#Maybe the back of Curufin's hands?

[inthehouseoffinwe]

I sometimes think about Fingolfin being the sole Uncle looking after all his nephews/niece/kids. Like, there’s 16 children. Before taking the Helcaraxë he no doubt promised Finarfin that he would take care of them. And I feel like once he found out about Fëanor, and especially saw the state of Maedhros, he silently promised his half brother he’d do his best to look after them too. Not that he wasn’t going to anyway.

But the burden that must have been, especially with how volatile and independant all these kids are. Oh they might be grown. But he’ll never see them as such. Even now he remembers Nelyo’s birth and how the baby would toddle after him, crying when it was time to leave. Curvo going through all his mechanical devices, Turukano right behind him as Fingolfin explained where each came from and listened to the children tell him all about the workings. Carnistir carefully running little hands over the embroidery of his cloak, Anairë laughing quietly and explaining the techniques that went into it. Ambarussa and all the chaos they caused, enough so that Fëanor and Nerdanel would dump them at his house for days at a time, usually a couple of brothers tagging along. Tyelko and Irissë wrestling in the mud, neither group of parents knowing what to do when they trudged in, a sticky trail behind them.

Findekáno’s duets with Makalaurë, the little musician quietly asking to play before his uncle and cousin to make sure it was perfect before he showed his father. Finno, Nelyo, and Findarato encouraging him with whoops, Fingolfin and Anairë applauding with wide smiles at the end as he was swarmed by his cousins and brother. The four’s ‘secret’ sleepovers whenever they were in the same place. Aikanaro and Angamaitë raiding his kitchens, Fingolfin joining in with a finger on his lips, helping steal pastries in the middle of the night. Artanis insisting she could join in whatever game his boys were playing, Ireth backing her with a scowl until they were let in. Little Orodreth and his own Arakano, friends since birth. The screams of delight whenever they saw each other.

Despite everything, or maybe because of everything, he doesn’t know. All of them are now his children. He couldn’t stop the Fëanorions from taking the most dangerous lands because he had no argument to give. He can’t stop Turno and Ingo from making hidden kingdoms and taking Ireth and Artaresto with them. He couldn’t save little Arakano. He can’t stop Artanis hiding in Doriath, although he’s grateful at least one of his kids is safe… even if that safety comes with disowning the rest of her family.

He can’t even protect little Tyelpë and Itarillë who never asked for any of this.

So when the Dagor Bragollach comes and he hears Aegnor and Angrod are definitely dead, Curufin, Celegorm, and Celebrimbor might as well be for the trail of bodies leading to Doriath and the mass murder at the Girdle, Maglor’s land has been burned so far beyond recognition, they can’t even *find* bodies, Turgon, Idril, and Aredhel he wouldn’t even know if they were killed, and he hasn’t heard from Finrod in months-

He can’t.

So he makes a last ditch attempt because maybe, just maybe, he can make their battle the slightest bit easier. Give his kids if any of them survive a weakness to exploit. A slight advantage to turn the tables…

A stab to the foot does the trick. Morgoth will be limping on that one for millennia.

He hopes his brothers can forgive him.

[curufiin]

CURUFINPOSTING DAY 9

Not a headcanon just a mental image but:

Imagine Curufin during the second kinslaying. Elegant but unraveling, beautiful in how he wears blood like jewelry, and generally terrifying all in one. He screams his allegiance to Fëanor, that all those who appose him shall be cut down and the walls will be painted with their blood. He is the perfect mirror image of Fëanor at his downfall, and maybe he thinks he is Fëanor then. He thinks he can, and will singlehandedly restore their family to greatness, that he will take back the Silmaril and slay Morgoth with his own hands.

And then he dies and sees Fëanor in the halls again and he starts crying like the world’s soggest most pathetic beast ever and also he is 6 feet 8 inches. An average heighted elf is at least 7 feet to me.

[echo-bleu]

Day 21: Some post-Angband Maedhros research. Most fics/art set during his recovery have him recover physically quite fast, missing hand notwithstanding, but I want to explore other options.

Disabled characters series

Rambling under the cut, ID in alt.

[Discussion of his canon torture and injuries, going a tiny bit more in depth]

So aside from the previous torture, for which we can invent basically anything, he was hanging from the wrist for 30 years. I'm pretty sure that would kill a human in a matter of hours, but since he survived, in my mind he's got some serious shoulder and spine issues. Those stay for the rest of his life, but with a combination of support garments, elf-PT and just sheer force of will, he does manage to walk again and fight. I don't think he ever gets a great range of motion or much feeling back in his right arm.

This is me making use of one of my weirdest special interests (medical immobilization devices). I have a bunch of different design ideas for braces at other stages of his recovery, and this is just basic research for now. Here he still needs his arm in slight abduction and full support for his spine, and the big metal arm thing is correcting the angle of his shoulder (otherwise it is very dissymmetrical with the other).

In my mind, this is maybe a year after his rescue. 30 years of torture aside, I also headcanon that elves might heal more (as in, they can survive a lot more) than men but they also heal slower in the same way they grow up slower. Not pictured here is the fact that he's still mostly using a wheelchair.

This is a wild mix of pre-50 spine braces, modern shoulder and back braces and pure fantasy, and it's probably the simplest of the designs I have in mind 😅 Design-wise, I was thinking about the fact that it was probably made by Curufin people used to making armour, so it's the same materials (steel and leather) and similar kind of shapes. It would perhaps be more decorated because Noldor but I didn't have time for that today.

[welcomingdisaster]

Fëanor tells all of his kids how much they look like Miriel.

They do not.

Maybe there's a touch of her in Maedhros's calm grey eyes -- but Miriel's, all say, had been sparkling as the leaves of Telperion, her gaze constantly flitting from one thing to the next, as though in search for someone who was not there. No, Maedhros has his mother's level gaze, her manner of holding eye contact a moment too long.

Maybe there's something of her in the delicately carved features of Maglor's face -- he resembles her in the way all beautiful people resemble each other, in a certain sharpness and cohesiveness of features. There might be something of her curls in his loose waves. but no single feature can be said to have come from her -- not his lips nor his nose, nor even his long, arrow-straight eyelashes.

Celegorm finally gives Fëanor something. His hair is silver, only a shade darker than his grandmother's had been. When he is young the softness in his features almost passes for likeness; but he grows broad-shouldered and heavyset, where his grandmother had been petite and light; his hands are quick but huge, his fingers thick. If he resembles anyone, he resembles Mahtan. His brothers tease him about growing a beard. Fëanor quietly mourns that might have been.

Caranthir looks like his mother. That is inarguable; all who see him comment on it. It is the dark brown hair, a trace of red visible yet under bright treelight, the square face, the rounded nose. Fëanor loves sees Nerdanel in him and loves her. But his eyebrows, he says, his eyebrows are just as Miriel's had been -- if you ignore the shape of the arch and the particular set over the eyes.

Curufin looks just like his father. Proud, tall Fëanor-- Fëanor who looks so much like Finwë. When he grows older he will have Miriel's height, and nothing else. Not her chin, not her jaw -- not her eyes or her nose or her lips. He joins Fëanor in the workshop. He has no patience for fabric craft.

Fëanor holds his twins in his arms, looking over their sleeping faces with horrible desperation. He sees her in their curls, he thinks, in the constellations of freckles over their noses. But no-- no. Those are Nerdanel's freckles. His father's curls, just as obvious in the descendants of Indis as in his own family. Even here, she has left him.

There are stories of those who had died in the old world, before any of the elves had come to Aman, born again. They come back to their families in spirit, people say, as babes newborn upon this fair land, but their parents know them and rejoice.

The house is full of children's laughter. Nerdanel, more precious to him than any other, is tired. He cannot have more children only to sate his grief, only to look for a silver-headed, quick-eyed girl who shall not come.

Telufinwë, he names his youngest, and thinks of him as his last abandonment.

[tolkienpinupcalendar]

Sluttiest Tolkien Character Round 1

Finrod vs Glorfindel

(art by Elena Kukanova, Mathia Arkoniel)

Propaganda under the cut ↓

Finrod:

I MEAN LOOK AT HIM ?? Jewellery ? Music ? Rap Battle against Sauron ? Getting friendly with humans as soon as he meets them

That man is draped in jewellery in almost every art made, you can't tell me he wouldn't enjoy laying around with only that jewellery and nothing else on him, being admired by everyone around.

Hair, style, the way he just took a crown, also he's definitely the sluttiest in his family. Galadriel is the tough one

He has a recorded relationship/engagement in Aman. Then, after that fell apart, we all know that Finrod was really into anthropology and ~maintaining relationships~ with the kindreds of the secondborn and the dwarves. He's known for keeping all these ~close personal~ relationships.

He just goes up to a human campfire and starts singing. Show-off move. More than that, hippie-at-a-music-festival move. You know what hippies do at music festivals? When they're high on love and peace and roughing it through nature to get to the music festival (and whatever other elvish cordials with Magical Special Restorative Effects they've brought)? They fuck. Then he invites Beor back to his home and gives him a ring and promises to care for all his descendents ever after? Finrod not only fucks, his heart is all slutty with affection. He's a slutty kingdom-ruler, too. Nargothrond's supposed to be a secret, but he just can't keep those doors closed. And then there's a substantial amount of of Finrod/Curufin art and fic. Scandalously slutty! Your own cousin-lover cucking your kingdom out from under you! Finally: you know that in several places in Aman and Middle Earth, some young people got their kink awakening seeing vaguely-erotic etchings of Finrod wrestling the werewolf. You know this.

Glorfindel:

 Mans was literally SO SLUTTY that HE DIED!!! Maybe if you didn't engage in such slutty behavior (having free-flowing, long, luscious locks that just BEGS TO BE PULLED) you wouldn't have been pulled over that cliff. N e ways. Everyone knows that getting your hair pulled is very slutty, as is being SHINY and FEARLESS and FULL OF JOY. "In his hand was strength" yeah strength for jacking people off! 

He died because he wanted to show off his shiny long hair in his battle with the Balrog

[sillysistersusi]

Because they loved us so

Fandom: The Silmarillion

Celebrimbor & Elrond

Summary: Elrond and Celebrimbor braid each others hair and talk about the family they have lost.

Celebrimbor laughed as he continued to braid Elrond's hair. "Uncle Maglor did what?"

Elrond wiped a tear away from under his eye, for he had laughed so hard that his eyes had begun to water. "Yes, Maedhros was anything but enthusiastic about it, but in the end even he could not help but grin."

"I really did not think Maglor would be so bad at baking, because he is not bad at cooking at all," Celebrimbor said gently. "Atya was actually marvellous at baking, even if he did not do it often." He fell silent.

Celebrimbor hadn't wanted to talk about Curufin at all. It was the one subject that was taboo in his mind. He almost never spoke of his father anymore, as much as he felt the need to. Not after everything that had happened.

His hands became still in Elrond's hair.

Like every time he thought of his father, Celebrimbor was overcome by this incredible surge of emotion.

His mind always thought briefly of the beautiful moments. How Curufin had taught him how to forge, how he had cuddled him in the evening until he fell asleep or how he had put a protective arm around his shoulders.

But then his thoughts always drifted to another time. A time when his father was under so much pressure to please Fëanor that he only worked and hardly had any time left for his family. Then came the memories of the battles and how his father had sometimes returned covered in blood and just sat there staring at the ground for a while. Once Celebrimbor had gone to Curufin at such a moment, hoping to help him, and Curufin had pressed his face into the side of Celebrimbor's hair and cried. Celebrimbor had never seen his father cry before.

After that came the memories where Curufin was... was different. Meaner. Celebrimbor had decided then to stop blindly trusting and following him.

But to this day, he wondered if that had been the right decision.

"It is all right." said Elrond, who was still sitting with his back to him, obviously to give him some privacy, something Celebrimbor was very grateful for, because as always when he only thought about Curufin, he had started to cry.

Carefully, he leaned against Elrond's shoulder from behind and buried his face in his neck. "Sorry. I- I should have known not to mention him, and now I have ruined everything."

"No, my friend. It is all good. "Elrond gently placed a hand on Celebrimbor's knee. "If you want to talk about it, that is fine. He was your father and you loved him incredibly. And I am sure he loved you too, always."

"I just miss him so much, you know?" Celebrimbor stammered softly and Elrond nodded. He understood all too well. He also missed Maglor and Maedhros. Sometimes, when he lay in bed at night and couldn't sleep, he thought he could hear Maedhros' rough voice saying goodnight and Maglor singing a lullaby. He always fell asleep immediately afterwards, with a smile on his lips and tears in his eyes.

But he also missed Elwing and Eärendil, even if his memories of them were few and hazy, he felt a longing in his chest for them.

"Sometimes I think about whether I could have saved him if I had gone with him," Celebrimbor whispered softly and sniffled. "Maybe it would have been all right then."

But Elrond knew that probably wouldn't have happened. "I have seen the effects of the oath on Maedhros and Maglor. No matter how much Curufin loved you, the pressure of the oath would have destroyed him sooner or later. And I am sure he would have pushed you away before that happened, precisely because he loved you so much."

"But if it is so clearly the truth, why does it hurt so much?" Celebrimbor pressed himself tighter against Elrond, because whenever he felt so helpless, all he wanted was to be surrounded by the warmth of someone he cared about.

"I guess it hurts because you loved him as much as he loved you," Elrond replied softly. He wished he could do more to help his friend.

"I am really sorry for crying all over you." Celebrimbor said quietly and full of shame. He lifted his head slightly.

"As long as you need me, I will be here to catch you, just like you do for me and all our other friends. You cannot always be strong, Tyelpë," Elrond whispered. "I am the last person who would tell you not to cry."

So Celebrimbor pressed his face back into Elrond's neck and wrapped his arms around his waist to press himself even closer to him.

[thephoenixandthecrocodile]

Here is the first chapter of my Celebrimbor and Adar fic. It’s my first fic I’ve ever written in the LOTR/ROP world, so please be gentle. Also it hasn’t been beta read yet so please ignore the typos if you see any. 😅

@braveburattino @angel-astre @adventurepunks

A Light in Dark Places - Chapter One: Escape into the Hands of my Enemy��s Enemy

He’d done it. Not only had he escaped the dark lord, but he carried the Deceiver’s great prize with him and it had only required the sacrifice of his right thumb. Maybe it was the shock from the wound or the neverending dizzy effect of being trapped in the Deceiver’s illusion for Eru knew how long, but Celebrimbor, Lord of Eregion, stumbled out of the forge’s side exit and down the stone steps he carved himself, feeling like a barrel riding down a rushing river. The world no longer knew how to provide stability. The smell of smoke, burnt flesh, and fresh blood burnt his nostrils and coated his mouth with the taste of iron. He reached the bottom of the stairs and staggered to the railing of the inner curtain wall, staring at the horror and bloodshed. How many times had he watched the downfall of a once glorious and peaceful city? How many times has he witnessed a lord’s arrogance and foolishness condemn his people to desecration and death?

Eregion’s screams merged with the phantom screams of Gondolin and Nargothrond and he was torn between being the lord who brought this upon his own people and being a young, lost Elf who had disowned his own family and followed the orders of kings who were supposed to know better.

He should have known better.

Why would the Valar ever grace his family with gifts when there were parts of Middle-Earth that still oozed with the blood his uncles and grandfather had shed?

Celebrimbor so desperately wanted to believe that he was different.

A crash and the air rushed from his lungs as he tumbled head first downwards into darkness.

First there was body wide pain, as if he had been thrown through a stone wall; then there were muffled, exasperated voices. Barely familiar voices. Voices that should have brought comfort and relief, but their unfriendliness only sent a spike through his heart.

“Look what he’s done to himself.”

Words formed in the darkness.

“Take him back.”

Terror broke through his dazed confusion as his eyes shot open and his arms registered being grabbed and he was lifted from the ground.

“No!” he cried, using what strength he had left to escape the guard’s grasp, but only managing to barely shift his arms.

Still dizzy, still in pain, still pathetically weak. The great son of Curufin, a confused, blubbering mess being carted back to his own prison where he would once more be trapped with the cruel slave of Morgoth.

“No,” he said, firmer, finding ground to plant his feet on. “I will not go back.”

He pulled one arm free and shoved the other guard aside, his eyes widening as he realized he was no longer holding the pouch with the nine rings.

“No, no, no,” he muttered as he flung himself to the ground and sifted through the rubble. “It will not be for nothing.”

He hissed as dirt entered his open wound where his thumb once existed, but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered but the rings. Harsh words and harsher attempts to drag him to his feet, but the violent strength of his father at the mere mention of a Silmaril coursed through his veins and he broke through their grasps.

He cried in desperate joy as he spotted the pouch underneath a piece of rubble. A swift rush of wind, a cry, and the heavy thud of a body covered in armor fell to the ground, followed by several other cries.

Celebrimbor pulled and shifted and twisted the pouch until it finally broke free from the rubble, knocking him backwards onto his rear. He hugged the pouch to his chest and rose to a crouching position before noticing the arrow head pointed at him. His eyes traced up the bow, over the gnarly hands and scarred, disgusting arms into the dark and merciless eyes of an Orc. Instantly, he understood, his guards were dead and he was surrounded by the broken souls Morgoth tortured beyond recognition. This was how it would end then? A swift arrow to the chest and the pathetic and pitiful tale of Celebrimbor would conclude with the nine rings returning to the Deceiver’s hands and Middle-Earth taken over by darkness.

Anger and desperation fueled his reckless rise to his feet, standing like the proud Elven prince that he was, daring the Orc to take his life as his eyes searched for a way to escape. Could he make a run for it? Shock the Orcs by rushing the one in front of him, sprinting across the broken courtyard, arrow after arrow piercing his back, relying on his will alone to carry him to a friendly face, ideally Galadriel or Elrond or even Gil-Galad, placing the rings in their trustworthy hands and finally leaving Middle-Earth to rejoin his family in the Halls of Mandos and beyond. If he could do that, then maybe the storytellers and poets and songwriters would treat him with some kindness and forgiveness. Maybe he would be remembered as something more than an arrogant prince who replicated his father’s and grandfather’s worst atrocities, never any of their marvels.

A tall, gangly Orc with long ears that fit uncomfortably under his chainmail hood rested a hand on the bow wielding Orc’s arm, lowering the weapon, and spoke in Black Speech, burning Celebrimbor’s ears. Shifting of metal as Orcs tightened their circle around him and grabbed his arms. No, not again. He would never be another’s prisoner again. He slipped through their grasp and charged forward.

A powerful blow to the chest and he was once more on the ground, gasping for air. More powerful blows and he shifted and covered his head with one hand, holding the pouch of rings to his chest with the other, and coughed up blood. Black speech ceased the blows and he was dragged to his feet once more. The gangly Orc gestured at him, his words cut off by a scream that caused all of Middle-Earth to tremble in fear and froze Celebrimbor’s blood in his veins.

Help me, Eru and Manwe, he knows I’ve escaped.

The gangly orc snapped in Black Speech and the Orcs holding Celebrimbor by the arms, lifted him off the ground and ran away from the burning, shattered courtyard and the great Deceiver’s wrath.

Celebrimbor forced himself to look at the mangled and bloody corpses of his fallen people as the Orcs carried him through the destroyed streets of Eregion. He had once prided himself on knowing the name of every one of his citizens. Now, that knowledge plunged him into despair as he whispered the names of those who had been slaughtered because of his foolishness. They ran through one of the breaches in his stone walls and across the ongoing battlefield that had once been a river: Glanduin. How clear its waters, how soothing its taste, how full of life it had once been. Kingfishers, beavers, dragonflies, and others once crowded its shores and brought music and magic to the world. Now it was all gone, replaced by filth, flames, smoke, blood, and death.

A handful of Elves in golden armor vainly fought the roaring waves of the Orc legion.

Lindon

Then Gil-galad was near. Celebrimbor called out to the Elves, but the din of battle drowned out his words and his Orc captors smacked him across the face every time he opened his mouth.

Through the chaos and carnage they ran; into the dark forest that rested on Glanduin’s former shores, the stench of Orc almost causing Celebrimbor to vomit. Makeshift and frequently mended tents, trebuchets, firepits, and snarling, marching Orcs rushed past them as they carried Celebrimbor to the center of their camp. He was placed back on his feet in a small clearing, but the Orc’s kept a tight hold on his arms, wrenching them to his side. The gangly Orc stepped forward and immediately reached for the pouch containing the nine rings.

“No!” Celebrimbor yelled, gathering whatever strength remained in his bloodline and wrenched free from his captors, pushed the gangly orc out of the way, and ran straight into what felt like a tree.

He staggered backwards and a strange pair of hands - one of flesh and one of metal - grabbed his arms to steady him.

“Adar,” said one of the Orcs behind him.

Adar?

Celebrimbor stared into the dark, soulful eyes of a creature that was not quite Orc and not quite Elf. His black eyes smoldered with grief that would bring even the Deceiver to tears and anger that felt on the verge of incinerating Celebrimbor with one glance. The being’s long, matted black hair framed his thin, weary, and beaten face. Ancient, raised scars peeked through the being’s dark strands. The being’s waxen pale face contained the pain Celebrimbor’s entire body felt but also reminded him of his uncle Maedhros after being rescued from Morgoth’s grasp. That distant agony that could not find expression in any language of Middle-Earth or, maybe even Valinor. Stranger still, the being wore the silver armor of the Beleriand soldiers, the rivers of Beleriand gently streaming down his chest, comforting Celebrimbor’s racing heart and mind.

Adar spoke, but Celebrimbor did not hear his words. He heard only the being’s voice as deep as the unexplored caverns of Khazad-dum and as soft as a rabbit’s tail.

For a moment Celebrimbor forgot about his pain, his despair, and his loss. For a moment, he felt safe.

“This elf has something of Sauron’s,” claimed the Orc behind him. “I felt his dark presence.”

Celebrimbor’s knees gave out as the last few weeks collapsed into his shoulders and he could not prevent his sobs nor his frantic thoughts swirling around one incessant demand: run.

[aylen-san]

Miriel: (gently cradling little Feanor) Finwë, I've been thinking for a long time... I will not go to Lorien. I will stay with you. Our son needs more than love. He needs a guiding hand, or his fire could burn everything around him.

Finwë: (surprised, but warmly) Miriel, this is a big decision... I'm glad you chose us. But are you sure? I can see that strength has not come easy to you since his birth.

Mirielle: Yes, he has taken a lot from me, but I feel it is my destiny to be close to him. He is extraordinary, Finwë. His thirst for knowledge and power is great, but without proper guidance it could ruin him.

Finwë: (smiling, stroking Pheanor's head) Our Feanor... He has so much fire in him. I can see that. But you, Miriel, can teach him the humility that will keep that fire under control. He needs a mother's support and love.

Mirielle: (with a smile) He will be great if he learns not only to take, but also to give. I will help him find a balance between his passion and his ability to wait for the right moment. But for now, that he is just a child, and let him not worry about such things for now.

Finwë: (thoughtfully) If he learns this, maybe we will avoid a lot of trouble. He has the future of the Noldor in his hands....

---

Years pass. Feanor, now an adult, has a conversation with his parents.

Feanor: (with a twinkle in his eye) Look at this, mother, father! These are my Silmarilli! Stones that shine like the stars themselves. They are the crown of my labors!

Miriel: (admiringly, but with warning in her voice) It is a marvel, Feanor. None of us have ever seen anything like it. But remember, such things attract not only admiration, but envy. Beware of things that might cause discord.

Finwë: (nodding approvingly) Feanor, you have surpassed yourself. But with such power comes responsibility. Let these stones be a symbol of our strength and wisdom, not a cause of strife.

Feanor: (seriously but firmly) I understand, Father. The Silmarilli will remain under our protection. They will be a symbol of what we can accomplish if we stick together.

Mirielle: (smiling proudly) If so, I am at peace. You are not only a great master, but a wise Eldar. May your future be as bright as your creations. I am so proud of you!

---

At the edge of the golden field, among the flowers swaying gently in the wind, under shady trees sheltered by the sun's glare, sat Mirielle. Beside her on a soft blanket were her grandchildren, chatting and playing merrily. There was silence all around, broken only by laughter and the rustling of leaves. Feanaro's sons, still children, surrounded their grandmother, listening to her stories.

Miriel: (with a smile) Well, my little elves, would you like to hear the story of how I first saw the silver trees of Valinor?

Caranthir: (interrupting): Grandmother, tell me better about how you taught your father how to craft!"

Miriel: (with an affectionate look) Oh, Caranthir, you are always so impatient. Alright then, but first the story of the silver trees."

She begins to tell, and her voice takes the children into a world of memories. The boys' eyes light up as they visualize the silver light of Telperion.

Curufin: (stroking the thread on her dress): Grandmother, is it true that father did not immediately become such a skilled craftsman?

Mirielle: (with a smile) Of course, my dear. No master becomes great in a day. Feanaro was full of determination and perseverance. He often worked all night long while others slept.

Maedhros: (looking off into the distance) And you, grandmother, you used to weave these threads... How did you decide to leave that occupation?"

Mirielle thinks for a moment, but then smiles gently at her firstborn son.

Mirielle: Sometimes, dear one, one must step back to allow others the opportunity to grow. Your father accepted a legacy of skill from me, and I knew he would lead it forward.

Maglor: (quietly) Do you not regret not creating more?

Miriel runs her hand through his soft hair.

Mirielle: No, beloved. I find joy in seeing your creations blossom. And each one of them is a part of me.

The sun was slowly setting on the horizon, coloring the sky with warm golden tones. The children huddled closer to Mirielle, and she hugged them all, feeling the warmth of their small bodies.

Kelegorm: (with a sleepy voice) Tell us another story, Grandmother...

Mirielle: (smiling) What is it, my brave hunter?

Kelegorm: (covering her eyes) About how you and grandfather first met...

She begins to tell the story with a quiet laugh, and there is comfort and peace all around. Even though it was already nightfall, this small company was light with love and mutual warmth.

[animatorweirdo]

Imagine rescuing Finrod with your dragon

Link for the First headcanon

Requested by Anon

Hi Animator Weirdo! Might I request a one shot/mini fic where Ann (Ancalagon) and reader go and save Finrod and Beren, trash Sauron’s place and maybe even steal a silmaril later on? Thank you! And congratulations on the 500 followers! 🎉🥳

( I only recently realized you wanted a one shot kind of fic. I'm sorry. I ended up making a mixed headcanon/one shot, so I hope you still like it)

Warnings: mentions of Celegorm and Curufin being a pair of bricks, mentions of loneliness, fear, manipulation, imprisonment, burning orcs, and werewolves, saving Finrod, Ann having too much fun wrecking Sauron's place, and a lighthearted ending.

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

- If you had known how things would have turned out for Finrod, when he left with Beren to claim a silmaril from Morgoth's crown, you would have tried harder to convince him to take you and Ann with him. 

- Ever since he rescued you from the river and allowed your dragon friend to live in Nargothrond despite the differences— you were not willing to lose him to anything, including his oath. He was too important and dear to you for you to lose him to death. 

- He first refused your offer to join him when Beren arrived in Nargothrond to seek his aid and when the two sons of Feanor, Celegorm, and Curufin, threatened his people to become unwilling to join him with only a handful of people ready to aid him on this journey. 

- He feared for your safety, and despite the advantages your dragon friend could provide him, he wanted you both to remain in Nargothrond, away from the enemy’s hands. 

- Your heart swelled for his consideration for your dragon's safety, even if it took months for his people to get accustomed and accept one of Morgoth's creations living among them. However, it only made you more determined to see him return safely, but despite your reasonings and fears, Finrod convinced you to stay. 

- He left Nargothrond under Orodreth Care and you with false hopes that things might turn out alright in the end. 

- You missed him terribly, and things began to change rapidly when he was no longer governing Nargothrond. The Feanorian princes saw an opportunity to take charge and appeal as more eligible leaders to Finrod's people, trying to overshadow Orodreth. And to your concern, Finrod’s people seem to take on their side each day despite Orodreth's rightful kingship. 

- Luckily, some didn't and remained strictly on Orodreth's side. Most being those who still held grudges toward the brothers for something they had done in the past. 

- You have never been fond of the brothers. They were arrogant and looked down upon you and Finrod for having a relationship because you were a human. They had even jabbed at you for your past, calling you Morgoth’s thrall, and even tried to make you look like a spy when you ventured to Angband to free Ann and returned on his back to Nargothrond. 

- That stunt might have made you look like one, but you have never been one of Morgoth's thralls. 

- They always played with people's fears, and perhaps since you had a dragon on your side, most of Finrod's people remained on Orodreth's side. It was not something you hoped for, but it seemed to help preventing the Feanorians from taking full control of Nargothrond and possibly overthrowing Orodreth. 

- It was a stressful situation, and you couldn't seek much comfort from anyone except Orodreth and Ann, who had taken a liking to residing in one of Nargothrond's caves and guarding its treasures. He made an excellent treasure guard. 

- Despite Ann's size and indifference toward emotional affairs, he knew how to make you feel safe and calmly talked about events that helped you feel better. He even allowed you to rest against his warm scales. It was an old habit whenever you wanted a moment of peace and quiet, even though lying on hoards of gold was not very comfortable. 

- When days passed, your anxiety for Finrod's well-being only grew, especially when one of the Feanorians had begun trying to sweet talk to you. You never thought you would find someone's voice so agitating, and you hated acting polite and well-mannered with the Feanorian but knew you would end up in trouble if you didn't. 

- Then, the day arrived when the Feanorians brought an elven princess from Doriath. 

- There was something suspicious about it because the Feanorians should have brought her to meet with Orodreth as a matter of courtesy. However, when she suddenly seemed to vanish, and no new information was heard about her, you decided to investigate.

- You first tried getting it out from the Feanorians, and they claimed she was just a guest and wasn't available at the moment. She was resting or something. 

- You were familiar with their patterns of lying, and then you found out in secret that the princess was, in fact, Luthien, the elven princess Beren has fallen in love with. The Feanorian brothers were keeping her as a prisoner and planned to marry her off to one of them despite the laws and the very nature of the elves. You found that utterly disgusting, and they once claimed humans were the only ones who could do such things. 

- You knew how much Thingol hated the Noldor and how possibly a civil war could be born if he found out his only daughter was married against her will, so you decided to act quickly since her appearance also meant something was wrong with Beren and Finrod. 

- You convinced Orodreth to assist you in retaining the two while you released Luthien from the room they had locked her in. Orodreth may have been easy to persuade, but his fear of Thingol's wrath outweighed any influence the Feanorians could exert, so he was firmly on your side.

- Luthien was incredibly grateful to you and explained how she saw visions of Beren and Finrod suffering in Sauron's isle of werewolves, where they had been captured and tortured with a ravenous wolf hiding in the shadows. 

- Having a valid reason to leave, you allowed Luthien to go first upon Huan as the hound was against his master's treacherous actions and handled the Feanorians first before departing. 

- Due to their vicious plan, they quickly fell out of favor with Finrod's and their people. You received Orodreth's assurance that they would be dealt with accordingly, and given the severity of their actions, they will most likely face banishment.

- After all that, you and Ann were good to leave. Finrod needed you more than anything. 

- One perk of having a flying dragon is that you can get to places much faster than any horse or dog. You didn't waste time planning Finrod's rescue when you finally reached Tol-in-Gaurhoth, the isle of the werewolves. You did hope you were not too late to save your beloved from the fangs of death. 

—-

The orcs and werewolves of Toul-In-Gauroth were unprepared for the attack. They were taken by surprise when a fierce wind swept through like a violent hurricane, tearing their master's banners from their places and drowning out all other sounds with what seemed like thunder.

The orcs in the towers had no time to sound the alarms as they witnessed a shadow descending from the sky, its wings enveloping Tol-In-Gauroth.

Only one managed to cry out and alert the others of the approaching beast. "Attack!" the orc screamed as fire engulfed the tower.

The black dragon unleashed a torrent of flames upon the towers and walls. The wretched orcs and werewolves wailed in agony as the dragon's fiery breath consumed them. Their screams of pain reached the fortress's lord, sounding the alarm.

Ann glided around the fortress as smoke pillars billowed from within its walls and the remnants of crushed towers. He landed gracefully on one of the remaining intact towers, gripping it tightly with his claws. With his immense strength, he began tearing through the stone and steel.

The orcs tried defending their fortress, shooting arrows at the dragon, which only bounced away after hitting his armored scales. Ann swiped his tail against the orcs, swatting them away like flies. 

Ann then ignored the screaming of orcs and the howling of the wolves, who ran away from the sight of him and began sniffing the air, trying to find a certain scent. When he found the scent emanating from the lower parts of the fortress, he crushed the walls and the ceilings through his closed fist, allowing you to slip in through his fingers where you had hidden before the attack. 

You looked around while Ann pulled his fist away and continued tearing the fortress apart, keeping the attention of Sauron and the defenders upon himself.

After ensuring the coast was clear, you ventured into the dungeon, intending to find and free your beloved and his foolish company. 

Finrod, Beren, and the rest of their companions were taken by surprise when the stone walls of their cell began to shake, releasing dust and pebbles from the force. The wolf that had preyed upon them from the shadows had left, and a roar was heard from the outside of the dungeon. Finrod's eyes widened as he recognized the roar. 

They then heard the door to their cell open, and Finrod saw you walking in with a set of keys and your axe in your hands. 

"(Name)? What are you doing here?!" Finrod demanded in shock as you began opening their chains. 

"Rescuing you!" you replied as you hit their shackles and chains open with your axe when the keys failed. 

"From now on, you will not tell me to stay behind, especially when you end up captured by the enemy and when I have a bloody dragon who is more than willing to wreck his former master's place to free you," you stated as you helped him and Beren up. 

"Come on. We need to leave fast before Sauron notices something," you said as you led him, Beren, and the rest of their company out of the fortress. 

Ann ripped the fortress apart, crumbling the stone with his weight and setting fire to the rest of Sauron's werewolves. 

A shadow rose from the fallen ruin, standing before the great dragon. 

"Ancalagon!" Sauron yelled in fury. "Is this how you betray your masters, you traitor?!" he demanded as the dragon looked down upon him with a golden glare. "You fool!" Ann said in a grumbling voice. "I was never yours to begin with!" his eyes blazed brighter with golden fire. 

Ann's chest began to glow. Sauron backed away when Ann opened his jaws and then released a barrage of fire upon the Maia. 

Sauron changed forms and narrowly escaped in the form of a vampire. He cursed the dragon as there was nothing he could do to save his fortress and forces and flew toward the north. 

You watched as Ann continued wrecking the fortress before turning your attention to Finrod and his company. Luthien had arrived later, riding upon Huan and reuniting with her beloved Beren. Finrod’s companions took the chance to enjoy the light and fresh air after being trapped in Sauron’s dungeon for so long. You began tending to Finrod’s injuries. 

“Ann seems to have fun wrecking the fortress,” you stated as you wrapped his injured hands and legs in the bandages you had brought along. “I hope you don’t mind that,” you said, and Finrod dryly chuckled at your sentence. 

“No…” he uttered. “At least, he ensures Tol Sirion can never be used by the enemy again. And it kinda of looks better. Sauron had a terrible taste in the design and the interior,” he explained, making you snort. “I guess it does look better,” you commented after you finished wrapping and offered him water. 

Finrod grabbed the waterskin from your hands and stared at it with a look on his face before glancing at Beren and his other companions. “Don’t worry. I brought extra,” you showed the other waterskin you had taken with you. “I came in a rush, but I planned ahead what you might need after rescuing you,” you stated. Finrod chuckled. “You always come prepared,” he noted. “Well… after doing a few trips away from Angand and doing a trip there once. You learn a thing or two when it comes to preparing, and trust me– you do not want to taste the water in Morgoth’s lands,” you said.  

“I trust you,” Finrod said, his voice filled with gratitude as he took a long, satisfying drink from the waterskin. It was evident that he had been deprived of fresh water for quite some time, and the relief was palpable on his face. After quenching his trish, he turned his gaze toward you. 

“Thank you, my love. Many more of us would have perished if you hadn't come,” he stated. 

You nodded with a hint of determination in your eyes. “It seems sometimes it's okay not to listen, especially when you have a good reason not to,” you said. “And I was already on the verge of going stir-crazy with Celegorm in the same house,” you added, prompting a snort of laughter from Finrod.

“I’m serious!” you exclaimed, your voice laced with playful frustration. “Don’t leave me ever again in the same place as that blondie. I was this close to fulfilling the urge to let Ann eat him alive,” you said, pinching your fingers together for emphasis. 

Finrod chuckled, his laughter filling the atmosphere. “Understood, my dear,” he said with a grin, and the two of you shared a hearty laugh, finding solace and humor amid the adversity. 

"I don't care what you say. I'm coming with you. I already stole from Morgoth once. I might as well do it again," you said sternly. "I do not think I can convince you otherwise even if I tried," Finrod said. "Good," you said, then chuckled and enjoyed the moment together as Ann returned to you, having reduced once Tol Sirion into nothing but rubble.

[thelordofgifs]

the fairest stars

What if Angrist was a little tougher, and Beren and Lúthien managed to steal two Silmarils from Morgoth instead of one? Somehow I’ve already written NINE parts of this unhinged bullet point AU here and decided it was time for a fresh post to avoid that one getting too long.

Where we left off: Lúthien has been negotiating with Mandos like a pro, Maglor is nearly-but-not-quite-dead in Menegroth, Thingol has taken one Silmaril from him, Fingon has the other Silmaril and ditched Curufin outside the Girdle even though they did some bonding on the Worst Road Trip, and people are still upset about Celegorm’s death. YES I am well aware that the pipeline from the fairly normal first sentence of the post to this mess is insane.

Fingon and Maedhros are both very, very good tacticians. Between them, it isn’t very difficult for Fingon to follow Maedhros’ directions towards Menegroth, and then to find the hidden pathways by which Huan led Maedhros out of Thingol’s halls.

It helps that Thingol is still under the impression that the Girdle is impenetrable with the aid of his Silmaril, so he doesn’t have anyone keeping an eye out for the High King of the Noldor sneaking into his realm on an Adventure.

Finding Maglor's sickroom/prison cell/whatever is a little trickier, but not impossible. Long ago in Tirion Fingon was a mischievous child, so he's well aware that the best way not to get caught sneaking into a forbidden place is to make it perfectly clear that you belong there.

He strides confidently down the corridors, silently reciting Maedhros' directions to himself. Nobody stops him.

He's hoping that Curufin was wrong, and he'll know Maglor's door by the holy light showing through the cracks; but when none is evident he's forced to take his chances and start trying doors in the area Maedhros indicated at random.

Since he has plot armour is very lucky with this whole improbable-rescue thing he comes across Maglor without any trouble.

Maglor is only half-conscious – quite apart from the wounded leg, he hasn’t eaten in days – but his eyes flicker open when Fingon comes in.

“Hello, Makalaurë,” Fingon says, deliberately cheerful. “I’ve come to take you home.”

“You can’t do that,” Maglor says dazedly. “It burned – in the Bragollach – remember?”

Fingon opts not to answer that. “Russo said you were healing when he left,” he says instead, frowning at the bloodstained bandages around Maglor’s leg. “What happened? Has Thingol been mistreating you? I thought Lúthien at least was kind!”

Maybe he was too hasty in leaving Curufin outside the Girdle.

Maglor hurries to explain that Lúthien is dead, and that he’s actually in this pathetic state by choice or something.

“Right,” says Fingon, “well, you’re coming back to Himring now.”

But Maglor shakes his head. “I can’t, Finno,” he says. “Thingol took the Silmaril from me. I don’t – I’ve been trying to hold it back. The Oath. But I can’t leave it in Doriath and go, I can’t. So you’ll have to leave me behind.” He manages a brave and tragic smile.

On Thangorodrim while Fingon was struggling futilely with Morgoth’s iron shackle, hopeless tears running down his face, Maedhros said, You’ll never be able to free me, Finno, just kill me, please—

Fingon is rather sick of Fëanorian melodrama.

“One step ahead of you,” he says brightly, and he produces Maedhros’ Silmaril from its box, handing it to Maglor before his Oath can stir at the sight of it. “Here it is.”

This would never normally work. But Maglor is very tired and ill, and not thinking as clearly as he otherwise would.

As long as the obvious question doesn’t occur to him until they get outside the Girdle again—

Maglor takes the jewel and gives a relieved little sigh as the bite of the Oath eases. “You really took it from Thingol?”

“Of course,” Fingon lies. “Let’s put it back in the box for now so that it doesn’t attract too much attention?”

Maglor acquiesces. He and Fingon aren’t close exactly, but they get on well – certainly far better than Fingon does with Curufin. There’s an odd shared camaraderie that comes from loving Maedhros; it lends itself well to cooperation in difficult circumstances.

Fingon picks Maglor up – he's alarmingly light – and they begin to make their way back out of Menegroth.

"You're to be my betrothal gift," Fingon tells Maglor, and Maglor actually laughs.

Unfortunately it's much harder to look innocuous when you're carrying someone about five minutes away from expiring on the spot.

They haven't got very far before an angry voice comes from behind them: "Who are you and where are you going with the Fëanorion?"

Damn.

Meanwhile

[I should clarify my definition of "meanwhile" here. Evidently time runs much slower in Aman than it does in Middle-earth, even post-Darkening, or it's difficult to fathom why Beren and Lúthien canonically took two years to return from death. In vague support of this, the Fellowship find that time runs slowly in Lothlórien, presumably with the aid of Galadriel's ring, so I posit that the more Divine Stuff there is near a place (and Galadriel was ofc a student of Melian too), the more weird time shit occurs. So since I've anyway fudged the timelines so that travel times work out conveniently, we can also put the bits of story occurring in Aman here for funsies.]

Meanwhile, Finrod has been following Celegorm around in the Halls of Mandos.

"Was it worth it?" he asks. "Did you take joy in the lordship of Nargothrond, once I was gone?"

"I could ask you the same," says Celegorm, responding for the first time. "Did you die for anything in the end, Ingoldo? The mortal's here, after all your efforts. So much for your oath."

"So much for yours," says Finrod; "it looks like that eternal darkness you doomed yourself to wasn't that dark. Or eternal. So what was it all for? Do you even regret any of it?"

The dead can't lie. Artifice and deception are matters of the flesh, and they are buried with it.

"I didn't want you to die," Celegorm says.

"Well, that's a start!" says Finrod. "I can't say I'm glad to see you here, either."

"O Fair and Faithful one," says Celegorm, "spare me none of your pity. They are already whispering that you will be released soon, first of all the Exiles to walk again in Aman. So it's all turned out rather well for you, despite your evil cousins' machinations."

"I suppose it has," says Finrod, thinking.

The thing is, it was worth it. Beren's life mattered. It mattered that he saved it, even if he died to do so, even if Beren is dead now too (although word is that might be changing).

He did not do it expecting a reward.

"And my werewolf was bigger than yours," says Celegorm.

Finrod rolls his metaphorical eyes. "At least I actually killed mine."

Cousinly bickering is still kind of fun, even when you're dead.

Curufin, fuming outside the Girdle, would not agree.

After a time he's forced to conclude that the only thing he can do is head back to Himring.

The ride through Himlad, once as green and fair a land as any, does not improve his mood.

Also his burned hand is still hurting.

Look: here's the little stream where Celegorm caught a huge fish once; and here are the low hills where, a couple of centuries ago, they held some war games and Curufin's people thrashed Celegorm's decisively.

Here's the copse where, years before the Dagor Aglareb brought tentative peace to East Beleriand, Curufin and his son were surprised by a party of orcs, who took their small patrol all captive.

Tyelpë was just barely of age at the time. How trusting his eyes, then, how baby-soft his hair: how easily he had believed that his father would fix everything.

As for Curufin, he spent the hours-long ordeal learning anew what terror was, rendered compliant by the mere possibility that they could hurt his child.

They were fine, in the end. Celegorm rode up to the rescue while the orcs were still quarrelling over where to take them.

But Curufin remembers: how disabling love can be.

Meanwhile Fingon finds himself surrounded by a crowd of angry Iathrim in their home city.

He sets Maglor down on the floor and sets a hand on his sword-hilt, wondering if he is about to become a Kinslayer again.

(Fingon regrets Alqualondë more than anything; and he'd do it again, for Maedhros' sake. He knows this about himself.)

Before things escalate too far, Thingol shows up at the scene of the disturbance.

"We haven't met," Fingon says. "Fingon son of Fingolfin, High King of the Noldor in Beleriand. I've come for my cousin." He gives Thingol a rather dangerous smile.

Thingol thinks he might be in serious trouble. He attempts to adopt a conciliatory tone (which is really really hard for Thingol ok he's trying).

"He'll die if he's moved," he says, nodding to where Maglor is slumped against the wall, shivering.

"He'll die if he stays here!" Fingon says. "Is this the famed hospitality of your halls?"

"He has been offered every treatment he could ask for," Thingol says. "It is not the fault of Menegroth if he chooses to refuse them. Now tell me, son of Fingolfin, how came you through the Girdle of Melian – without her leave or mine?"

Maglor puts the pieces together. "Finno, you lied to me," he breathes, glancing at the box in Fingon's hand.

Fingon wonders if it would be diplomatically insensitive to kick Thingol.

"The jewel alone does not explain it," Thingol insists. "While I hold the Silmaril my daughter won, surely—?"

"I could have told you that, had you asked," says Maglor. "Silmarils aren't weapons! You can't use one as some sort of military defence."

Thingol is now questioning all his life choices.

He only took the Silmaril from Maglor in the first place because he thought it would protect his kingdom, and now—

Maglor is feeling resigned. He should have known Fingon's claim was too good to be true. Thingol still has the Silmaril, and Maglor can't leave Menegroth without it.

Face pale and set, he attempts to get to his feet, mostly unsuccessfully.

Fingon looks down at him. "Seriously, Makalaurë?" And when Maglor ignores him, he says, "Sorry about this," and kicks Maglor's bad leg – carefully, but still hard enough to hurt.

Maglor faints.

Fingon picks his limp body up. "The Silmaril isn't yours," he tells Thingol.

"The white ships of Olwë my brother's people were not yours, either," Thingol returns.

Fingon inclines his head, acknowledging the point. "I don't wish to start a war over the Silmaril," he says. Maglor is so cold and still in his arms. "My cousins have done enough for that cause lately. Only let me take my kinsman home."

Thingol hesitates. The iron box in Fingon's hand is so close, and Fingon is outnumbered, and he has his injured cousin to worry about—

It could all be over, if he took the second Silmaril. He'd never need to worry about his people's safety from invasion again.

"Elu," comes a voice from behind him, "enough of this. Let them go."

"Queen Melian," says Fingon, bowing his head.

She barely looks at him, meeting her husband's gaze instead. "Time and again you have disregarded me," she says. "Lúthien is lost, and yet you persist with this. Will you heed me now?"

Thingol stares at her, and then, finally, he waves his hand. The bristling guards move aside, allowing Fingon free passage down the corridor.

"I trust you can remember your way out," Thingol tells Fingon, and turns away.

Fingon looks at Melian. "Thank you," he says, "and I am very sorry about your daughter."

He has met Maiar before, of course, in Valinor: but Melian is still unsettling, with her implausibly flawless face and eyes that hold yet the memory of a time before Time.

"Little king," she says, "only hope that you will not know any such pain yourself."

Fingon manages a smile. "I'm good at that," he says. "Hope."

On that note he leaves Menegroth, carrying Maglor, and begins to make the long trek back through the Forest of Region, and thence to Himring.

Curufin has managed the journey significantly more quickly. On a crisp cold morning he rides back through Himring's gates.

Maedhros has been... managing. Not well, but he trusts Fingon.

Beloved, I will bring them back to you. Beloved, I will bring them back to you. Beloved, I will bring them back to you.

But here's Curufin by himself, looking pale and tired, and after all it was only a hastily-scribbled note, not an incantation.

Maedhros arrives at the gate at a run.

Scarce weeks ago it was the other way around, Maedhros riding into the fortress with Fingon's cloak only just concealing his bloodstained clothes: and Curufin met him as he came in and he can still feel the terrible jolt of knowledge in his stomach, and Celegorm is still dead.

How can it be borne?

A thought comes to Curufin and for a moment he thinks it the cruellest idea he has ever had, but Celegorm is dead and his hand is still burned and nobody expects any better of him anyway.

"They're dead," he says flatly, "they're both dead," and Maedhros just – stares at him.

(to be continued)

[veliseraptor]

Fic Authors Self Rec

I was tagged by @kasasagi-eye to self-rec five fics which is always. a fun challenge in a few different ways. but good practice I think! and I did go through and make an Author's Favorites series for myself a while ago, which made this easier!

tried to do a bit of a spread of fandoms/time for funsies

Elegy, or Twelve Scenes About One Thing (The Silmarillion).

An old one! But I'm still pretty pleased with it. It's a style I don't write in as much anymore as I used to, but rereading it reminded me why I liked writing it to begin with. Just an impressionistic set of vignettes about Finrod and Curufin in Nargothrond; good old-fashioned cousin incest for a pairing I haven't written in a long time but am still deeply fond of.

Curufin’s hands had a smith’s calluses. It was the strangest thing, to feel how they caught on smooth skin, or on scars as Curufin passed his hands over Finrod’s bare chest. As though he were a piece of metal or gemstone to be coaxed into revealing its secrets. Finrod wondered what he found. “You fascinate me,” Curufin said, suddenly. Finrod blinked at what might have been an echo of his own thoughts. “Beg pardon?” “You fascinate me,” Curufin repeated. “You are…a rare thing.” His fingers paused, and tapped just above Finrod’s navel. “For all I watch you, I am unable to guess your mind.” “I am no great mystery,” said Finrod. Curufin shook his head. “Ah,” he said, “But perhaps that, there, is your mystery.” He smiled, eyes almost glittering, and lowered his head to drag his teeth along the curve of Finrod’s shoulder. “Still waters, they say.” Ran deep, Finrod thought, and untroubled. He did not feel untroubled. If he was still water, then there was a turbulence in his depths. A whirlpool spiraling toward the surface.

post war blues (Wheel of Time)

This is one of my favorite fics even though it's written for an audience of maybe five if I'm generous. I had a lot of fun with it. Min/Elan post-canon, sort of, with a background side of Rand/Elan and Rand/Elan/Min in the future if I kept writing this AU.

“You promised me higher praise,” Elan said, something arch in his voice. Min laughed. “All right,” she said. “I like you. When you’re not thinking about it, you’re a fairly decent person, at least now. You’re smart; I like smart people. And you have good cheekbones.” Elan stared at her, and she shrugged. “A girl can’t help but notice.” “Cheekbones,” Elan said, sounding incredulous. “That’s what you’re stuck on?” Min said. “I thought the ‘decent person’ would get to you more.”

gather frankincense (Lymond Chronicles)

Had to put this one on here mostly because I was proud of myself for writing Lymond fic complete with a satisfying number of references in it, but also because I love this fucked up pairing (Lymond/Gabriel) so much.

“Am I meant to ask what desires I need to concern myself with?” Lymond asked, voice still light; not precisely indifferent, but not much affected either. “The rest,” Gabriel said, and gestured at Lymond’s untouched glass. “Drink, be merry. You’ve already ruined yourself with opium. Surely a glass of wine is not too much an indulgence.” “I am not in the mood for indulgence. Is there a purpose to this pageantry, o my Pasha?” “Save that it is my pleasure?” Gabriel regarded him with a touch of amusement. “You would rather I tied you to a whipping post and had you flogged?” “You would gain marks for consistency,” Lymond said.

like a trigger (get me ready to shoot) (Kinnporsche)

This is, like, an embarrassingly personal fic in some ways which is probably also why it's important to me. I have strong feelings about Vegas and sadism and it was fun to explore them here and write a bit of a character study through that lens.

He stopped trying to make it last. There was always work, where he could hurt people so much worse and it didn’t matter, there was no reason to hold back and nobody who looked at him like some kind of monster, except for the people he wanted to. His dad gave him a man and said punish him and Vegas could, would, did. It was never quite enough. Somehow he was always coming up short when it mattered. A step below, a step behind. His father’s impatience and anger and frustration, always quick to remind Vegas of his inadequacies. At least when it was just him and his tools and a body meant to suffer, he knew what he was doing. He knew how to get what he wanted, and did. He liked to hurt people. He was good at hurting people. There might be something wrong with him but at least he was in the right line of work for it.

That Unwanted Animal (The Untamed/MDZS)

A fic for this fandom I don't talk about so much, written for an exchange a few years ago. Modern AU, which is a funny thing that I don't usually write except in a few very special cases, and this is a modern AU that I'm actually pretty proud of the execution on, mostly because the messiness of it and the construction of the relationships is one that I remain happy with even on reread (far from a guarantee). The side Jin Guangyao and Xue Yang dynamic is one of my favorite things about this one, funnily enough.

So the thing was that Xue Yang knew that this shit was too good to last. It was like some kind of fairytale, wasn’t it? Cinderella, or something. Go to a ball, meet a handsome prince, get swept off your feet. Plucked out of your shitty life and dropped into someone else’s. If Cinderella was a psychotic headcase and the prince was two stupidly handsome men who apparently had a thing for that, one too nice for his own good and the other one too head over heels for the first one to tell him no.

I tag @curiosity-killed, @lu-sn, @ameliarating, @brawlite, and @highladyluck.

[annoyinglandmagazine]

Hamilton songs as the Silmarillion prt 1

Who lives, Who dies, Who tells your story: Elrond Peredhel. Thinking mainly about all the kids he fosters in Elros’ line. But also the idea of him preserving the histories and memory of the Feanorians alongside the rest of his family.

Quiet Uptown: Either kidnap fam, with everyone’s assorted trauma (I think maybe Mae and Mags thinking about their brothers) or Feanor and Nerdanel reuniting after everything

Say no to this: Silvergifting. Celebrimbor and Annatar. Need I say more?

Burn: Nerdanel obviously. I’ve heard that take before and honestly it seems written for her. But I’m also going to add the possibility of Curufinrod. Some parts more than others I feel would also fit either point of view for that one. I lean a little more towards Curvo though. Maybe some kind of jealousy towards Beor and Barahir?

Non stop: Maedhros after Angband. All the diplomacy over letters, probably from his sick bed. The song just describes him so well. Also Elros.

Helpless: Luthien and Beren fits very well. But also Halenthir if we’re getting creative. Especially the bits about meddling siblings.

Satisfied: Russingon. If we’re going with Fingon having a wife. Forbidden love. It just makes me emotional. From Maedhros point of view.

Room where it happens: Nargothrond. Mainly Curufin and Celegorm and Orodreth. Feat Finrod and Beren.

Alexander Hamilton: Feanor. Just Feanor.

Schuyler Sisters: The three Cs. Just imagine it. Also Idril, Aredhel and Galadriel works. But seriously Celegorm, Caranthir - and Curufin. It would be incredible.

Farmer Refuted: Feanor harassing Eonwe while being backed up by Celegorm and Curufin. So funny.

You’ll be back: Thingol talking to literally anyone. He just has that entitled vibe. Also maybe Sauron to Maedhros.

Right Hand Man: Elrond and Gil Galad when they meet during the War of Wrath.

[doodle-pops]

Let Me Put You In Your Place

[Elves and Ainur Brat Taming x reader]

A/N: I contemplated on whether to post this now or later, but to post it I must.

Warnings: smut, spanking, manhandling, mature themes

Ultimate brat tamers – they live to tame you, they love when you act up leaving you to run your mouth and carry on with your outrageous attitude, leading you to believe that you have the upper hand, that you can have your way and get away with it. How wrong were you? Your bratty behaviour was their number one kink. What triggered them into overdrive was the look you gave when you disregarded their warning stare. Waiting till it’s just you two in private, they walk right up to you and easily bring their hands around your neck, backing you against a nearby walk and bracing their other arm beside your head. Maintaining eye contact, they’d bring their face close to yours leaving only an inch of spacing between your lips before speaking. “Whatever gave you the impression that you could act like that…towards me, huh?” they’d apply a little more pressure around your neck causing you to resist the urge to roll your eyes into your head. “What do you have to say for yourself? Nothing, not so much of a talker now, huh? Why don’t you throw another one of your tantrums for me, right here and now? Don’t be shy, you clearly weren’t minutes ago.” it was a trick question because no matter how you answered, your punishment was booked. They would have a ball of a time punishing you – they want to see, make, and hear you beg for them. There were times when their patience ran thin and all they’d do was drag you off to a secluded area before bending your over to fuck the attitude out of you whilst making you cry and beg. You would learn your lesson, or maybe they expect you to repeat the same mistake so they could ravish you again. It’s their kink after all. “Oh no sweetheart I’m not stopping, you wanted this because you knew it would lead to this like every other time, so take it.”

FEANOR, Maedhros, CELEGORM, CARANTHIR, CURUFIN, Amras, FINGOLFIN, Argon, Angrod, ECTHELION, Maeglin, BELEG, Elladan, OROMË, TULKAS, Tilion

Sneaky brat tamers – OH, THEY ARE THE WORSE OF THEM ALL. They enjoy taming you, it’s a favourite activity in the bedroom that brings a bit of spice to your life. However, it’s not their ultimate kink like others, they don’t mind when you act up because they know that you know that they know your motives. Since that’s the case, they aren’t really in a hurry to tame you because they have their own trick up their sleeves. They’d sit and watch you throw your attitude from time to time, leaving you to carry on thinking that they’re not bothering you, truth is, they were making a silent list of everything you did over a period of time before they strike. Waiting for you to get comfortable and relaxed, falling back into your regular attitude, that’s when they’d strike. You’d walk into the trap without realizing it one bit, only when they asked you to try something new tonight that’s when you realized what they planned. “What’s wrong love? I thought that this was what you wanted from the beginning when you had thrown all those tantrums? You thought I didn’t notice? Oh, but I did, I mean look at the state you’re in…it’s all because I paid attention.” their hands would be gripping your cheeks as they spoke to you so sweetly while watching your fumble around for your words. “Shhh, you don’t have anything to say besides moaning my name tonight and apologizing...the moaning will come later though,” Flipping you over onto your stomach, they would pull your ass in the air, rubbing it lightly, “Here's what's going to happen...I'm going to fuck you into this bed and you're not going to cum unless I feel sorry for you, but firstly, you’re going to count and if you miss, we restart. So, let’s see how many times you’ve acted up? It's alright though, you can mess up if you'd like, we have all night.”

MAEDHROS, MAGLOR, Curufin, Amrod, FINGON, FINROD, GLORFINDEL, Ecthelion, EGALMOTH, ELROND, Elrohir, IRMO, MANWË, NÁMO

One-Time brat tamer – they’re a bit similar to the sneaky ones but the difference is that they really tend to overlook your attitude and tantrums and only strike when it’s overbearing. It’s not a build-up of all the tantrums you threw before, it’s just for that one you were performing earlier on thinking that you could get away with it. They wouldn’t even notice the other times, it was just this performance tonight that triggered them. The thing is though, you’d never know which performance of yours would be the right one to rile them up until you’re bent over or pressed down into the mattress having the life and the attitude being fucked out of you. Walking right up to you, they’d calmly speak informing you to step aside with them, not once would you pick up a hint of anything. It’s only when the door is closed and your back is slammed against the wood and you see the glint of arousal but displeasure in their eyes, you’d understand. They’d take their time to deal with you since you believed you had all the time in the world to act up. “The entire night you carried on and on ignoring the stares I’d cast at you, warning you to behave…too many chances were given and now all’s gone. What do you have to say for yourself? You’re sorry? I don’t believe so.” They wouldn’t be aggressive with their movements, but harsh to deliver their message, yes, they would. However, they do expect you to learn your lesson and let it be a one-timer. “Don’t ever let this happen again, understood? I don’t need to repeat myself, do I? Good, because if I were you, I wouldn’t want to keep this up love, you’d come to regret it,” with a small smirk on their faces which speaks that they enjoy the thrill of taming you.

Caranthir, CELEBRIMBOR, Turgon, FINARFIN, Aegnor, Galdor, ERESTOR, ËONWE

Masterlist

Taglist: @edensrose @cilil @spidergirla5 @eunoiaastralwings @aconstructofamind @mysticmoomin @lilmelily @noldorinpainter

[actual-bill-potts]

Wow congratulations on 2k!! Can I be very predictable and request some Maedhros and Maglor – maybe post-Dagor Bragollach? Thank you!

With many many apologies for how late this is, thank u very much and I hope you enjoy beloved <3

Maglor was lying on his front.

His back had been badly burned during the last frantic leg of his flight to Himring. Maedhros, over and over, had thought he could have turned - if he’d turned at the wrong moment he could have been blinded, or worse. Sometimes he was so overcome by this thought that he, very carefully and quietly, breathed a prayer of thanks to Varda.

She was not listening, of course. But - but if she was. Just in case. For Maglor.

Himring had not had much burn salve when the Long Peace came to its sudden and abrupt end. Maedhros - fool that he was - had not anticipated the dragon, and had seen no need for a large store of such. Besides, it was difficult to grow plants with the required soothing properties on his windy hill. So they had had very little to treat the injuries of Maglor’s people, and of Maglor himself. Many had died. Maglor himself had almost died; he had screamed himself hoarse, crying out, "Nelyo, make it stop - make it stop please" until Maedhros had fled the room. He had defenses to mount, rations to assign, guards to discipline. He could not spend all day in his brother’s room, and his burning presence could not help: only harm.

But Maglor’s fever had at last broken, the burned skin on his back beginning at last to knit itself together. Though it was still dangerous to apply any pressure to his back, the healers had lost the strain about their eyes when they spoke to Maedhros. And so he felt that it was safe enough now to sit in the same room with Maglor, and hold his hand, and feel the rhythmic flicker of his brother’s spirit.

Beside him Maglor stirred. "Lindessë?" he asked, muzzily.

Maedhros held in a wince. Maglor’s wife had been lost in Dagor Bragollach. There had been few who were not soldiers at the Gap in the first place, and they had been sent out to seek safety at Himring with a company at the first sign of attack - or so Maedhros had gathered, from one of Maglor’s few lucid periods and the reports of his commanders. Not a one of the civilians had reached Himring, and Lindessë was dead. His guess was that they had run into the dragon, and he could only hope that it had been quick.

"Not Lindessë, Lauro," he said gently.

A pause. "Oh," Maglor said at last, dully. "Yes. She is dead."

"Yes," said Maedhros. There was nothing else to say.

"But you are alive?" said Maglor. His fingers were cool within Maedhros’ own.

"Yes," said Maedhros again. "I live - and you live, and I am glad of it."

"It - hurts," said Maglor.

"I am sorry," returned Maedhros, wishing that he could do something - anything! - to help, instead of delivering useless platitudes and standing beside Maglor’s burned body with a spirit that was constantly afire with agony. "We have not much salve and the healers are stretched thin."

"No," said Maglor, voice muffled by the pillow. "Not - that. Her."

"Ah," said Maedhros. He did not know what to say. This was one of the rare pains he did not intimately know. The thought of it made him quail.

I told you so, Curufin might have said. They had all warned Maglor, again and again, about the danger of marrying in Beleriand: and marrying one who could not fight and did not wish to! She had been indispensable in the Gap, it was true, for her way with horses was unmatched and her Songs beautiful - but she was no warrior. And Maglor was so close to the Enemy.

Maglor had not listened, and now Lindessë was gone, and Maedhros did not have the heart to say anything about unwisdom. Not anymore.

"I know it hurt," Maglor said. "I felt it. She was surprised. She reached out to me. But I could not reach back."

"I am sorry, háno," said Maedhros, squeezing Maglor’s fingers, trying to imbue them with some of his own warmth. "She is safe now."

"Is she? Or do you think she is Doomed along with us?"

"She was Sindar," said Maedhros, "and has shed no blood. Námo is not unjust."

Maglor laughed bitterly. "Is he not?"

Maedhros could think of nothing to say to that; and they sat in silence for awhile.

Finally Maglor said, "Do you think there are horses, where she is?"

"I do not know," said Maedhros. "Perhaps. There are horses in Aman, after all."

"Yes," said Maglor, "yes, you are right." He turned his face towards Maedhros. His cheeks were wet.

"I want to go home," he said. "I am so tired."

"I know," said Maedhros. He stroked the short ends of Maglor’s hair carefully. "I am here. I am sorry."

"Do not be sorry," said Maglor. "It was not you who led us here. I am just - tired."

"Then you ought to sleep," said Maedhros, "and I will be here when you wake up, if you wish it."

"I do," said Maglor. His voice cracked. "I do wish it."

Maedhros hesitated. "I am not Atar, not yet Amil, but - I - I will take care of you, dearest. As long as I can."

"I know," said Maglor, squeezing Maedhros’ hand in turn. "I know."

His hitching breaths evened out soon after that, and Maedhros sat with him long into the night, banking the blaze of his spirit as best he could, breathing in time with his brother.

[polutrope]

Christmas Beleria Prompt:

Curufin with young Celebrimbor and Celebrimbor's mother, his ex.

Cancelled flight & Bittersweet memories

🥰

Thank you for the prompt! This one is a tad sad. It's a ten-year-old with separated parents, what can I say? ~800 words, rated G. Posting these to AO3, here. Prompt list.

On the airport intercom, the garbled speech of the announcer repeated the message: flight number 472 to Valin, delayed, weather conditions, thankyouforyourpatience.

Oh well. Celebrimbor liked the airport: he liked watching the planes take-off and land, and telling Dad the things he’d learned about on TikTok from @airplanefactswithmax — like the fact the Boeing 767 they’d be taking across Belegaer to Valin tonight had a cruising speed of 850 kilometres an hour and had two engines with sixty-three thousand pounds of thrust each.

And, because their flight to Valin would be nine hours and forty minutes, that also meant they’d be served dinner, breakfast, and snacks. And, since Grandpa bought them Business Class tickets as a Yule present, Celebrimbor could order as many free root beers as he wanted while Dad slept.

The flight was delayed, though, and he was hungry. He eyed the wall of snacks in the airport shop. Lembas Munch Mix or Juicy Sweets? He looked at his dad’s credit card in his hand and back at the wall. Dad was tired: he probably wouldn’t mind if he got both. Celebrimbor grabbed a bag of the Juicy Sweets. Although he was the second-tallest kid in his class, he still had to stand on his tiptoes to reach the Lembas Munch Mix on the top row.

He plopped them down on the counter, avoiding eye contact with the cashier, and tapped the credit card on the machine.

“Thank you,” he said, and, "You too," when the cashier told him to have a good flight, then winced as he turned away, feeling foolish: she wasn't flying anywhere.

On the way back to the gate, he ripped the bag of Juicy Sweets open, sifting through for a red one: his favourite flavour. He also picked out a green one, which was Dad’s favourite.

Dad was on the phone when he got back, so he sat himself down quietly and munched on the gummies while he listened.

“I know. I know. Well, we can’t really do anything about it, can we? It’s cancelled, that’s that.”

What? Celebrimbor perked up. Cancelled?

“No, I’m not going to book another flight. They'll re-book us for end of December. It’s just a day, Alwen!”

He was talking to Mom.

“Yes, yes — I know it was your year.” Dad glanced at Celebrimbor with a guilty look. Celebrimbor offered him the open bag of Juicy Sweets, and he grabbed a handful and popped the whole thing in his mouth at once.

“You know,” he said around his mouthful (like he told Celebrimbor not to do), “his whole family is here now, you could always come here.”

There was shrill chattering on the other end of the line and Dad drew the phone away from his ear, grimacing.

“Fine, yes,” he said when it was over. “Yes, I know your parents— No, I hear you, Alwen. But we’re not booking another flight. We’ll come at the end of the month. Yes. No. There’s nothing to discuss!”

Dad clenched his fist on the armrest. Talking to Mom always made him angry. Celebrimbor knew they didn’t love each other, they’d told him as much. They’d thought they were in love when they were eighteen, but eighteen-year-olds couldn’t possibly know they were in love — even though Grandpa Fëanor had met Grandma Nerdanel when they were nineteen; but Uncle Cáno had met his husband when they were sixteen, and now they were divorced and didn’t talk at all, so maybe his grandparents were an exception.

Celebrimbor wondered if Mom and Dad would talk if it wasn’t for him. Probably not. (They never told him that he was an accident, but he’d figured it out when he was eight.)

“Have a good day, Alwen,” said Dad. He didn’t sound like he wanted her to have a good day. “Yes. I’m tired, you’re tired, we’ll talk again tomorrow. Goodbye.”

He hung up and sighed loudly.

“So we’re not going?” Celebrimbor asked.

“No,” Dad said, taking another gummy from the bag. “We’re not going. They cancelled the flight.” He patted Celebrimbor’s shoulder. “Sorry, Tyelps. We’ll go for New Year’s, hey?”

“Yeah, okay,” Celebrimbor said, quashing the swoop of disappointment rising from his belly. He loved Dad and all his uncles and his grandparents and his friends at school. He loved his not-actually-uncle Uncle Finrod, too. He’d never want to live with Mom in Valin, but he did like their visits every other year. They always made ornaments with dried oranges and string, and baked a gingerbread castle from scratch.

“Hey, Dad,” said Celebrimbor, “you wanna make a gingerbread house?”

Dad yawned, but it turned into a smile. “Yeah, sure. We’ll do that tomorrow.”

“And maybe we can send Mom some handmade ornaments?”

“Good idea. She’ll like that.” He took Celebrimbor's hand and gave it a squeeze. "How'd I have such a nice kid?"

Celebrimbor shrugged. "I dunno. Lucky?"

Dad opened his mouth, pretending offense, and Celebrimbor grinned and laughed.

[@airplanefactswithmax is hilarious and fandom-appropriate, if you haven't seen it. I got those facts from an airline website though, not his videos.]

[erendur]

High princes and High Kings

So I read in a few places now that Finwë gave the title "High Prince" to both Fëanor and Fingolfin, but not Finarfin and that obviously it did not make things easier within his House.

So I thought about it, and it's probably been covered extensively elsewhere, but as always I'm too lazy so I just thought I'd go ahead and give my maybe unpopular two cents anyway.

So here it is :

I don't think "High Prince" is a title, and I don't think Finwë gave it to any of his sons.

As far as I understand, it's an idea that comes from that line in the chapter "Of the Silmarils and the Unrest of the Noldor" :

"High princes were Fëanor and Fingolfin, the elder sons of Finwë, honoured by all in Aman ; but now they grew proud and jealous each of his rights and his possessions."

If there is another source for this claim, please just disregard anything I'm about to say :)

So in this chapter, Jirt is covering the creation of the Silmarils and the unrest of the Noldor (duh). The paragraph right before the above quote starts with

"Thus ere the Valar were aware, the peace of Valinor was poisoned. The Noldor began to murmur against them, and many became filled with pride, forgetting how much of what they had and knew came from the gift of the Valar".

Then the rest of the paragraph deals with the particular case of Fëanor there ("Fiercest burned the new flame of desire for freedom and wider realms in the eager heart of Fëanor".

The "High princes quote" comes right after that. It's the beginning of a sentence, so "High" is capitalised, but not "princes", so I don't think it's meant to be a title. Jirt is about to go into more details about the rift within the House of Fëanor, and is basically introducing the two main opponents : Fëanor and Fingolfin, both princes, both "high", an adjective, meaning "grand, exalted, great", which is then reinforced by the statement that they were "honoured" by all in Aman.

Compare it with the fact that elsewhere, the title of "King" or "High King" is always capitalised ("Finwë was King of the Noldor", in "Of Eldamar and the Princes of the Eldalië" ; "(...) by no means were all of a mind to take Fëanor as King", in "Of the Flight of the Noldor" ; "Ingwë was ever held the High King of all the Elves", in Eldamar again),

whereas the word "prince" is used more generally to say "important people from the royal families of the Elves", and does not seem to be an actual title("The Noldor afterwards came back to Middle-earth, and this tale tells mostly of their deeds ; therefore the names and kinship of their princes may here be told (...)", Eldamar again, before talking of Finwë and all of his descendants ; "Thus spoke Maedhros and Maglor and Celegorm, Curufin and Caranthir, Amrod and Amran, princes of the Noldor", in Flight of the Noldor).

After that, the rest of the paragraph has two sentences : the first one : "Then Melkor set new lies abroad in Eldamar, and whispers came to Fëanor that Fingolfin and his sons were plotting to usurp the leadership of Finwë and of the elder line of Fëanor, and to supplant them by the leave of the Valar (...)"

The second one : "But to Fingolfin and Finarfin it was said : 'Beware ! Small love has the proud son of Míriel ever had for the children of Indis. Now he has become great, and he has his father in his hand. It will not be long before he drives you forth from Túna !"

So the reason Finarfin is not mentioned in the first sentence of the paragraph, is because he's not really a main party in the quarrel, but stands with his brother in a "two branches of the family type of quarrel." He is not a third opponent, he has merely a supporting role with his older brother.

If there is indeed another source and it turns out to be a title, the only reason I can think about why Fëanor and Fingolfin are graced with, and not Finarfin, is a John Lackland kind of situation. John Lackland originally got the nickname because he was either too young or not yet born (can't remember which, don't quote me on it) when his dad Henry II distributed lands between his sons, but eventually got some later when he was big enough. So maybe Finarfin was just too young or not born, and left out.

Also given that his father gave him the name "Noble Finwë", it seems a bit strange to have excluded him.

The title of High Prince also just sounds weird. Finwë himself is King, not High King, so even though he might potentially want to make a distinction between his two elder sons and his numerous grandchildren (High princes as opposed to regular ones), it would still be a rather weird title to bestow, and probably one best left to Ingwë's kids.