dwarves. There's not a lot of certainty that the decision to stay was the right one, and different voices have different opinions. All this tension culminates in two things: the council meeting that ends with Bereg leaving Beleriand along with a thousand followers, and the Haladin being trapped behind the Gelion-Ascar Stockade and saved by Caranthir and his forces before going to Brethil. The resolution of this season-long arc is the Edain essentially deciding that if they're going to stay, they'll stay on their own terms, and each House decides what that means. Andreth and Aegnor meet and fall in love. The Athrabeth gets an entire episode. Elvish character drama that isn't about interacting with Men is kept to a minimum except for Aredhel's arc - this is the season where she loses her guards, gets stuck in Nan Elmoth, and encounters Eöl. He's dark and creepy and mysterious and she's at once afraid of him and kind of enamored by his difference from everything she's known, but he quickly turns awful. Huor, Morwen, Rían, Emeldir, Barahir, and Húrin are introduced. Maeglin is born, and grows up, and he and Aredhel escape Nan Elmoth and make a run for Gondolin with Eöl following. The Bragollach and Aredhel's death make up the season finale.

Season 7: Season opens with Fingon's coronation, Maedhros crashing said coronation, baby Gil-galad being sent to Fingon to be his ward and then sent away to Círdan on the coast, and the revelation that Sauron has taken Tol Sirion and Dorthonion has fallen. Flashbacks to various parts of the Bragollach: Celegorm, Curufin, and Celebrimbor saving Orodreth from Sauron's forces and fleeing to Nargothrond/Emeldir fleeing over the mountains to Brethil with the Bëorian civilians while Barahir and Beren and what's left of the fighters remain/Huor and Húrin being taken to Gondolin. Maedhros begins plans for Revenge, Fingon starts leveling austerity measures against the nobility to finance refugee relief, Gondolin mourns Aredhel and doesn't know what to do with Maeglin, and Nargothrond adjusts to having C&C around. Barahir tells Beren about Finrod's oath to always help their family. Sauron tricks Gorlim and slaughters everyone but Beren, who tries and fails to defend Dorthonion and finally flees south and gets lost in the woods of Neldoreth. He meets Lúthien, falls in love with her, and runs afoul of Thingol, who decides to use him to cause infighting in Finwë's descendants. Quest for the Silmaril, with all that entails, meanwhile Fingon struggles with High Kingship and Maedhros makes alliances with the Easterlings and the Dwarves of Belegost. Plenty of time is given to Beren and Lúthien and the Hunt for Carcharoth, with the season finale being their marriage after they return to life.

Season 8: Season opens with Huor and Húrin leaving Gondolin and returning home just in time for battle plans to really start ramping up. If everyone's attacking Angband, no one's attacking Doriath, and if Morgoth is defeated, maybe two Silmarils are really all we need, or so we hope. This is an entire season dedicated to loose ends - Thingol's refusal to join the Union, Orodreth assuming lordship of Nargothrond, Gondolin drama, etc. Morwen and Húrin marry and have Túrin and Urwen. Huor and Rían court and fall in love and marry, and Rían gets pregnant. Beren and Lúthien sneak away from Ossiriand with an infant Dior to visit Beren's family and are present for the wedding. There are little skirmishes, and some suspicions of treachery among the Easterlings that get shut down both by Bór's steadfastness and Fingon insisting that everyone's allied here and due complete respect. A plague hits Estolad, with Urwen dying, and Húrin trying to convince Morwen to send Túrin to Doriath since he's now blood kindred to the King. Morwen refuses, and discovers she's pregnant again as Húrin marches off to war. The Nirnaeth is a three-part season finale, with Tuor's birth juxtaposed against Huor's death.

Season 9: The Children of Húrin/Fall of Gondolin Extravaganza, Part One. Túrin is sent away to Doriath, grows up there, spends time on the marches, falls in love with Beleg and marries him in elvish fashion, and then finally snaps because he can't deal with Menegroth's racist bullshit anymore. Tuor, raised by elves, is finally captured and enslaved. Saeros dies. Túrin leaves Doriath to become an outlaw. Tuor survives as a thrall for years. Morwen and Nienor flee to Doriath, Gwindor escapes Angband and makes his way south towards Nargothrond, Beleg is killed by Túrin, and Tuor finally escapes thralldom. Tuor arrives at Nevrast and Túrin arrives at Nargothrond in the same episode. Ulmo appears to Tuor, and Túrin discovers from Gwindor that Húrin and his entire line have been cursed by Morgoth. Contrast Túrin's desire for action now with Tuor's somewhat careless wandering. Tuor meets Voronwë and they make for Gondolin. Glaurung attacks Nargothrond, and it falls. Túrin escapes into the wilderness and crosses paths with his cousin. Nienor loses her memory and is found by the men of Brethil in the same episode that Tuor comes to Gondolin. End season.

Season 10: CoH/TFOG, Part Two. Túrin goes home and finds his mother and sister gone and makes a mess of things but manages to escape. Tuor tries to tell Turgon to leave and can't convince him, and decides to remain in Gondolin. Tuor and Idril/Túrin and Nienor/Dior and Nimloth meet and fall in love, with this arc culminating in them all marrying in the same episode with the last scene cutting between the three ceremonies. Glaurung returns. Túrin kills him, Nienor gets her memory back, they die. Eluréd and Elurín born. Wanderings of Húrin, including the curse on Gondolin for not letting him in. The Nauglamir comes to Doriath, and with it the first echoes of doom. Season ends with Húrin and Morwen reuniting and their deaths.

Season 11: TFOG Part Three. Thingol gets nerfed by dwarves. Mablung dies. Battle of the Thousand Caves, Battle of Sarn Gebir, where Beren takes the Silmaril back from the dwarves and sends it to Doriath again. Melian departs for Valinor. Dior crowned King of Doriath. Elwing born. The Fëanorians attack Doriath in the Second Kinslaying but Elwing escapes with the Silmaril and makes it to the Havens of Sirion. Maeglin caught by Morgoth and tortured. Maedhros learns Elwing has the Silmaril but forswears the Oath. The actual Fall of Gondolin is a six-part season finale.

Season 12: Season opens with Maedhros futilely sending letters to Elwing pleading for her to relinquish the Silmaril. She refuses, being in her mid-teens now. Most of this season, the Fëanorians are a distant threat; the majority of the story is Eärendil and Elwing falling in love and assuming leadership of the Havens. Gil-galad becomes High King of the Noldor. Círdan starts advocating for asking for help from the West. Celebrimbor escaped Nargothrond's fall and is living as a civilian in Sirion. Idril and Tuor sail for Valinor, their fates unknown. Years pass. Eärendil and Elwing marry, and Eärendil resolves to try to go for help once more. An absolutely kickass ship gets built. Elrond and Elros are born. Eärendil sails West. The Fëanorians are unable to stave off the Oath any longer and attack the Havens, destroying everything. Elwing, convinced her sons are already murdered and having flashbacks to the disappearance of her brothers, jumps from the cliff with the Silmaril and flies for Eärendil's ship. Elrond and Elros are 'adopted' by Maedhros and Maglor. Season ends with a new star appearing in the sky, and Maedhros and Maglor recognizing it as a Silmaril and wondering what that means.

Season 13: Season opens with Gil-galad and Círdan and what Mannish and Dwarvish refugees they've encountered beginning to consider trying to fight back against Morgoth again, as he's been attacking their last remaining refuges. It's been seven years since Sirion was sacked, and no one's seen Elrond and Elros since their disappearance. A pair of twenty-year-old-by-human-standards twins who look neither elven nor human show up on Gil-galad's doorstep, and Círdan recognizes them as the missing boys. They won't talk about their childhood at all, but they say they're here to help in whatever way they can. Hostilities escalate quickly. Halfway through the season the Vanyar and several reembodied Noldor and Teleri arrive in Beleriand, led by Ingwion and Eönwë and Finarfin. The War of Wrath begins.

Season 14: Just. An entire season of the War of Wrath. It's decades of war there's a lot of shit to do here. The biggest thing is that Elros meets Men for the first time and feels like he's come home, starting at the bottom of their ranks and rising through them meritocracy-style. He meets a woman named Elwen who's essentially a pirate and falls in love with her.

Season 15: The first half of the season is the last bit of the WoW, ending with Eärendil killing Ancalagon and breaking open Thangorodrim. Sauron escapes, Morgoth is cast into the Void. Elrond and Elros make their Choice. Celebrían is born, with her naming witnessed by all the reembodied Arafinwëans. The elves who wish to return to Valinor do so, with some - Gil-galad and Galadriel and Celebrimbor, namely - electing to stay. The Valar reward the Men involved in the war with Númenor, though not all of them choose to go. Those that do elect Elros as their King after the Valar have departed. Loose ends are tied up, the beginnings of Middle-Earth are established, and the series ends on a shot of the setting sun from the point of view of Elros's palace.

More specific examinations of each season are coming. But this is a basic idea of what I’m looking for, this would be my Ultimate Dream Adaptation. I could probably cut it down to eight seasons? Probably. But then I’d lose that precious pacing.

#yes I'm well aware fifteen seasons is BONKERS #but if DBZ can run for always So Can We Damn It #the seriesmarillion

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mxmpanshipperaf · 6 years ago

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Tell me a scary story

Better late than never! Beleg and Turin’s Halloween Especial

It was the late hours of the night, nothing but darkness about them. The crisp cold air was not lit by the moon nor the stars, a minute fire the only source of light and warmth for Turin.

Well, almost the only one.

Beleg dropped another few dry branches into the fire and turned his head slightly to the side to listen, attentive to any possible dangers on their scouting area. They had stopped briefly for Turin to regain some body heat on the cold autumn night, but would soon need to keep going. Just not just yet.

An owl hooted in the distance and the young man realized with a shiver that he was absolutely bored out of his mind. “Beleg, tell me a story?”

Silver grey eyes glance far off into the darkness before falling tenderly on his lover, “What kind of story do you fancy?” After knowing him for so long, Beleg had already ran out of his best epic battle stories, haunting stories and even the few love stories he was familiar with. Yet Turin would always regard any tale from him as if it were a brand new adventure just shared to the world. It was adorable to see such wonder on the boy’s face, in Beleg’s opinion.

“Tell me something frightful. Hopefully the scare will keep me awake longer than a few hours.” Turin spoke whilst moving to sit against the archer’s broad chest, curling to fit as best as he could on the other’s lap.

“I told you yesterday that you should had rested instead of messing around” Beleg tsked, though he himself had some fault in that ‘messing around’. “Something frightful, hu? Let me think…”

After a few seconds of comfortable silence in which Turin was pretty sure he felt asleep, Beleg took a deep breath and began speaking.

“Once there was a mighty elven prince, eldest of his House, known by all his kind for his sharp intellect and even sharper skills in battle. He had accomplished many a great feat on the long war against Angband, and he was respected and feared for that. However he was a proud Lord and had a temper comparable to the fieriest of the elves.

“And he was cursed.

“Being well aware of this, the prince wanted neither dispute nor glory and retired to the mountains seeking the calm of the cold. There he dwelled in solitude for a long time, only sharing war news and strategies with the rest of the world. A staled warrior, his was curse slowly eating him away with the anguish of an unfulfilled oath.

“Concerned for him, one of the prince’s brothers recurred to a desperate attempt: to bring him his lover, in the uttermost secrecy.

“They had grown together in the golden fields beyond the sea, fallen in love in a time of peace and happiness long gone. And though they held for each other a love as pure and bright as starlight, alas, it was forbidden for they were close in kin and a centuries long feud divided both sides of their family.

“Hearing of his love’s state, this other elf’s heart bled for him, and he departed alone in the dead of night, away from his family, his people and his responsibilities. For the prince’s lover was also his king.”

Turin audibly gasped, absolutely entailed in the story. Beleg couldn’t stiff a chuckle.

“Upon sight of each other, the dim flame of their love sparked right back into a raging blaze, and it was as if the years had not passed for either of them since their sweetheart days. They met in secret often after that. His people never knew who the king had married, and he was unfazed by the rumors and gossip. And for a time, the prince was overjoyed.

“But the cursed, cursed stay, and it was his doom for everything he built with good heart to be crumbled to pieces by his own hand.

“The prince wanted to be rid of his cursed to live out his life free to be with his love, and so he put to work and scheme and negotiate the greatest alliance ever made. All the free peoples were called. A great campaign began, to wipe evil of this lands once and for all. The battle to end all wars.”

At this, Beleg hesitated. No doubt Turin had already recognized which battle he talked about from the tales his own mother or his father’s friends had told him as a child. Perhaps he should have though better before picking this particular story.

Noticing the prolonged silence, Turin squeezed Beleg’s arm tied around his waist. “I want to know what else happened”

Beleg had the feeling he didn’t mean only in regards of the prince’s story, but that was to be reserved for a later night.

“Though they wanted to, the lovers could not fight side by side, each in charge of their own legions. So the king set out first and the prince would meet him from the rear, as a secret ambush to their enemy. But he was betrayed, and their careful plans turned south. The lovers were sundered, on both ends of a blood bath, with no way to reach each other.

“Angbang’s wrath was upon us then like it had never been before. The battle was bloody and you could breathe the filth in the air. And the screams….

“Maedhros called for the king since the moment he arrived at the battlefield. Fingon tried to answer as best as he could, guiding him to where he was as they both cut through the fell forces.

“And then he didn’t answer anymore.

“In all my years of living, seldom have I seen as much pain and sorrow as in that day. Nor have I heard mountain shattering screams like Maedhros’ when he found the King’s shattered body.”

Beleg’s eyes had turned distance as he spoke of the Nírnaeth Arnoediad, too lost in the memories to notice he had revealed the real protagonists or that he had begun speaking from Beleg’s own point of view. That was what Turin really loved about his lover’s tales. The way the archer would immerse fully in the story and forget himself. It was beautiful to see.

“They say he took it with him, and never put him to rest. That he mourned the king in his bed even as the flesh rotted away. And after that, when there was nothing left but bones. They say that he still keeps the king’s skull, calls it lover over and over, caressing it as the mad prince waits for an answer.”

Finishing his lot, Beleg’s silver pools turned to Turin, who raised a brow.

“Is that all?” He inquired, “That was hardly a terrifying tale. More like a tragedy, my love.”

Beleg blinked “Perhaps. But to be sundered from you in that way…” He cupped Turin’s cheek with one hand, brushing the bangs off his forehead with the other. His fingers trembled. “…It frightens me more than anything in the world.”

#this is not very good #but I love me these bbs #Beleg #Turin #Beleg/Turin #maedhros #fingon #Russingon #halloween #halloween special #fic #fanfic #depressing #sad story #tragedy #love story #damn made myself sad

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sweetteaanddragons · 6 years ago

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Sing Triumphant

And last but not least, the one for the square, “the best singer of the Noldor.”

There haven’t been any proper battles here yet, at this hard to defend strip of land he’s heard some of the men calling “Maglor’s Gap.” Not large scale battles, at least. There have, of course, been numerous testings of his defenses, and their consistent victories in those are well worth celebrating in his opinion. They must remain vigilant, of course, but they must celebrate their victories as well.

So tonight they feast out under the stars, a bonfire blazing in the center to stand against the first chill of the autumn air. The night lacks only one thing, and Maglor notes with amusement that his people are starting to shoot him hopeful looks.

He is more than happy to oblige.

He goes and stands with his back to the fire with his harp at the ready. The people around him fall into an eager silence. Sparks fall around him as the wind shifts.

He begins.

Fiercer than the fire raging behind him, stoking the blood into a cry of triumphant challenge: We are here. We are alive. We fight on, and we will not stop fighting.

He summons that fire with his call, and the sparks spiral around him in a manner no natural wind could create. He does not fear the fire. The flames always feel like the warmth of his father standing behind him, and their dance at his voice feels like his father’s love for his songs.

He does not fear the flame. Instead, it pushes him on to greater heights as he sings out the chorus for the second time, and his people join the tune, singing it back and whirling into motion as they dance upon the plains.

The song is a new one, made up on the spot, so they fall silent at every new verse before catching up the chorus, again and again.

He could sing for hours - has sung for hours judging by the moon’s progress in the sky - but he could sing for hours more if he had not caught sight of the face standing at the edge of the fire’s light. He brings the song to a triumphant conclusion and then bows and beckons for a young bard he’s been teaching to come take his place. She looks more than a little doubtful, but she comes forward anyway.

“How am I supposed to follow that?” she hisses in a whisper under the cover of the roar of approval coming from the audience.

“With your own undoubtable skill,” he says firmly, and she nods in a show of confidence before striking up a light dancing tune that soon has everyone moving again.

He smiles in approval and slips away to where he saw the face, but it’s vanished again in the crowd. He frowns, turning. Surely he would not have gone far?

“Truly you are the mightiest singer of the Noldor,” a voice says from behind him, and Maglor turns, delighted.

“Maedhros! There you are. I thought I saw you, but I wasn’t expecting you tonight. No ill news, I hope?”

“No ill news,” Maedhros promises as he greets him with a quick embrace. “Or at least none that you are not already aware of. I’d come with warnings about a larger than usual force moving against you, but fortunately, it seems they were unnecessary. I trust I am not unwelcome despite my lack of useful purpose?”

“Never,” Maglor promises. “Especially if you are going to compliment my singing.”

Maedrhos laughs. “Surely you must be sick of compliments in that area by now.”

“If ever I grow weary of compliments, then you can consider me well and weary of this world. And it’s always nice to hear someone calling me the best singer of the Noldor without Curufin following it up by saying, ‘Or the loudest anyway.’ I think he still hasn’t forgiven me for waking him up at all hours back in Tirion.”

“Technically, I didn’t say ‘best,’ I said ‘mightiest,’” Maedrhos says thoughtfully. “Mightiest could be interpreted to mean loudest.”

“If it’s volume you want, I’d be more than happy to personally come wake you up tomorrow morning.”

Maedhros holds up his hands in defeat, eyes still laughing. “Peace, brother, peace! You are the best and the loudest, and many other things besides. Such as a very competent military commander who doesn’t need his older brother anymore, apparently.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Of course I need you.” Maglor waits a beat. “After all, if it weren’t for you, I’d be the one responsible for sorting out our younger brothers.”

Maedhros’s groan is even more pronounced than he’d expected. That could be unfortunate.

“What have they done now?”

“Nothing so bad,” Maedhros admits. “Caranthir was rather tactless, I’m afraid, but it was only to Curufin, so at least it’s only going to cause a family squabble, not a political one.”

“Tactless in a letter, or . . . ?”

“They’re both visiting at the moment,” Maedhros says. “And it’s nothing very bad, truly. I’m nearly certain they’re just doing it for fun at this point.”

“And yet, here you are, coming to me with a warning you must have surely realized it would be too late to give, instead of being the good host I know Mother raised you to be.”

Maedhros shrugs helplessly. “It’s a good deal of fun for them.”

“And so you won’t ruin it by telling them to stop and instead rode out to me when you could take it no more. Well, that makes a certain kind of sense. It would have made for a terrible song if you’d been killed by orcs while traveling alone to get away from our brothers’ bickering, but it makes a certain amount of sense.”

“A song is only as good as its singer,” Maedhros says. “I’m sure you could have made something of it.”

“With enough poetic license, you can make a good song out of anything.”

One of Maedhros’s eyebrows rises in challenge. “Anything?”

Maglor already has a feeling he’s going to regret this, but he nods. “Anything.”

“That blade of grass, right there.” He points.

Maglor is not actually sure which one he’s pointing to, but it probably doesn’t matter. “Give me a few hours, and I’ll have something,” he promises. What, he has no idea, but he’ll figure something out, or he’ll sing Maedhros into falling asleep and then tell him that he missed the truly epic song that Maglor composed and performed while he rested, and that he couldn’t possibly sing it again as the blade of grass had been tragically crushed in everyone’s mad rush to congratulate him. His people will back him up on the story if he asks it of them, he’s fairly sure.

“You have until your apprentice finishes her song.”

“She’s on the last verse.”

“I have confidence in you, oh, mightiest singer of the Noldor.”

“I’m going to sing about that blade of grass being the cause of the much lamented Maedhros’s downfall,” Maglor says pleasantly and strides forward into the light, fingers already itching with the start of a tune.

I’m looking forward to seeing what everyone else comes up with!

#silmarillion #fic #maedhros #maglor #feanorianfunbingo

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arianaofimladris · 6 years ago

Text

Mistakes

Chapter 1 http://arianaofimladris.tumblr.com/post/177132346092/mistakes

Chapter 2 http://arianaofimladris.tumblr.com/post/177159697417/mistakes

Chapter 3 http://arianaofimladris.tumblr.com/post/177206403712/mistakes

Chapter 4 http://arianaofimladris.tumblr.com/post/177375468317/mistakes

Chapter 5 http://arianaofimladris.tumblr.com/post/177520433452/mistakes

Chapter 6

The next day and a half was one feverish dream. Whatever Alcarino gave him, it sent Amras to sleep for the night and most of the following day. He barely remembered the moments when he woke. Every time there was Celegorm or Caranthir sitting by him and forcing him to answer their questions he did not remember later. But they let him sleep and didn’t touch his leg, so Amras wasn’t about to complain.

The second day he felt well enough to sit up and eat a proper meal. Later Alcarino changed his dressings, but didn’t bother him for long. Before he left, he closed the curtains and Amras was grateful for the dimness. Despite Alcarino’s herbs, his head was still pounding, but it was bearable in peace and darkness. Amras was drifting half asleep, but as the doors opened, he glanced at them, fully awake.

“How’s your head?” asked Maedhros quietly. He was wearing a cloak as if he was about to leave, and he had a map and a leather tube in his arms.

“Usually better,” muttered Amras, but he dragged himself up to sit. “But at least I no longer see you in double,” he sent his brother a crooked smile.

“Good, because I want to show you something before I go to Nolofinwe.” Maedhros sat down on the bed, confirming Amras’s suspicions. He placed the map on his knees, one of those Amras had made the previous Summer when they had gone exploring Eastern lands.

“We divided the lands with Kano,” said Maedhros, pointing at the lines running through the terrains on the East. The uneven line left no doubts who drew it, but Amras swallowed the light remark about ruining his work that way when he noticed his own name.

“What is the meaning of this?”

“You will go south,” stated Maedhros, pointing at the right spot on the map.

Amras blinked and wiped away his hair from his face, then looked at his brother with offense and disbelief.

“You are sending me away,” he said bitterly. “I made a mistake, I wasn’t careful enough and you are sending me away like a child, far from danger.”

“Don’t be silly.” Maedhros shook his head, as if that thought had never crossed his mind. “I was caught because of far more stupid actions. But you said there are good hunting forests on the South, so we thought it a suitable place for you. Besides, we will need supplies,” he added, rolling the map to put it in the tube.

“It’s Morifinwe who enjoys trading, not me,” Amras reminded him. He closed his eyes and winced. Sitting and talking made his head hurt more.

“This the final decision. I am going to present it to the king.” Maedhros tossed the tube over his shoulder. “We’ll talk when I’m back. Now rest,” he smiled warmly and squeezed his brother’s hand, then stood up and left, though Amras was about to object.

The youngest son of Feanor sat upright and tossed the blanket from his knees. He placed his legs carefully on the floor and reached for crutches Alcarino had brought him. The healer said nothing about getting up, but Amras was not going to just let Maedhros leave like that and pass the arrangements to the king.

He pushed himself up on his good leg, but as soon as he leaned on the crutches, he hissed, because his arms hurt more than he anticipated. He made two unsteady steps, but then his arms could no longer support his weight and slipped from the crutches. He fell.

His cheeks burned from humiliation and embarrassment way more than his arms and leg hurt. Amras sat and leaned against the bed. There was no way he could catch up with Maedhros, who was clearly in a hurry and had no time to wait for his youngest brother. Was he really so eager to forget the time of his own weakness that he didn’t even slow his pace? Yes, they began their preparations for travelling East when the Spring came, but those few more days would not make any difference.

Furious, Amras waited a moment, grateful that his brother closed the doors behind him and no one would see him like this from the corridor. He dragged himself back to bed, weak and sore, because moving reminded him about all the cuts and bruises he could ignore as he laid. He left the crutches on the floor and closed his eyes, hoping to sleep through the pounding in his head.

***

Walking quickly proved to be slow, tiring and painful. Though Amras learned to use the crutches quite quickly, his arms were still bothering him and he had to be careful, or else he would risk falling down again. Alcarino warned him to limit walking for a week or two and let his shoulders heal, but Amras had too much to do.

He wasn’t just going to swallow such humiliation. Maedhros could be the eldest and he was the one who took upon himself all the arrangements with Fingolfin, but during their private councils they could all express their opinions. But this time his brothers changed the arrangements at last moment, without even waiting for him to feel well enough to join them.

But firstly, there was a grim responsibility waiting for him – talking to the families of his fallen comrades. Amras had no doubts they already knew, but he felt he owed them to pass the news personally. He knew he survived only because he was mistaken for Maedhros. He was trying not to remember the filthy hands on him and the pain they inflicted, nor his fear when he thought Maedhros would not get him in time and later, when he thought the enemy managed to capture his brother again. He had no doubts nothing would have changed, but he couldn’t help but muse what if he hadn’t fallen off his horse, hadn’t broken his leg, hadn’t...

Amras sighed and got up from his chair, pleased that at least the pounding in his head stopped. He grabbed his crutches and limped to the doors.

***

The camp was buzzing with life. With each Spring day the preparations went forward. The yards were full of wagons that were going to transport their belongings. Caranthir expected the first groups to be ready within a few days. Even though there was no immediate reason to rush, he knew Maedhros wished to go East as soon as possible. It was indeed getting crowded by the lake.

As reluctant as he was, Caranthir had to admit that Maedhros’s decision about giving up the crown was showing positive results. Of course, there were still groups regarding the sons of Feanor and their elves with reluctance, but the majority welcomed the reconciliation with relief. Many families were brought together after long years of separation and they moved to the southern shore of the lake. Additionally, some elves from Finrod’s host liked the lands on the South and as their prince was going to stay in the North, they moved to go with the sons of Feanor.

Caranthir supervised the latest delivery from the Sindar, then went to the forge to pass Curufin their orders. The raw material they brought was of good quality, but it was less than it should have and it would be best for Curufin to decide what to do with it.

“I certainly wasn’t expecting you in here,” he commented at the doorstep as he saw his youngest brother.

Amras was sitting on a chest by the door, watching Curufin with a bored expression he didn’t even bother to conceal. He kept his leg outstretched and looked far from comfortable.

“They tore off the hook from my scabbard,” he replied indifferently. “I can’t repair it myself right now.”

Curufin snorted as if he doubted Amras could ever perform such a task. He didn’t stop working, but he seemed to be displeased with their company.

“Curvo, if you would, we have some stock to organise,” said Caranthir, heading straight to the point.

Curufin nodded and put the scabbard aside. Amras looked impatient and clearly displeased that his brother didn’t finish his work first. Caranthir had seen him earlier, limping around the camp with his hunters and he began to wonder why his brother was in such a hurry.

It took them a while before Curufin decided what to do with all the raw material, as the storages behind his forge were already full and some of it had to be transported elsewhere. When they finally returned to the workshop, Amras was still sitting there. He was so lost in thoughts, busy planning something, that he didn’t even grant his brothers a glance until Caranthir stood over him.

“Are you coming back home with me, or do you intend to sit here?”

Amras jerked and looked up. He kept his arms tightly crossed, resting on his lap.

“Curvo hasn’t finished yet,” he remarked. “I’ll wait.”

“I’ll bring it to you later,” offered Curufin. “It’s not like you need it right now anyway.”

“You overtaxed yourself, didn’t you,” Caranthir summed up, looking at his youngest brother. “Which one hurts more?”

“Left,” admitted Amras reluctantly, clearly not intending to move even for an inch. “I won’t be able to put any weight on it right now.”

Caranthir shook his head in disapproval, then put his arm around his brother and pulled him up from the chest. He took one of his crutches and slowly, step by step, they made their way to the house. He could see Amras’s right arm shaking with effort and once again Caranthir wondered what made him move so much, as it clearly served him ill.

Amras sat down on his bed with relief and pulled up his broken leg, but then he asked his brother to pass him a notebook and a quill. Undisturbed by the fact that he still had company, he started writing something down. He stopped only when his brother sat beside him and glanced at his notes with interest.

“Alright.” Caranthir crossed his arms and his keen eyes rested on Amras. “Care to tell me what are you up to?”

His youngest brother hesitated for a moment, then nodded. And answered.

#Mistakes #my fic #The Silmarillion fanfic #Amras #Caranthir #Maedhros #Curufin

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forerussake · 7 years ago

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For day 1 of @feanorianweek: Maedhros.

The price of freedom

He couldn’t feel the pain anymore. Not really.

Of course it had hurt in the moment. When the knife sliced through skin, and tendons, and arteries, then sawed through bone, it hurt, but it was merely a dull ache in comparison to the claws of Angband’s monstrous wolves, dripping with burning venom, or the fiery whip of Gothmog, Lord of Balrogs, or the cold stare of The Abhorred, as he’d started calling Morgoth’s Lieutenant, and his too sweet voice tearing at his mind.

After thirty years of torture, his best friend cutting off his right hand was barely noteworthy.

He was free.

Or so they thought.

But when he first awoke from the semi-peaceful haze of unconsciousness, the last true rest he would get in a long time, and his brother went to his knees at his bedside and offered him the crown of the Noldor, the same crown which had graced his grandfather’s head when he fought and died in the courtyard at Formenos, the same crown his father had worn when he marched into Alqualondë, and later when his body burnt to ashes as his spirit finally broke free of its cage of flesh and bone, the crown Kánafinwë had worn in his absence, expecting to have to keep wearing it for the rest of his life, Nelyafinwë Maitimo Fëanárion had known that he would never be free again.

He had looked his brother in the eyes, only barely registering the burning regret in the younger Elf’s gaze, and he had shook his head, the motion almost mechanical, not yet, I am not ready. Averting his eyes, letting his gaze rest on his rescuer, he didn’t see the soft, pained smile that pulled at the corners of Makalaurë’s lips, will you ever be?

He would joke about it afterwards. He would tell them about his ‘stay’ in Angband as if he’d merely visited the Dark Lord to discuss the weather over a nice cup of tea.

Everyone laughed at his jokes. No one meant it.

Everyone knew he didn’t sleep, for fear of the nightmares that would plague his slumber. Everyone could see the scars on his face and arms that told the story he refused to tell with words. Everyone could hear the rasp in his voice, the only evidence of nights spent sitting in the dark, stifling the sobs that wracked his body when the pain he hid during the day finally caught up with him.

Everyone knew, and yet no one dared to ask him, not even his brothers, not even Findekáno, and that hurt perhaps even more than the aching stiffness in his joints, the stinging pains that shot through his arm at unexpected motions, and the constant throbbing in his skull.

Findekáno sat with him the most. His cousin sat by his bedside and told him of the things that had happened in his absence, of the lands he had spent exploring, of the stars, which seemed to shine less bright now that Isil had joined them in the heavens, but nevertheless were more beautiful than anything else he had ever seen. Findekáno told him inconsequential things, trivialities about the landscape, the story of Tyelkormo’s first hunt in these new lands, and how Irissë had pushed him into Lake Mithrim once. He never told him where Arakáno had gone, or how Makalaurë had ruled in his absence, or how uncle Nolofinwë had taken the news of Fëanáro’s death. He never told him about the Helcaraxë.

It was Makalaurë who sat by him late at night, a rare occurrence - they had grown apart, though Nelyafinwë was never sure how that had happened, or why his brother seemed to jump at his every motion, clutching his own right arm close to his chest, a memory of pain and fear flashing in his eyes, as if he remembered something that had transpired between them that Maitimo couldn’t – it was Makalaurë who told him about the Grinding Ice, about the gruelling journey their uncle and cousins had made to follow them to these lands, about Elenwë’s death by water, and Arakáno’s death by orc-blade. It was Makalaurë, his body stiff and his formerly soft, comforting voice gone cold, who held him through his tears that night.

His brother never pressured him, never asked him, he was never impatient, but he could see it in the eyes of everyone who looked at him. They were waiting, waiting for him to make the first move. He knew that Makalaurë hated the crown, loathed his duty as leader of their people, but he knew that he wasn’t ready to bear its burden, not yet.

He spoke to Makalaurë first. He asked him veiled questions about his rule. He now vaguely remembered they had had a falling-out over this exact subject before, and he could guess his brother’s arm had something to do with it. He didn’t ask, his brother didn’t tell.

They spoke deep into the night about the burden of kingship, about the weight of the crown, about freedom.

“I don’t want this anymore, Maitimo,” Makalaurë said, his voice retaining just a little bit of that warmth he remembered from their youth in Valinor, “take it from me, it is yours by right of birth, not mine.”

Again, Nelyafinwë noticed the slight wince as his brother unconsciously grabbed his own arm, and he noticed how he called him Maitimo, no longer Nelyafinwë, but not yet Nelyo, and he sighed.

He would never be free.

He had lost his freedom when he was captured and brought to Angband.

No, when he swore the Oath and later when he stabbed his sword into an innocent sailor’s chest.

He would never be free, but Makalaurë could still be.

He didn’t notice the silent tears in his brother’s eyes, can I?

He didn’t explain his intentions, Makalaurë would understand, Káno would understand.

When the following day he stood before his brother’s throne, the others standing around them, and Makalaurë offered him the crown again, he nodded. But instead of kneeling and allowing his brother to place it upon his head, he gently took it from his hands, turned around and held it out to his uncle.

Nolofinwë’s eyes went wide, confused, questioning. He nodded again, and Nolofinwë kneeled.

As he lowered the crown of the Noldor onto his uncle’s head he closed his eyes.

He could hear Makalaurë’s soft sobs behind him, but he himself didn’t cry.

Káno was free.

Or so he thought.

When his uncle stood and turned towards his people, confusion on his face turned into pride, Nelyafinwë smiled.

Nolofinwë didn’t yet understand. He didn’t understand the meaning of kingship, the importance and the sweetness of freedom. Soon he would understand, and he would wish he had never accepted Maitimo’s offer.

As he stared into the distance Nelyafinwë couldn’t help but wonder if this was how it was always meant to go. One person’s freedom for another’s.

As he stared into the distance he knew it was. That is why he would never be free, because his freedom had not been traded for another’s, and so he was trapped.

He was trapped, bound in a cage, still shackled to that mountain, but it didn’t matter, because he couldn’t feel the pain anymore, not really.

He remembered what he had given up, the knife roughly sawing through the skin, the tendons, the arteries, and the bone of his wrist, and he knew that he would keep fighting for his freedom, even if there was no hope.

He had thought it didn’t hurt anymore, but it did.

The loss of his freedom hurt more than all of his torture.

Behind him he heard that Makalaurë had silenced his sobs.

Nelyafinwë Maitimo Fëanárion looked out in front of him, and hot tears ran down his cheeks.

Thank you for reading! This will be put on AO3 (username: ForErusSake) later :) P.S. The thing about Maglor’s arm is a reference to another story of mine, called The Voice of his Disposition :)

#feanorianweek #maedhros #nelyafinwe maitimo #silmarillion #tolkien #fanfiction #my stuff #tw: torture #tw: implied abuse

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feanope · 7 years ago

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Ooh for Feanorian week can you write something about Caranthir and his opinions on his brothers? We always need more Caranthir 😂

With pleasure, nonnie & absolutely agreed! More love for Moryo 2k18. I hope you like what I came up with.

For @feanorianweek 2018 / Day 5 + Caranthir & Childhood

♕ Smoldering Embers ♕ read on AO3

In Thargelion, Caranthir reflects upon his brothers and the past. (2.5 k, Rated Gen, no warnings. Note: I go with the Shibboleth version of the Ambarussa with Amrod being the younger of the twins, dying at Losgar.

The pitch-black darkness of the night and little to no sleep had never truly bothered Caranthir. In fact, he much preferred to work throughout the night when all around him was quiet and soundly asleep. Neither servants nor couriers would disturb him at such an ungodly hour – not that they disturbed him often during the day. His outbursts full of spirit had taken care of that soon after having taken up residence in Thargelion.

A bundle of papers, crumbling and yellow with age already, sat beside the cushion made out of different furs in front of the fireplace and there they remained untouched as the burning fire transformed to smoldering embers. Idly, Caranthir sat in front of it, lost in memories of days long gone by; memories of days, in which a fire meant nothing else than warmth and comfort. Even now, after so many years, the ghostly screams from the flames spoke to him, just as they had on far too many nights to count.

Amrod.

The youngest.

Overwhelmed by memories flashing through his brain, Caranthir buried his head in his trembling hands.

Amrod. His beloved little brother, who would always come to him whenever quarrels with his twin had gotten out of hand (which they often had). Actually, both Ambarussa would come to him with their troubles, though Amrod did so far more frequently.

Amrod, who would sob at Caranthir’s shoulder until the world was well again and the tears had dried upon his rosy cheeks. Then, the tiny fingers would brushing over Caranthir’s own cheeks, tracing the irregular patterns of his freckles.

‘I’m jealous Moryo!’ Amrod had said more than once in his adorable childish pouting, ‘I want ‘em, too.’

‘No you don’t,’ had always been Caranthir’s initial thought; he hated his freckles, probably more than anything, but he had never said so to Amrod. He had always opted for, ‘In time you might.’

Gesturing wildly, Amrod would say, ‘But I am already thaaaaat tall.’

And then, Caranthir had laughed and Amrod had joined in, the drama over the non-existent freckles forgotten.

Though he was usually reluctant about physical contact of any sort, repulsed by it even, much to the delight of Curufin and source of many a crude joke, he allowed it for the twins. And more than that, he even took comfort in it as he breathed in the soft smell of his youngest brother’s hair. Sometimes, arms tightly wrapped around Amrod’s body, he wondered if Maedhros had ever felt the same when he himself had come to him, having yet again suffered from one of Curufin’s distasteful pranks.

Curufin.

Though older than Curufin, Caranthir was by the favorite victim of Curufin’s mockery whenever Finrod wasn’t around.

Quick to anger. Perfect to tease.

The odd one, as Curufin had never failed to mention.

The weird one, had Celegorm joined in with a hearty laugh.

He wanted to slap them both, had often thought of it, but never done it. He would not allow himself to be pulled down to their level.

‘Mudbrains,’ he had thought then, though he knew it wasn’t true, at least not for Curufin.

Maedhros and Maglor.

For many years, Caranthir had envied them for their unconditional friendship.

Celegorm and Curufin.

He had envied them, too, though he thought their bond to be often toxic, but it was a friendship nevertheless.

Only after the birth of the twins he had been able to come to terms with the envy he resented, even if he had remained Curufin’s favorite target.

In their temporary dwelling at the shores of Lake Mithrim, things had begun to change and old quarrels were buried.

It had to be so, simply to ensure survival.

Robbed of the comfortable routine of their spoiled lives, there had been no time for pranks and childish idiocy, no time for harping and useless merriment. Mollycoddled by their family’s wealth and the safety of the blessed realm, such hardship was new and not always easy to accept.

To Caranthir it had been clear as the lake before him; to survive meant to work and exist as one, not working against each other. In their need they had combined their talent, strengths, and effort efforts to secure the family’s survival.

They managed as best they could, and for the first time, each of their talents truly did matter.

Though Caranthir had seen Celegorm’s pleasure hunts in the vast forests in Oromë’s company as a useless idleness, now his skill for hunting and the knowledge of herbs proved extremely valuable. Seldom did they have to leave dinner hungry. In Aman, Celegorm would have boosted in arrogance that he ensured the family’s well-being, whereas here he did not. Naturally he was still proud, yet the attitude of the parading peacock had somehow become lost upon their journey

Little wonder, Caranthir thought with much amusement as he sipped his wine, with neither lads nor ladies having been around to impress. In truth, no matter how exhausting Celegorm’s behavior could be, Caranthir had been more than once a little jealous of his brother’s incredible self-assurance and his ability to talk, and talk, and talk, no matter whom he spoke to.

Now Caranthir thought about it with the knowledge of the years, he was quite certain that all Celegorm’s posing was concealing insecurities. He had witnessed many of those from Celegorm, especially when Maedhros had returned from Angband close to death.

He had never told Celegorm what he had realized. Celegorm would only deny it loudly, yet somehow such knowledge had made handling him much easier. To Caranthir’s astonishment they actually got along fairly well, at least as long Curufin was not present.

Curufin.

Somehow he had become Caranthir’s bane and it had surprised him not that their lands were as far away from each other as possible.

That it was for the best, Maedhros knew most of all.

No, Caranthir did not exactly hate Curufin, had never hated him, at least not in the literal sense of the word. Because no matter what, they were brothers – family. And weren’t brothers meant to quarrel and be at peace afterwards again? It had never been Caranthir’s fault that the drama went on for many days. He was quick to anger, but even quicker to calm down, whereas Curufin carried a grudge against him forever. In fact, Caranthir didn’t know anyone who was so extraordinarily resentful as Curufin.

No, he had never hated him.

With the exception of one night – the night Maedhros, partly recovered from the horrors of Angband, had announced that he would surrender kingship and give the crown to their uncle.

The announcement had come quite as a surprise. At least, that was what Caranthir had thought then. Now, recalling the days before, perhaps it had not been; they just had been too blind and reluctant to see.

The night had been deadly silent as they stared at Maedhros in disbelief. True, they had not been exactly content with their leader’s decision, the fact shining evident from each pair of eyes, but deep inside they all knew it was just and right.

All except for Curufin.

Caranthir had never seen him like this before, or ever after. The same fey laughter that had tumbled from their father’s mouth as he had set the ships ablaze now shone from Curufin’s eyes, which glittered golden and malicious.

A fist had landed on the table as Curufin had screamed, ‘Betrayer!’

The silence that had followed had been deadly until Celegorm had spoken.

Even now, thinking of it, anger flashed across Caranthir’s face – and surprise as he remembered Celegorm’s attempt to talk reason into Curufin.

Curufin would not listen. ‘Keep your mouth shut, Tyelko,’ he had cried at Celegorm, then had turned again towards Maedhros, fingers gripping the edge of the table tightly, ‘Our father’s precious heirloom! The gems lost, the crown usurped! Thrown away, by his eldest son, our father’s true heir!’

Maedhros, diplomatic as ever, had Curufin’s verbal outburst wash over him, jaw set. Though Caranthir knew Maedhros’s calm had not been what it seemed. Nothing about it had been diplomatic. Rather, it was stoic as if he had trained for it. Caranthir knew he had. The silence and the defensiveness as Maedhros had simply regarded him with tired eyes had sparked Curufin’s temper all the more.

Celegorm had thought it was over then. Caranthir had known better. It had been the calm before the storm.

Swallowing hard, Curufin’s rage had reached a peak none of them had thought possible, yelling furiously at Maedhros, ‘You had better stayed where you were – dead.’

It had been then that Caranthir had completely and utterly lost his temper in a way he never had before. Without thinking twice he back-handed Curufin with all his strength, hitting hard enough to draw blood. A feeling of a strange satisfaction flowing through his veins followed immediately after.

A terrible silence reigned as Caranthir had waited for Curufin to lunge at him. He never had. Many emotions sparked in Curufin’s eyes, as he had risen his hand to carefully touch his cheek, hurt and pain, shock, but most of all surprise before they leveled out into something far more familiar – vengeance. It had not come, not that day as Curufin had simply stormed out of the tent, with Celegorm following on his heels, nor any other.

When Maedhros asked him, later, Caranthir said he did not regret his actions. It was true, he did not. He had never before assaulted one of his brother’s physically, nor ever did again. But then, never again had tempers flared as on that night.

The truth of it was that Caranthir had become strangely protective over Maedhros after his return from Morgoth’s claws, perhaps in an attempt to repay his brother’s kindness when he was a child. He had been taking alternating shifts with Maglor to watch over Maedhros’s troubled sleep, would help him bathe and clean his wounds day after day.

Caranthir had never been one for scheming. He hadn’t been telling Maedhros half-truths to make him feel better. He knew that such behavior was the last thing Maedhros wished for, no matter how miserable his state was. Despite his injuries he was strong, at least mentally and during the days. The nights had been a different matter entirely.

Maedhros had always appreciated brutal honesty, and willingly Caranthir spoke openly to him about those wounds that would not heal and what he said when nightmares took hold of him.

In response, and much to Caranthir’s surprise, Maedhros slowly had begun to tell him many horrid details of his captivity whenever they had been alone. On these nights, Caranthir had hardly said a word, but had listened endless hours to strings of words that had been interrupted by sobbing, Maedhros’s shaven head resting against his shoulder. To himself he had whispered ‘never again’ as he had held Maedhros close to him as once he had been held.

And he had meant it. Means it still.

Never again shall such harm come to Maedhros or any other of his brothers. Dispute or not, after all they were family.

Staring into the smoldering embers, his thoughts continued to travel.

They had all changed.

One by one, they had changed, and kept changing still.

Though it was Maglor who had changed the most of all. It was something that still surprised Caranthir at times. He hadn’t thought it would be him, because next to Maedhros he had deemed him to be the most emotionally stable of the brothers. A mistake, perhaps.

Maglor.

Poetic, gentle Maglor, with hands soft as moss; charming and eloquent Maglor, who had clad his body only in the noblest fineries whenever he had been walking Tirion’s streets in the light of the mingling. Often, Maglor would chide Celegorm for his careless appearance at the dinner table, clothes caked with mud (and fluids far worse than that), with black grind under his nails.

An idle life.

A dreamer’s life.

Just like a flower of spring died of late snowfall, Maglor’s beauty had withered and waned under the bleak sky. The poet had become a deadly solider.

Beneath Maglor’s armor, always caked with speckles of dried blood, his clothes were mere rugs, perforated with holes, his once neatly braided hair more often than not a tangled mess. At one point, Maglor simply had stopped caring.

‘What use is there in cladding myself in illusions of better days long gone by?’ Maglor had once said to Curufin when questioned about his appearance over Maedhros’s sickbed, shrugging.

In contrast to Curufin, who absolutely had disagreed, Caranthir had smiled, for it was true.

Where once soft fingers had played the harp, now rough callouses spread across Maglor’s palms, and just as the musician himself has changed, have the songs.

Songs, which once spoke of merriment and unconditional love and other romantic follies of the sort that made Caranthir shudder in disgust, now carried the sadness and melancholy of their tragic lives.

These songs were not meant to be sung in the silver halls of Tirion below the ever tinkling bells, yet sometimes Caranthir imagined how they would sound there – and then laughed. Their melancholic songs were so entirely unbefitting to the bliss and beauty of Aman, their ragged appearances and battle-worn and sun-stained skin would stand out so amidst the finery of Tirion’s population.

It would be quite the scandal.

But then, hadn’t their lives become a scandal in themselves, after having sworn the Oath, having forfeited eternal happiness?

A knock against the heavy door tore Caranthir out of his musing and just as he was about to yell ‘Be gone,’ he thought better of it, remembering that he had guests, and opted for the neutral, “Who is it?”

“Moryo, it is me. Telvo.” A pause. “May I come in?”

Telvo.

Of all the brothers it was Amras who has barely changed. Though grown and matured by hardship and the tragedy that Losgar had been, he did not sound much different than in his childhood days.

“You may,” Caranthir answered, not so neutral anymore. As the large door swung open, he smiled and beckoned his brother to come closer.

“Thank you,” Amras said, returning the smile in the crooked manner that was so typical for him, “I couldn’t sleep…”

There was no need for Amras to speak further as Caranthir held out his arms so that his youngest brother could snuggle against his shoulder just the way he had often done when nightly terrors had haunted his sleep.

Many things had changed and were still about to change in their lives, yet some simply did not, and for that, Caranthir was grateful, letting his hand run through his brother’s hair.

Perhaps that night even he would find sleep, for a few hours forgetting the sound of Amrod’s screams.

A huge thanks at @cycas for the beta read. part ofthe scene between moryo und maedhros is to be blamed by @curufins-smile

#feanorianweek #caranthir #valarnet #tolkiensquad #maedhros #feanorianweek2018 #anonymous #my writing #this is a moryo appreciation blog #!!!#i just have too many emotions for caranthir #and i love him #<3 #he's precious #d jfkldfa #this is queued bc i am not around today and tomorrow

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dialux · 4 years ago

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Currently going a little insane over the idea of Nerdanel and Feanor having itty bitty hatesex when they meet up in a conference over new forms of marble in the Calacirya post-banishment, and then Nerdanel returns to Tirion and realizes she’s pregnant, and decides to raise the girl (FINALLY a daughter for Feanor!!!) herself without telling anyone. Nerdanel names her Intyale after Indis’ mother, but it’s never clear whether it’s a dig at Feanor or if it’s a warning for her daughter. And everything seems to be going fine for a while.....

....only for Feanor to FIND OUT post-Darkening, and kidnap his own child on the way to Alqualonde. Keep in mind that Feanor’s more than a little mad by now, and it’s probably Maedhros/Maglor actually caring for this little girl who’s definitely more than a little traumatized. And then Feanor dies, and Maedhros is kidnapped, and Maglor’s too busy corralling the rest of his people from following Maedhros’ example to keep watch over her, and so Intyale’s teen years are spent under Celegorm’s supervision (.........not a good idea), Caranthir’s tutelage, and Curufin’s sporadic attempts to get her to be friendly with Tyelpe.

She goes with Caranthir to Thargelion, and travels between him/the twins, mainly bc the rest aren’t willing to let her on the frontlines. And then she survives the Bragollach, and the Nirnaeth, and Intyale’s not allowed to join them for either of the Kinslayings because she never swore the Oath- she’s just about drunk the kool aid at this point and wants to- but Caranthir probably ties her up before setting out for Doriath.

And then Caranthir doesn’t return, and everything’s falling apart, and she finds solace in Maedhros’ lieutenant, who also won’t leave the brothers but hates them for what they’ve done. It’s awful, but Intyale loves him, and grows to trust him. They even get betrothed, just the two of them, with the promise of more once everything- the war, her family issues- is finished.

Except. The day after the War of Wrath is won, her fiance kidnaps her and takes her to Finarfin’s camp, and sues for peace. It should be fine! But it isn’t!!!

Because she’s in the camp when Maedhros and Maglor steal the Silmarils, and they think she’s abandoned them, and their only response to that is to go “Oh, at least that’s one less responsibility,” and Intyale is just- horrified!- that her brothers would believe she’d betray them now, after every other horrible thing that she’s followed them in.

Finarfin basically has her sedated so she doesn’t, you know, level the camp with her hysterics. The next thing Intyale knows, she’s in Aman, and Nerdanel is telling her that she’s safe now, and Anaire is crying into her own hands over Intyale dry, awful hair, and Celebrimbor’s mother is asking her how Tyelpe is, and Intyale doesn’t know how to explain that she was safe in Beleriand, her brothers kept her safer than anyone could have dreamed; and she doesn’t care about her hair, she’d once chopped it short to echo Maedhros after Thangorodrim; and she doesn’t know how her nephew is, she hasn’t seen him in decades.

Intyale misses her brothers. Desperately. Awfully.

She wakes up screaming, almost every night. She refuses to accept Finarfin’s reign as legitimate; she’s a citizen of Beleriand, and one brought to Aman against her will. She throws her betrothal ring into the fire and hands her betrothed the ashes before slamming the door in his face.

It ends up with Finarfin finally telling her to go to Lorien for healing.

Intyale takes the horse he gives her, and goes north instead. She settles in Formenos, and starts trying to heal the land of Morgoth’s and Ungoliant’s taint.

It isn’t until the day that two horses- one bearing a Peredhil she’d once watched grow to adulthood, the other bearing a brother she’d thought dead- approach Formenos that Intyale speaks to another elf.

#my writing #intyale is quenya for wisdom and. hm. i do love feanor's only daughter being about as batshit insane abt forgiveness #as the rest of them #silmarillion #right i need a tag for the feanorian family feels

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djinmer4 · 7 years ago

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A Fright of Ghosts

Inspired by: http://archiveofourown.org/works/12136836

When the sensation of being watched changed from a distant awareness to the feeling that of someone observing just over his shoulder, Elrond knew he was close. The forest on the western side of Ered Luin should have been empty, the humans wintering in the welcoming lands of the east below Forochel and the dwarves to their settlements under the mountains. Not even Cirdan would bother patrolling the desolate Forlindon in the winter. But Elrond knew there was someone here and hitched the rucksack higher, as if to cover his back from an enemy.

As it was, he nearly fell into the blaze, when empty woods suddenly changed to a neat camping site. A strong arm wrapped around his chest, pulling him away and saving him from a nasty burn. “Alatulya, yonya. I did not expect to see you so late in the year.”

Elrond sighed, then sat down on the bench beside the fire. The small encampment he had been expecting to find was actually a large clearing, with a well-built cabin to one side with the beginnings of several structures. The bonfire he had nearly walked into was in fact the beginnings of a small forge, too small for any great work, but set away from the cabin. He ignored the various flickers of red on the edge of his eyes, and focused on his father.

“Mara re, atar. I had not thought to look for you so soon after our last meeting, but I needed to speak to you about something.” He passed the rucksack to Maglor. Within contained some items he did not think the other could obtain easily in isolation: some bottles of wine, cheese, a set of silver strings spelled against corrosion. A new cloak, although it appeared that the Feanorian’s current one was still serving well. “Did you see a ship sail into the Gulf of Lhun this past year?”

“I did indeed.” The older ner set the the rucksack aside. “And I know exactly what and who came on that ship.”

Elrond released a silent sigh of relief. Cirdan had known the Maia for what they were immediately, but not who. And given what happened the last time a Maia claimed to be a messenger of aid sent by the Valar, any information on the identities of these Istari was essential. “Could you tell me who they are and what we should expect?”

Maglor did not answer, but instead looked over his son’s head. The sensation of being watched did not cease, but doubled, then split and came to rest on each side of Elrond. He kept his eyes on his father. “Alatar,” said a voice like the crackling of fire, a shadow of smoke and soot on his right. “A servant of Orome. Strong, aggressive. More interested in the arts of the ethereal than the physical.” Images came to mind, of shared hunts and bitter arguments in distant Valinor.

From his left, a gurgle from a torn throat. “Pallando is the other. Alatar’s friend and follower in all things.” He knew if he turned the image would be far less abstract, but more disturbing, almost a real body but with dull eyes and blood dripping from both throat and mouth. Elrond wondered how Maglor could bear to look. From this shade he received no memories, but merely a sensation of wistfulness and loyalty.

“Hantanyel, uncles. Could you tell me more, please?” But Maglor stirred himself, and put out the forge fire. “Not tonight. The others are scouting the area. They can tell you more.” He picked up the rucksack and turned towards the cabin. “You take the bed and I’ll take the floor. As I wasn’t expecting company, I don’t have any meat, but there’s lembas and plenty of fruit.”

The peredhel smiled. “They’ll go well with the wine and cheese I brought.”

The next day, father and son spent the day preserving meat and curing hides. Elrond didn’t ask how the pile of skinned corpses had appeared outside Maglor’s door overnight, and Maglor didn’t ask how Elrond had slept with the howls and screams that had filled the dark. When the day approached the end, again the sat by the forge fire. Today, instead of a feeling of being watched, the air felt heavy, smothering and cold, as if he was deep under the waters of a lake rather than walking in the air. No shade or ghost appeared before him, but rather heavy hands upon his shoulders and a cold breath ruffled his hair.

“Aiwendil, follower of Yavanna. Naive and scatterbrained, but brave in his own way. Lover of birds.” Elrond fought for a deep breath. “So we can trust him?”

Bitter icy laughter, and the heaviness drew crushingly tight around his chest, like one of those strange waistcoats they wore in Arnor, made from whalebone and steel. “You can trust him to follow his nature and to follow the mission he was given. But Yavanna loves the wolf as much as she loves the deer. Loves the end of life as much as the beginning. Loves the Eldar, but the rat and the fly as well, and there are millions of them for every one of us. Trust him to follow whatever mission the Valar gave him, but he is no more a friend to us than a plague is.”

With that, the heaviness constricting Elrond disappeared, but the cold air remained. “Enough for tonight?” asked Maglor, coming up with an armload of firewood. The younger ner nodded. “I’ll stoke the fire a little more tonight. Maybe add some of the linseed oil so that it will burn a little brighter.”

The next day proved that winter was well on it’s way. Even the inside of the cabin was covered in delicate webs of frost. They spent that day bringing in the last of the garden vegetables before the cold ruined them. The frost formed brilliant patterns over everything, like the finest embroidery fit for a king, and lingered far into the afternoon. When they finally sat down to talk, Maglor had taken some paper and a sharp quill and was copying the icy patterns designs onto paper. Elrond did not ask to see them and Maglor did not offer him any.

This day Maglor did something a little different. The forge had stayed closed today since the Noldo didn’t have any repair work to do. But at the end of the day, Maglor opened the forge door and there was golden light inside. He pulled out a large gemstone, like a topaz carbuncle but glowed with it’s own inner radiance. He looked up and laughed at Elrond’s wide eyes. “Did you expect I’d carry it around everywhere I go? That would be quite inconvenient.”

“You’re using one of the most precious artifacts of the First Age as a forge fire?”

“It’s quite appropriate, thematically. Besides, it gives both of us a chance to have some privacy in our thoughts.”

The ghost of the greatest craftman of the Noldor did not look like a ghost or wraith or remotely supernatural. If Elrond hadn’t known better, he would have thought he was looking at a living person. “Curunir’s clearly been appointed as their leader. He’s another one of Aule. We knew him well. Ambitious and active. Curious and delights in pushing boundaries. Against the dark he is a formidable ally.”

The smile on Feanor’s face became sharper and darker. This might have been the face he showed Fingolfin, over a sword in Tirion. “All things that were said of Sauron too.”

That night was filled with nightmares. The golden light of the Silmaril seemed blood-tinged and the shadows it cast moved like living things upon the walls. Despite the love between them, Elrond began looking forward to leaving Maglor’s home. Sensing his disquiet, Maglor drew him outside, to finish the conversation in the light.

“The last is Olorin, who has been in the service of Manwe, Varda, Irmo and Nienna.” Maglor did not bother to wait for any of his brothers to appear, instead filling the role of teacher by himself. “Of all the Maia sent, he is the one who perhaps best understands those of us still here in the changeable world.”

“And the caveat?” But the answer came not from Maglor, but rather a familiar voice behind him. “Of all of them, I do not believe that Olorin will fall.” Maedhros was bright, burning. If Feanor could have been mistaken for a living Eldar, then Maedhros for a Maia. He was like a shade of stained glass, overfilled with the light of the Silmaril he had burned with. “Nor will he forget that he is here to succor the Free Peoples of the West. But as the others fail or falter, he will be forced to take more and more burdens. He will not fall, but he may fail and return West with the mission only half complete. And even if he doesn’t, the choices he will make will be ruthless indeed.”

Mercifully, Maglor had let him sleep after he had fainted. Elrond suspected his father had cast a few spells of his own, allowing him a peaceful, dreamless rest. Even with that, however, the clearing was overfull, with the flickers of color seen from the edge of his eye, areas of heat or cold or pressure.

“You will be here for a while?”

“Yes, the twins would like to spend more time on woodcraft. And after spending a decade in a Secondborn settlement, I’d like some time to myself.”

“When I first came, I had thought of asking you again to come to Imladris-”

“No.” Maglor cut him off gently, but firmly. “Perhaps in a century or two I’ll visit for a month or a year, but I cannot stay long in the presence of other Eldar.” The younger ner just nodded. He’d braced himself, but even he had found the phantoms that surrounded the last living Feanorian too much. For other elves, lacking the connection he had with the House of Feanor, those sensations were a hundred times worse. His uncles and grandfather had tempered their fear around him and given useful advice. The only other person they had been as kind to had been Celebrimbor. “Give my regards to Artanis.” The last time Galadriel had attempted to see Maglor, she had fainted before getting within a mile of him. Celeborn had had to drag her back to Mithlond before she had revived.

(Strange that the Secondborn never were effected. They could be harmed, hurt or helped but they never saw or noticed the ghosts. When Maglor wanted company, he would go to their settlements to stay for a while.)

“I will.” Elrond hesitated for one long moment, staring around to determine where every shade was preoccupied with something else before stepping close to Maglor. “Atar, have you ever considered . . . getting rid of it? Just toss it into the ocean. Maybe then both you and they would be able to get some rest.”

“Oh Elrond, don’t you think I’ve tried that already.” They both gazed at the Silmaril, glowing gold in the forge again. “It always comes back.”

#elrond #maglor #ambarussa #caranthir #Feanor #maedhros #JRR Tolkien #the coming of the istari #silmaril #ghost enforced isolation #feanor still has it in for galadriel #celeborn wishes dead noldor would stay dead #the silmaril came back #elrond is remarkably stable given his life (both childhood and adulthood)

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