#Námo angst

[a-world-of-whimsy-5]

Pairing: Fëanor x Námo

Themes: Angst

Warnings: None that I can think of

Word count: 1.5k words

Summary: After passing onto the Halls of Awaiting, Fëanor hopes for an audience with the Vala who loved him once.

A/n: Words in italics are for communication via osanwë.

Turn of the moon – a full lunar month.

This post was inspired by this little exchange in the tags between @cilil and myself.

Rules and taglist form here.

The great hall and throne room were painted to look like the vastness of the night sky. Tiny blue and white jewels all over the domed ceiling glittered with a light of their own. Fëanor had walked—no—flitted from hall to hall until he reached the vast and cavernous chamber his lover favored when meeting the fëar of those that awaited judgment. 

He sighed and looked at the ceiling. The jewels were of his making and given as a gift. He remembered Námo's smile when he walked in and saw them glittering like stars. It was a rare and beautiful thing. Fëanor treasured that memory dearly.

My lord Fëanor. Nienna had come up behind him. The Valië of mercy, pity, and mourning was all shimmering silver mist. She did not take on a physical form in her brother's halls. Not unless the occasion demanded it. You have come to this hall yet again.

And I will do so again and again, most gentle lady, Fëanor said softly and respectfully. Nienna was beloved by her brothers, and they would not take kindly to any insult to her person. And Fëanor did not wish to add to the miseries already plaguing him. Until lord Námo is ready to receive me. I have to try, my lady. I have to try for another chance.

The air around him stirred. Nienna drifted closer. The mist shifted as if it was taking form. Fëanor felt something warm and comforting caress his cheek.

He does not wish to see you, she said tenderly. Her voice was as soft as a kiss and tinged with great sorrow. Not now. Not ever. My brother cannot bring himself to forget what you did. He will never forgive you for what you did. He does not wish to give you another chance. Not even I could sway his thoughts on this. I am so sorry.

There is no need to apologize, my lady. The fault is all mine. Fëanor turned his attention back to the throne room. Námo looked resplendent in the inky black and violet robes he wore. A silver circlet crusted with amethysts sat amidst a black hood. A sheer grey veil concealed his face. His favorite hound, Gorgumoth, slumbered by his feet. But I must try.

Nienna accepted his choice. Then I will stay with you.

They stayed hidden and watched. Fëa after fëa drifted up to an imposing throne carved out of a single large block of black stone. Their words were barely louder than a whisper. Námo listened, patient as always, before pronouncing his verdict. Some accepted his words with gladness. Others grew mournful. Námo would counsel them before one of the Maiar that served him guided each fëa onto the Halls of Awaiting for cleansing and reflection. 

Time did not exist here. A turn of the moon could have come and gone and they would not have noticed. They waited and listened, watching as one fëa after another came and went. Námo seemed to tire. His veil fluttered, and his robes lifted and fell as if he was sighing. Fëanor stirred, hoping Námo was done and he could finally have an audience with him. Gorgumoth's ear twitched. He opened his eyes and sniffed at the air. The hound caught wind of something he did not like. He turned his attention to the shadows, where Fëanor and Nienna were. He lifted his head and bared his teeth, his growl echoing off the walls like thunder. The other fëar quailed at the sound.

Námo turned his attention to the shadows. He placed his hand on Gorgumoth's head. The hound quietened in an instant. 

"Beloved sister," the Vala called out into the dark. "You have a friend with you."

Nienna urged Fëanor to go with her. Make haste, she said, and pulled him with her as she drifted down the stairs. You will not receive another opportune moment like this.

Námo rose and made his way down the steps. Nienna changed her form and walked up to him, dipping into a deep curtsy when she reached the throne. Fëanor stood a few paces behind her. He did not hear what they were saying, but brother and sister looked at each other intensely. Námo made a sound of disgust and turned, his eyes filling with rage when they rested on Fëanor. The slain elf trembled and lowered his gaze out of fear and respect.

"Please, brother," Nienna pleaded softly. "All he asks is for a chance to talk to you. Please! For my sake."

Námo sighed softly. His fingers brushed her cheek as if he was wiping away a tear. "I never could deny you for long," he murmured, and removed his crown. "Very well. I will hear him out."

Nienna curtsied again. She took the crown off her brother's hands and went to several ornate chairs beneath the throne. When Fëanor raised his eyes, she already had taken a seat, the crown safely on her lap. It was a sign that while she acted on Námo's behalf, her verdicts did not carry the same weight as his. They could be overturned at any time. Námo's Maiar came to her. Gorgumoth silently padded over and stretched out beside her. The fëar peacefully formed another line, all waiting for her to hear them out.

"Walk with me, Fëanor, son of Finwë." Námo turned sharply on his heel and strode out of the throne room. Fëanor had little choice but to follow him through one silent corridor after another.

He wanted to weep. He trembled when he could not. There would be no tears, none came to fëar, but he mourned all the same. Fëanor, son of Finwë. That was what Námo called him. Once, in another life, it was "my own heart."

You tremble, Fëanor, son of Finwë. Námo did not turn or look over his shoulder. To do either was a sign of forgiveness, of a softening in his stance. Námo could not do that, no matter how much it pained him. And it did wound him more than words could say. Fëanor had been his other half once. Where Námo was stoicism personified, Fëanor brought with him every emotion imaginable. If Námo was the ice, then Fëanor was the inferno that threatened to burn the world to ash. And he nearly did. And Námo could not bring himself to forget or forgive. He looked straight ahead and tried to harden his heart. What troubles you?

You. Fëanor kept a steady gaze on Námo's broad back. He tingled when memories of that back trembling beneath his fingers came unbidden. I know I wounded you, and...

Wounded me? Námo whirled, his eyes ablaze with pain and black fury. Long-buried sorrow and rage bubbled to the surface. You dare speak of such a thing? You who stole and murdered and encouraged others to do the same? You who forgot what we meant to each other and shattered every hope, every dream?

And Námo was not done. I would have helped you. He touched the corner of his eye. There were no tears. What tears he had left were frozen in his heart. Had you come to me, I would have gone to the others, and we would have found a way. Why? He asked, his voice thick with sadness. Why did you not come to me? I know how much you loved your father. I know how much the silmarils meant to you. Even more than me, I think. 

Why indeed. It was a question that had plagued Fëanor for as long as he could remember. Why did he not go to Námo when Melkor murdered his father and made off with the Silmarils? Why did he not seek the aid of others instead of being consumed by his arrogance and need for vengeance? Fëanor did not have an answer. All he had was shame and sorrow and guilt engulfing him. Námo was right. Fëanor valued the silmarils even more than the love Námo bore him. He could not bring himself to look Námo in the eye. 

I wept for you. Námo looked into the distance, despair coursing through him like mighty waves when he caught glimpses of what could have been. Yes, he nodded when he sensed Fëanor's shock. I wept for you. Many were the tears that were shed, and how I mourned your fate, how it crushed me to pronounce your doom. Watching you spiral into a world of darkness and chaos was more than I could bear.

My own heart, Fëanor inched his way closer, slowly and respectfully. He stopped when Námo flinched and backed away. Through the veil, he could see Námo's countenance contorting in pain. Is there nothing I can do to take away your pain? There must be something, surely. Please tell me. For the love we bore each other...

Love. Námo said bitterly. He thought of what they had, of what could have been. He wanted to weep over a future that no longer existed and how it all pained him so. He had to end the conversation and leave, lest his frozen tears finally break free. I knew love. The love in your fierce heart, in the flames that burned bright within every fiber of your being. It warmed every ounce of my spirit and filled me with so much hope, a ray of light for me to grab onto even in the darkest of times. That light is hidden from my eyes now. The words came out like a strangled sob. I cannot see it, no matter how hard I try.

Fëanor reached out to him, his despair as keen as Námo's. So much had been destroyed, and by his own doing, no less. My own heart, I...

Never call me that again. Námo turned away just as the first bitter tear fell. And never seek me out again. We are finished.

Fëanor could only watch him leave, silently damning himself in the darkness that crept in after Námo's departure. 

 tags: @cilil​ @asianbutnotjapanese​ @fictionfordays​ 

[oopsbirdficced]

Traitor's Waltz (Overture the the Fall of Gondolin

Art by @jaz-the-bard / JazTheBard (AO3)

Story by @oopsbirdficced / ingenious_spark (AO3)

Fic rating: Mature

Warnings: Torture, canon-typical violence, canonical character death

Relationships: Idril/Tuor, Idril/Maeglin, Idril/Tuor/Maeglin

Characters: Idril, Tuor, Maeglin, the Lords of Gondolin, Námo, Irmo, minor cameos by Aredhel, Turgon, and Celegorm

Tags: Music, opera, dreams and nightmares, haunting, ghosts, trans characters, drama, romance, angst with a happy ending, temporary character death, embedded audio

Word Count: 12,817

Summary: Tuor and Idril find themselves haunted by the music of an old love gone by. The only reprieve is to follow the music to its crescendo.

-

A collaboration created for the 2023 Tolkien Reverse Summer Bang, @tolkienrsb! It’s been wonderful working on this with Jaz!

Collection/link will go live on September 6th!

[cilil]

Manwë Week Day 7

His brother never came.

Day 7: Freeform - Arda Healed Relationship(s): Manwë x Varda, Manwë & Melkor Synopsis: Dagor Dagorath is over, and Arda is healed - or is it? While everyone else enjoys the new world, Manwë mourns his brother. Warnings: Angst, loss of sibling, mentions of death, a bit of body horror, self-destruction of fána (not suicide, but you have been warned) AO3

The Battle of all Battles was over. The final notes of the Second Music faded away. 

Arda Marred had died, and Melkor with it. 

Arda Healed was born, yet he was still gone. 

Manwë stood upon the plains of Valinor, the place where everything had ended before it began anew, destroyed and remade like living memory rising from the ashes. It was silent save for the gentle breeze that ever accompanied him, and the sky was perfectly, brilliantly blue. 

He was waiting, had been for a while. Many ages ago, when they had first built the world — it felt like an eternity now and perhaps it was — Melkor had come upon Arda like a blazing comet, bright and crowned with ice and fire; yet all Manwë had seen in this world was the occasional shooting star that Varda sent across the sky. 

His brother never came. His brother had fallen one final time, it seemed. 

He had hoped that his father would remake him and cure him of his evil so they could finally be together as they were always meant to be, brothers in the mind of Ilúvatar; but alas, it seemed as though this was the one grace he would not be granted. It was a selfish desire perhaps, to want Melkor back after his death had ripped Manwë's own ëala apart, severing what remained of their connection with cruel finality. Yet it was for his brother's sake as well, having seen his decline and grieved the potential that was lost. 

Had he not been taught that redemption was possible for all? Had Eru himself not said that Melkor's discord would aid in devising wonderful things? Why then was there no happy ending for the first of them all, once the mightiest and brightest, one who could have been dearly beloved if pride and malice hadn't ruled his mind? 

Nevertheless, Manwë continued to wait, as if he was attempting to prove that he was no faithless brother to the ghost of his memories of Melkor. 

He knew not how long he had been standing there — unmoving like a statue, his gaze raised to the heavens in desperate hope — when Varda came to bring him home. 

"He won't come," she voiced what he had been refusing to think. 

"He was late in the other world too," Manwë opined, though the trembling weakness in his tone betrayed him. His wife was, as she had always been, so very wise and rational, while he was no more than an unquenchable wellspring of estel.

"Manwë," Varda said gently, taking his hand. "His evil is no more, and with it he too was unmade. I know you mourn his loss, but you cannot deny that he chose this path."

"I know." 

She began to pull him along. Manwë stood still for a while longer, stubborn and petulant, but followed her in the end. 

It most certainly wasn't her fault, and she was right as well. 

"Come and rejoice with the rest of us, my love. In this world we will finally know peace."

"And Melkor never will."

"He never wanted to." 

Again, Varda was right, but it did little to soothe Manwë's pain. 

"If Arda was healed, why wasn't he?" he asked. 

It was a question for his father rather than his wife, but patient and faithful as she was, she answered him regardless.

"I can only repeat myself: He never wanted to. You know that healing and redemption cannot come to someone who refuses it, right?"

Manwë nodded. Yes, that lesson they had learned indeed, and painfully so. 

"Manwë." Varda spoke more firmly now. "Beloved, if you ever want to be at peace you must ask yourself: Did you truly love Melkor or did you love the idea of a brother? Did you love what you saw when you were watching Námo and Irmo?" 

He remained silent. It was clear what the answer would be if he asked her what she thought, and he knew she wanted him to arrive at the same conclusion. Not out of malice, but out of love, for his own sake. 

Even so, Manwë felt misunderstood. In a world where all was healed, his brother was missing, and with him a part of his own being. In a world where all had returned and loved ones surrounded him, he had begun feeling incomplete and alone. 

— 

Aside from his missing brother, Arda Healed was a lovely place. Manwë had been advised by Irmo to enjoy what was rather than what could have been — a concept he remembered all too well from the world that was no more — and he had taken the advice, even as he noticed the shadow of concern that lingered on the Fëantur's fair face. 

Varda was the light of his life, as she had always been. They soared through the skies like they had done when they were young, painted it with stars and clouds, became one in body and spirit whenever they desired companionship.

Ulmo was his closest friend, and Manwë visited him often. They would make music together, in the clouds, on the shores, in the sea, carefree as they had been in their youth in the Timeless Halls. 

The other Valar he went to see as well, determined to give them the time and attention he hadn't always had in Arda Marred — all except Námo, for he had gone on vacation and couldn't be found, something that made him glad to hear. 

Whenever Manwë found himself in the company of Nienna, he was tempted to reveal his pain to her and seek her wisdom, yet restrained himself in the end; she had wept so much already, and he couldn't bear to cause her more grief. 

Eönwë had worried him for a time, deeply scarred from the wars he had fought in his name — more guilt that Manwë knew he wouldn't be able to overcome any time soon — but at last it seemed as though he had recovered. To the surprise and amusement of everyone, his herald found himself in the arms of none other than the Maia once known as Gothmog, Lord of Balrogs, and he was happy that he would finally experience the joy of courtship, gladly leaving them alone. 

Ingwë welcomed Manwë in his home as eagerly as he had always done, and it was wonderful to see that another old friend was well. Even Fëanor seemed amenable to his company these days, as he had found out when Finwë invited him to a family gathering. 

"I hope the loss of your jewels burdens you no more," Manwë told the greatest among the Noldor. "Believe me, I would have never asked for your most beloved creations if it hadn't been necessary at the time. I was — and still am — truly sorry." 

To his surprise, Fëanor merely gave a light chuckle. "There is no need to worry about it any longer, my lord. I bear no ill will; and in the end their loss has only made me realise that I possessed greater treasures all along."

Manwë sat beside him in silence then, engrossed in the Noldo's proud, beautiful face that suddenly reminded him so much of his brother.

— 

He had travelled the world and seen everything he had always wanted to see, even walking among the Secondborn under the benevolent guidance of Lúthien. He had smiled and laughed and shared his songs and poetry with all that would listen. He had spoken to those who had never heard his voice in the old world, finally able to make himself known. 

But it wasn't enough. None of his many encounters could soothe the painful longing for his brother, the one that always remained out of reach, now more than ever before. There was a gaping wound in Manwë's heart, one only he could see, and nothing could stop the bleeding. 

Where would he find Melkor if he was here in Arda Healed, he wondered often. Would he visit him in his halls? Would they meet by happenstance in Irmo's gardens and enjoy sweet pastries and tea together? Would he come to see the world with him? Would he await him in some hidden location?

All these questions and many more did Manwë ask himself as his grief grew rather than lessened, as did dread and despair. Wherever he went, he always arrived at the same place, whatever he thought, he always arrived at the same conclusion: That his brother, his other half, whom he had never truly known due to ancient strife, was no more, and now he would never know him. 

He wouldn't be able to tell Melkor that he loved him more than any crown or kingdom, that he had loved him from the first moment of his existence, that he had never given up on him. He wouldn't be able to show him his heart and his memories, to prove to him that he had always spoken true. He wouldn't be able to experience that connection he had longed for so fervently, to live in a world where their brotherly bond was not torn, where whatever love they had for one another was not doomed. 

And this reality broke his heart. 

Varda found him weeping on the peak of Taniquetil after yet another night of watching the sky and waiting in vain. 

"Manwë..." 

He covered his face and shook his head. There was nothing he could have said to her; perhaps his behaviour was foolish and shameful, but he had truly tried his best to heal and repair himself after a piece of his ëala had been ripped away from him. 

"Beloved, why do you mourn him still?" 

"I cannot stop," Manwë whispered, "I cannot forget. There are wounds that cannot be healed even by the arts of Irmo, Estë or this new world. I know you will tell me that Arda is whole and beautiful without Melkor, but for me a world without my brother will always be incomplete." 

"Manwë, please –" 

"If the only way to heal Arda was to unmake him, the only way to heal my spirit is to unmake me also."

Talons broke out of his fingers as Manwë's grip on himself tightened, tearing into snowy skin with blood-red fury. 

"We were brothers, Varda, brothers in the mind of Ilúvatar. We were made from the same thought, two sides of the same coin. We were supposed to create together... and then were made to oppose one another. Melkor was the first being I ever perceived, his light was the first thing I ever saw, he was part of my purpose... and if I couldn't save him, what remains of it is also void." 

His breath quickened. His fána shook like a leaf in a storm. 

"I could only endure his banishment because I hoped — I believed — that when he returned from Void I could fix my mistakes and finally make everything whole again, as was Father's task and design for me. But I couldn't. I have failed him, Varda. And I am sorry." 

"Come home with me. Please." Varda's voice was unusually quiet, pleading, imploring him, and Manwë felt as though he was drowning in guilt, knowing that he wasn't going to. He was going to hurt her too, and it was wrong and unjust, but he couldn't continue like this any longer. 

The path he was going to take was his and his alone, and the only thing he could do was to hopefully make her understand why he couldn't come home with her. 

His hands dropped to his thighs, wet with tears. Manwë stared at them for a few moments, gathering his strength, then lifted them to his chest and raised his head to face Varda. His robes were easily shredded by sharp talons and his fána gave way when his fingers dug deep inside his own chest to tear himself open until she could see his bleeding, weakly twitching heart. 

"Behold what has been dying for a long time, kept alive only through duty and the love of others," Manwë whispered. "Yet no longer shall I be a burden and I will not appear again until my ëala is whole once more. What remains of my love, all that I have left to give, shall be with you. Forgive me, beloved." 

Thus the Elder King himself at last abandoned the shape that had faithfully walked upon Arda since the earliest days, leaving all that remained of him in the hands of his queen, and vanished like a gust of wind. 

— 

Manwë couldn't tell how long it had been since he had passed the Walls of Night; time didn't exist in the empty and endless Void, just like within the cosmic cradle of the Timeless Halls whence the Ainur had come. 

Neither did he know what he was hoping to find, knowing that his brother's days of wandering this realm were over. 

Even so, it seemed like a good place to go for one as painfully incomplete as he was. At the very least he would be doing penance for what he had done to his own brother, carrying out the council's judgement after he had failed to bring him back from the path of evil. 

Was this how Melkor had felt once? This never-ending pain of missing something? Was this what had driven him to rage and madness? Manwë had no answers to that, and the only one who could have answered him was not there. 

The other Valar had attempted to find him, but he had evaded them. His words to Varda had been final, and he believed himself unworthy of rescue after his numerous failings. Even his father's commands he wouldn't be able to follow at this time, if he could hear him where he was. Eru had neither called upon him nor answered his prayers ever since the Second Music, and Manwë accepted it as another part of his punishment. 

His spirit — first flying through empty space, then floating slowly — finally came to a halt. There was infinity out here, he knew, one couldn't search even if he had another eternity to do so, yet his strength was waning. Manwë was far away from the world he was bound to, weak and shaken after destroying his own fána; if the Powers were meant to be young again, he had failed at that too. The fatigue and exhaustion he felt was ancient like Varda's stars. 

He yearned for them. He yearned for her. But Manwë knew he couldn't bear to stay in Arda Healed any longer, if ever again. 

When he stood still, so did the only modicum of time. When he forgot himself, nothing existed out here. 

Tempted by oblivion, Manwë thought of the Secondborn, their gift of death and how Námo had foretold that even the Valar would one day envy them. Had Melkor in the end understood what no other Ainu ever had? Had Eru attempted to show him mercy by letting him be unmade? 

There was a light approaching him, too bright in the darkness of the Void. Manwë believed it to be a figment of his own imagination, recognising within it neither his wife nor his father, but something familiar... something soothing. 

It reminded him of the first light he had ever seen.  

Thanks for reading! ♡

taglist: @asianbutnotjapanese @a-world-of-whimsy-5 @bluezenzennie @edensrose @eunoiaastralwings @i-did-not-mean-to @melkors-defense-attorney @singleteapot @stormchaser819 @wandererindreams @manweweek

[caliawen]

Haunted

Pairing = Glorfindel x Reader

Genre = Teen and up

General ratings = a twinge of angst, fluff, smut implied (?)

Content warnings = smut implied

Word count = 1,4k

Notes = ……hi 🫣 I haven’t posted in a month 🙃 Life has been really busy and I haven’t really had the time (nor the motivation, truthfully) to write. I had a more regular schedule before, but I think for now it will stay… ‘irregular’. I have no idea when or what I will post next. Hope you can understand!

Glorfindel was being haunted. Not by ghosts- no. By the memories of his past life. Of his mistakes. Of his friends. Of their deaths. Of his death. The searing pain of his scalp as he was tugged down and down and down by the Balrog. Of the heat he felt as he fought for his life, for the lives of Idril and Tuor and Eärendil and everyone. His mind replayed those moments over and over, never leaving him a second of peace.

The slight smile of Ecthelion, Rog’s boisterous laugh, Turgon’s exasperation with them, Elgalmoth’s mischievous eyes as he gossiped, Penlod’s hums as he pretended he was listening, Galdor’s excited chatter about the trees and plants he saw, Duilin’s whistles as he walked, Tuor’s love-struck expression as his eyes followed Idril and Maeglin’s shy smile when someone asked him about his work…

Oh, Maeglin… Glorfindel had hated him, for a time. Hated him for giving Gondolin away to Morgoth, giving away their lives.. But that time had passed. In the halls of Námo, Glorfindel had had plenty of time to think before he was reborn. And think he did : about how Maeglin had lost his mother and father. About how his only parental figure was Turgon, who was too busy to really spend time with his nephew. About how he mistook his love for Idril as romantic and not platonic, and how that strained his friendship with her and Tuor. About how rumors spread that Maeglin was a vile being. About how none of them did anything to defend him. About how lonely Maeglin must have been.. About what impossible horrors he felt at the hands of Morgoth and Sauron. About how they never saw how broken Maeglin had returned. About how he didn’t care if he died anymore.

Yes, Glorfindel had thought, Maeglin had done something wrong. And he forgave Maeglin for what he had done, because Maeglin had been a child. A child who needed to be guided and shown love, but no one had stepped up to take up the role.

He thought about you. About your smile, your eyes, your nose. About the way you moved, how you talked and your passions. And he ached. Because he didn’t know what happened to you. He didn’t know if you had died, if you had suffered or if you were still alive. If you had moved on from him.. And that haunted him. His every waking thought, his every dream and nightmare.

Sometimes, Glorfindel dreamed of you. He dreamed that you were laying in his bed, in Gondolin, smiling at him. That you carded your fingers through his hair and told him that you loved him. And when he woke up, his heart ached and he did not know whether to thank or curse Irmo.

Glorfindel had a mission. He was going back to Arda Marred. And he found himself dreading going back. Dreading seeing how everything had changed and how the language had evolved. Dreading how no one he knew would be there. How he would be alone. At least in Valinor, he saw his mother and father. He found himself crying when he realized he did not remember what being embraced by his parents felt like. They took care of him and he couldn’t be more grateful to have them.

When Glorfindel departed, he stood looking at Valinor until it had been long since out of view. He stood still, wondering if he was dreaming. He thought, how ironic, for he was going back. Not anyone else. Him. Laurëfindelë Glorfindel, an emissary of the Valar, granted powers nearly as strong as that of the Maiar. And he didn’t want to go back. Nienna wept for him, for his sacrifice, for his fear and for his love. He found himself appreciating her understanding. She visited him, before he departed. He listened to her words, without understanding : “Dear Child, your heart is being haunted. Your mind is playing tricks on you, and your heart is rendered blind by your pain. But your gut, your gut is still there and strong. Follow it, follow what it tells you. But do not silence your heart and mind for it, listen to them. Listen, but do not follow.”

~~~

When Glorfindel arrived in Middle Earth, he did not know where to begin. He was tired, but could not sleep. He thought about you. About your lips on his, about your laugh, about your hands in his, about the ring he had passed on your finger. He thought and thought and thought. And his heart ached. He walked on paths and in forests, stopping to wash himself in rivers. And he despaired.

It was later that he found Lindon. Days later. Or weeks, he did not know. He met Elrond, someone who would confuse and amuse him for the rest of their lives. Part man, part elf, part maia. He wore the insignias of Fingolfin and Fëanor with pride, daring anyone to confront him about it. He was a gentle soul with a heart of gold and the patience of the wise. He was as kind as summer and Glorfindel found himself basking in his presence, like a flower who had grown up in shadow feeling the sun on itself for the first time.

Círdan was surprisingly mischievous. Subtle jokes, sarcasm and deadpan looks were all things he threw at others, uncaring if they understood or not. He was calm, but could easily terrorize anyone with his anger, like the sea. Board games were his favorite and Glorfindel spent time playing with him, thinking of strategies to beat the older elf.

Gil-Galad was as confusing as he was funny. His father was unknown and he liked to joke around about it. Glorfindel spent time with him when they could, talking about everything and nothing. When Gil-Galad felt Glorfindel starting to lose himself in memories, he would randomly tell a stupid joke. They made Glorfindel laugh each time.

Celebrimbor had been a bit weary at first. Glorfindel almost laughed at the memory of a small Curufinwë Tyelpërinquar staring at him with the exact same look. It wasn’t long until they became great friends. Celebrimbor understood : he, too, was haunted by his past actions and words. Maybe for different reasons than Glorfindel, but the important thing was that he related to how Glorfindel felt. Having his feelings validated was something that alleviated the pain in Glorfindel’s heart.

~~~

Glorfindel walked around Lindon aimlessly and leisurely, taking his time to look around. You haunted him. Everything he saw reminded him of you. From pretty rocks you would have collected, passing by a stand selling your favorite fruit, to someone wearing clothes the exact color of your eyes. His mind played tricks on him, making him imagine hearing your laugh or seeing your beautiful hair swaying in the wind.

He stopped walking at a bookstore, a feeling bubbling up inside him. He looked at the door, curious. His gut screamed at him to enter that store, for some reason. His mind dismissed the feeling, but his heart held hope. They warred against each other. And then, Glorfindel was reminded of Nienna’s words to him. And he went inside the store.

Inside the store, which was cozy and homey, he felt pulled towards a particular bookshelf. His breath hitched as his mind reeled to a stop, his heart pumping wildly. There you stood, browsing the shelf while smiling. Feeling observed, you turned your head, your eyes widening as you saw Glorfindel, your husband, your soulmate, standing there. Glorfindel was frozen, his mind scrambling and heart singing with joy. You were the one to make the first move, throwing yourself in his arms, ecstatic. Glorfindel hugged you back, a sense of wholeness overtaking his mind and body as he kissed you long and passionately.

The two of you spent hours upon hours talking, laughing, crying and hugging. This long-awaited reunion was a balm on Glorfindel’s bruised and battered heart. That night, under the stars, in a magnificent glade full of flowers, you rekindled your fëas. Glorfindel made love to you slowly and passionately, kissing every piece of skin revealed as he undressed you, worshiping your body with his hands and mouth. That night, in your arms, Glorfindel had no nightmares. He woke up to your sweet voice and felt free. Free of the thing that haunted him. And he smiled.

End notes : Hope you enjoyed! Reblogs, comments & likes are extremely appreciated 🫶

@theladyvanya

[tar-maitime]

if you stay by my side

Rating: T Characters: Maedhros | Maitimo, Fingon | Findekano Relationships: Maedhros/Fingon, fem!Maedhros/Fingon Additional: War of Wrath, reunions, major character injury, angst, indefinite but hopeful ending WC: 1k

Direct follow up to the last part of "talking to the air"

Fingon has been fighting to get back to Russandol for years, decades now - in some ways since the moment he died, and actively since word came through the tapestries that a fresh army was being sent to Beleriand. The news of two new kinslayings, though they horrified him, did not stop him. The incredulity of his family, dead and living, once he made his course known to them, did not stop him. Nor did Námo’s remonstrations, nor his uncle Arafinwë’s attempts to keep him from the host, nor the slews of orcs and worse monsters that he’s been battling his way through since he landed.

None of it will stop him getting back to her.

And now - now - he happens to glance over at the second force that’s pinned the current batch of orcs in place for his people to finish off, and he sees crimson banners and cloaks and hair like flame, and he nearly freezes. Gray eyes lock with his across the battlefield in disbelieving recognition. He can almost feel the embers of a familiar fire in the back of his mind where the remains of their bond lie, shattered upon his death.

Then an orc chieftain comes up behind Russandol while she’s distracted by him, and plunges a black spear into a gap at the side of her armor.

(It’s at a place that is difficult to manage with one hand, an obvious weakness. She used to have him or Maglor or a trusted aide help her with it. How long has she been letting this slide, why has she been letting this slide...)

(He doesn’t have time to think about any of this in the moment, but later - later, he will.)

He doesn’t even think before cutting his way to her, fighting so fiercely that he’s there before her knees even start to buckle. His sword rams through the throat of the orc who dared touch her, and then Fingon isn’t paying attention to the battle anymore, because Russandol is staggering and falling and he moves to catch her and follows her to the ground, cradling her in his arms.

(Their respective troops have little to no idea what is going on, but they do their work well anyway, fighting past them and driving the orcs back, leaving the two of them relatively safe.)

Russandol’s breathing is shallow and shaky, but she still gazes up at him like he’s the greatest wonder of the world. “Finno,” she murmurs. “It’s you. You’re really here.”

“It’s me,” Fingon chokes out, his hands shaking as he fumbles with his free hand at his cloak. It’s filthy, and the spear probably did damage that staunching the blood flow won’t help, but he presses the fabric against Russandol’s side anyway. “I’m here, Russë, it’s okay, it’s going to be okay. You’ll be all right.”

“How...”

“Ssh, save your strength, all right? I’ll tell you all about it once the healers have fixed you up. We’ll have time.” He can’t lose her. Not now. Not when he’s just found her again.

Russandol laughs weakly. “Again with the...trying to bribe me to...see a healer.”

“Well, this time you will,” Fingon says firmly, then twists to look back towards the support lines and yell, “Medic! We need a medic!” Someone will hear. Someone has to. “The healers will get you taken care of and you’ll be fine. And we’ll be together again.”

“Now I know...you’re making things up,” Russandol says softly. “You wouldn’t want me. Not anymore. Not after...”

“I do,” Fingon says, absolute as granite. “Always. There is nothing you could do that would make me stop loving you.” That had taken some working through in the Halls, but all of his agonizing seems very far away now. “I love you and I want you and I will get you help - medic! - and when you’re better and this is over we’ll--” He searches frantically for something to keep her eyes open and on him. “We’ll finally have a home together. Like we used to talk about. Just stay with me, Russë.”

Her eyes flutter. She reaches her hand up shakily to cup his face. “Tell me more, Finno,” she whispers. “Can we have Gil visit us there? He’s king now...wouldn’ be able to stay all the time.”

“Of course he’ll visit,” Fingon promises. He’s seen their son since arriving on these shores, gotten to talk with him some. Gil-galad is deeply conflicted about his mother’s kinslayings, but they can reconcile. It just needs time. “He’ll visit all the time. And so will Maglor, he’ll drive us mad...”

“And the twins,” Russandol says, and for a moment Fingon thinks she means Ambarussa, now dead, but no - “Elrond. Elros. Adopted them without you - ‘m sorry.”

“They’ll be there, too. I already know I’ll love them, Russë. You’ll have to introduce us - they’re my niece’s grandsons, too, aren’t they?”

Russandol nods weakly. “You’ll take good care of them.”

“We both will,” Fingon says desperately, holding her just a bit tighter. “Russë, please, stay with me, hang on--” He thinks he can hear running footsteps in the distance, prays to anyone listening that they’re healers. “Please, I came for you, I was looking for you for so long, through this whole stinking war; you can’t go now when I’ve just found you.”

“Finno.” There are tears spilling out of the corners of Russandol’s eyes, but she tries to smile. “Finnonya. It’s okay. You’re here with me. I got to see you one more time. It’s enough.”

“It is not,” Fingon says, forcing back a sob and turning it into stubborn fury instead. “You don’t get to leave me alone, Russë, it’s not fair, I don’t care if you want to get me back for the Nirnaeth or whatever this is, pick something else.”

It’s telling, he thinks with a sinking feeling, that she doesn’t argue about the Nirnaeth. She just settles herself in his arms like she would settle into a bed at the end of a long day. “Love you,” she murmurs. “You don’t have to wait for me. If you don’t want. Or if I go to the Void. Can find an Indis. You should be happy.”

“I should,” Fingon agrees sharply, “and I need you, so stay with me, Russë, so help me, if you die I will come and drag you back from Mandos or wherever else they throw you. Don’t make me do it, Russë, meldanya, please, just hang on.”

Her hand against his cheek goes limp, and Fingon has time for a single second of bright, pure panic before a trio of healers with Fëanorian red armbands descends on them and pulls Russandol out of his arms, working over her and bundling her onto a stretcher to carry away. It all happens so fast that for long moments he simply kneels there, staring after them as they run with the stretcher. He doesn’t know what happens now. He doesn’t know what to do.

They didn’t cover her face. They were still trying to help her; when they took her away, they were hurrying. There’s still hope.

Fingon picks himself up and takes off running after them. Whatever comes next, he needs to be there for her.

[edensrose]

─────── .°୭̥ ✿ˎˊ˗ day six : doom

( ❀ ) ˙ ˖    námo⠀〳 reader⠀  ❜࿔ 

· ⊰ synopsis. death is his domain, and yet námo finds himself slipping when he sees a vision of your demise ( angst ៸៸ death ៸៸ war themes )

· ⊰ notes. I am. . . not okay and now neither will any of y'all be <3

He has seen death ample times in his millennia’s worth of existence.

He has witnessed the grief and wallowing of thousands of souls that enter his halls.

He has even found beauty in it. Death, that is. The release of responsibilities. The fierce, icy grip that would soon lead to peace.

He admired it, he envied it.

And yet. . . The day that Námo perceived your final moments, he found himself unable to function. Unable to speak, eat, sleep.

Countless times has he seen death, and yet nothing shook him more to his core than the sight of you laying there on the battlefield. Your body painted with crimson and your eyes shut. That beautiful face of yours so serene despite the wounds that littered your fána. For a moment, he may have considered the possibility of you simply lost in slumber, if it were not for the scene of chaos that carried on around you.

That is what his world had become, chaos. The realisation that he could not protect you broke him in several ways. He knew that this was unstoppable. He knew that this was fate. But what the Vala also knew is that this was cruelty in its finest. For The One to have shown him such horrible imageries — of the person he holds dear no less. . .

Námo was in a state. To know that your end would not be a peaceful send off. You would pass away in the heat of battle, the day of Dagor Dagorath. He will witness your death and yet, despite all his power and might he will not be able to reach you.

For the first time in his entire existence, he wished to listen to the whispers. To defy the very law by which Eru governs. To escape the loop. To break the will. The sight of you laying there on the ground was simply too much to bear.

It keeps him awake for weeks.

Months.

And worst of all? He finds himself drawing away from you. For whenever he sees your face, images of that fateful day to come plague his very eyes. He cannot move, cannot speak. He is ill with anxiety. Choking on the bitter reality.

He shuts you out.

He shuts you out, and there is nothing you can do about it.

Even when his mind screams at him. Reminds him that this is the route that his Creator has set out for him, he still continues. He isolates himself from you. Like a puppet on the strings he obeys and is pulled in the direction of this unwarranted fate.

It matters not how much he tries to fight it. Nor how much he wishes to scream until his lungs pour with crimson as he curses the name he has only ever known as holy.

And it is not until you are lying there on that battlefield. Peaceful amongst the chaos. Unaware of his wailing agony and his desperation to get to you. To scoop you up in his arms and savour your warmth. To whisper into your hair and kiss your lips one final time

It is only then that he truly realises the meaning of the word doom.

· ⊰ masterlist. 

· ⊰ tip jar. 

· ⊰ get tagged for my writing. @kiatheinsomniac @m-shade @qwerty-19923 @momoewn @tinkywinky27 @weird-addiction @yonjisu @a-contemplation-upon-flowers @noldorinpainter @singleteapot @the-phantom-of-arda @floraroselaughter @a-world-of-whimsy-5 @miriel-estelwen @wandererindreams @ashfromvolcanoes @cilil @someoneinthestars @asianbutnotjapanese @stormchaser819

( ❀ ) ˙ ˖ please consider liking, reblogging and / or commenting if you enjoy my work! all feedback is greatly appreciated ♡

[doodle-pops]

Okay, so I am totally gonna do the fic for Maglor and his wife. Only I have a question for you

Remember the Namo daughter thing? Would you prefer a happy ending or a sad ending?

Mostly because I myself am leaning towards a bittersweet angst sad ending because it’d be a shorter story. I’d love to make a happy ending but I have no idea what I’d do for that.

So basically sad = short, happy = long

You’ve made me so happy, I got the best sleep last night after reading this. I am patiently waiting 😆

And for your Námo fic, I would love a bittersweet ending. Give me the angst to so I can suffer knowingly. There’s not enough angst in my cup for a long while :)

[dalliansss]

Curufinrod for the ship bingo please :)

They're a very terrible pair. I like writing them in more canon context, preserving their relationships they left behind in Valinor, because complications make for much more interesting dynamics.

We go into what exactly made Finrod seduce Curufin, when he perfectly well knows their own circumstances. Was he bored? Was he still grieving Angrod and Aegnor? Was he simply out to try psychologically torture Curufin? Or did he simply miss him?

Fanon makes them intolerable because 90% of fics out there only ever write the smut. We all love our spicy chili smut, but a story is much more than just A and B banging each other. I like ships that make me think.

Of course, there's the entire coup and betrayal that makes this such a doomed ship. Worse because Finrod knew it was coming and did nothing about it. And Curufin knew that Finrod knew what he was doing, and still did nothing about it.

And then there's the post re-embodiment shenanigans in Aman. Finrod the first elf to re-embody, and Curufin the first Fëanorian to re-embody. Also the maia of Námo Mandos going to Finrod to give him notice Curufin was going to be released from the halls soon. (Why him? Why not Nerdanel? Why not Curufin's estranged wife, Helwë? Why him?)

More interesting to note that when you're the person whom the maia of Namo gives Summons to, you're the only one who can find the Road of the Dead, pick up the newly released elf, and are mandated to help them acclimatize to having a hröa again. Looooots of plot bunnies and angst potential. :3

@herinke

[i-did-not-mean-to]

Stargazing

So, let's start with something short and sweet for this February Bingo.

Words: 416

Characters: Varda/Manwë, slight Melkor angst

Varda swept into the room in a flurry of light and soft tinkling.

“What did Námo want?” she asked as she stepped onto the balcony to wrap her arms around the solid form of her beloved husband, trying to pierce the void beyond the confines of the world by the strength of his will and the intensity of his yearning. “It’s highly unusual for him to come all the way up here.”

“He’s come for counsel,” Manwë replied in a soft, breathy voice. “Ñolofinwë is talking up a storm, insisting that he wants to see his brother, and our dear Námo is at the end of his rope trying to keep them apart.”

He gave a long, shivering sigh without turning around to face the one he loved so well.

“After everything that has happened,” Manwë went on wistfully, “he still wants to see Míriel’s son. How…”

“You know how,” Varda replied softly and tightened her hold infinitesimally. “Does thinking of Finwë’s sons pain you still, beloved? Does the thought of their reckless bravery and endless suffering ache dully even now?”

Manwë gave no answer to that; she knew the truth of his immortal heart too well and needed no fleeting words to discern the agony within him.

“I am sorry,” he finally murmured. Varda did not ask what imagined or real crime he was apologising for – Melkor and his actions, the doom of the Noldor, his own hesitancy – for she knew that it was of little consequence compared to the depth of her husband’s hidden despair.

“I envy him.” Manwë’s words fell – wingless and weighty – like a boulder into the calm pond of companionable silence between them. “For being able to pester Námo, annoyed but present, in hopes to behold that disdained and beloved face once more.”

Varda bit back a choked scream of compassion and pity with all the dignified ferocity of her essence.

Neither she nor anyone else could grant the solace Manwë’s soul was aching for; all she could offer the Elder King was an echo of her own making and so, she lifted her hands and painted the portrait of Melkor – such as he had been before the beginning of the end – onto the endless canvas of the night sky.

“You shall see him again,” she promised fervently while adding curves and lines made from pure starlight and flickering hope to the gleaming memory she was thus conjuring up lovingly. “Until then, let’s gaze at the stars together in hopeful expectation.”

So, we're off :)

@fellowshipofthefics here's my first entry for the February Bingo <3

[cilil]

A trick ficlet by @i-did-not-mean-to for @melkors-big-tits for the trick-or-treat event, in which Mairon has to inform Melkor that their sweet little baby Glaurung has been killed. Featuring sad and angry dark lords and Mairon's unique Melkor handling skills

Another trick oneshot by @a-world-of-whimsy-5 for yours truly, featuring vampire!Manwë and Námo in 19th century England. Beautiful and heartbreaking

Recommending some sadness and angst today, next week will be fun again!

Happy Friday, Fellowship! 💛

Fic recs are the best way to help promote someone else’s works! Find some of your favorite fics, they could be WIPs, completed, old, new, whatever you want to share, and rec at least (1) of them for us and your followers to see! Who knows, it might just be the fic someone out there is looking for!

Bonus: tag the author (if possible) and share with us why you are recommending this fic!

[a-world-of-whimsy-5]

The Death of Love

Pairing: Námo x Manwë (Calamórë)

Themes: Medieval! Ainur | Angst

Warnings: Mentions of prior sexual activity | Kissing | Swordplay | Innuendo

Word count: 2.5K words

Summary:  Prince Manwë has to choose. Will it be love or duty? 

Minors DNI | 18+

A/n: Image source - page of the Millstätter Handschrift, ca 1200,  Millstatt Abbey, Austria

Aþâraigas- Valarin word for sun

I drew inspiration from GoT’s duty is the death of love for this story. And the beyond my control was inspired from a scene in the film Dangerous Liasons. 

Rules and tag form here.  

Dawn drills started as they always did. A quick trip to the armory to arm and armor oneself before heading off to the sparring yard after the Lord Commander looked everyone over. 

Manwë did not care for dawn drills. He preferred the library and books over plate and steel and horses. Still, he had a duty to learn. His disgraced brother had defected to the Iron Mountains, creating his own kingdom and army, and they had to be ready for war. The prince did not want this. He did not want to go to war. He did not care for the burdens that came with wearing the crown. He yearned to read and dream. 

The cup of duty has passed to me its seems, he thought, as he wandered onto a yard that smelled of freshly cut grass. Whether I like it or not, I must drink from it.

Manwë would soon learn duty was a most bitter cup to drink from.

"Your head is in the clouds again, my prince." Lord Commander Eönwë called out when Manwë was thrown to the dirt and onto his back. "You need to focus."

Manwë sighed and panted. "You need to stop knocking me onto my back."

Námo flashed a wide grin and came over, extending his hand and helping Manwë to his feet. "I thought you liked being knocked onto your back," he whispered in the prince's ear, "my prince."

Manwë blushed, his cheeks turning a sweet shade of pink. He lowered his gaze lest the others see his eyes darkening. He knew what Námo meant. He remembered what they did—all of what they did. The whispered words, the rough kisses, the sweet moans. The prince prayed no one had been close enough to hear, for no one knew about them and what they had come to mean to each other. 

"Tonight it will be you on your back," he vowed under his breath. "Sweet raven."

Námo's grin only widened. "I look forward to it."

Eönwë harrumphed impatiently. "Again, my lords. Go on. The king is watching." 

Everyone glanced up at an upper walkway. The king was indeed watching, along with most of the court. Manwë tilted his head out of respect and picked up a blunted tourney sword. Eru nodded in return, his eyes like molten silver. The sparring commenced. 

They hacked and slashed at each other, their curses as sharp and loud as the clangor of steel. Aþâraigas had risen higher in Ilmen, its light and heat beating down on them all. It grew hot and tiresome, and still, they fought. Others shouted and cheered. Some held wagers. Eönwë kept a close eye on them both. It grew hotter. Manwë could feel himself cooking like a goose inside his hauberk but was determined to emerge victorious. He feinted to his left, and when Námo fell for it, he returned with a blow that knocked his companion to the dirt. The prince left nothing to chance. As soon as Námo fell he was over him, his dagger at Námo's throat.

"I yield, my prince." Námo tossed his sword to the side and raised his hands in surrender. "I yield."

Manwë smiled—a slow, wicked smile—when Námo yielded. "The day has just started, and already I have you on your back."

Námo's eyes glinted when he recognized the flash of need in Manwë's own. His smile was just as wicked as the prince's. "Wait till nightfall, my prince. I will not yield so easily then."

The prince narrowed his eyes. "A challenge, sweet raven? We should start a little wager then, to see how long it would take me to..."

"My prince," Námo looked over Manwë's shoulder, his eyes widening like supper plates. He quickly pushed himself to his feet and dusted himself off. "The king is beside us."

Manwë swallowed, hoping against hope that his lord father did not hear a word.

“Your grace," he removed his helm and bowed. When his father held out his arm, Manwë took his hand and kissed his ring of office. Námo bowed and did the same. 

"You have improved considerably, my son," Eru said gravely, "as have you, my lord Námo. Pray how do you find your lodgings? Is everything to your satisfaction?"

"Very comfortable, your grace," Námo replied. "I am most grateful for your generosity."

"Good." Eru turned his attention to his son. "If you could spare the prince for a moment? I have much to discuss with him."

Námo bowed again and took a step back. "Your grace."

While the others continued training, Manwë said his goodbyes and walked inside with his father. He followed Eru through one lofty corridor after another, stopping ever so briefly to exchange a word or two with a courtier. Finally, when they reached the heavy teak doors of the council room, Eru turned to the warriors on guard. 

"We are not to be disturbed," the king said. "Not unless it is for a matter of great import." 

Both warriors nodded before one of them opened the door. Manwë walked into the cool marble interior and sighed in relief. 

"Do you need help with that?" Eru came over to help him with his coat of mail and padded shirt. Every muscle in the prince's body seemed to delight in the absence of metal and thick padding. He sighed again, this time even louder. Eru tilted his head and studied his son. Manwë was exceedingly pale. His lips and cheeks had lost a great deal of color and his hair was utterly disheveled.

"Goodness. A round or two of sparring and already you look like the dead."

"Perhaps you should send me like this into battle, father. Our foes will flee, thinking the dead have risen, and march to claim their souls."

Eru laughed, the sound echoing off the vaulted ceiling. It put Manwë on edge. His father rarely laughed. "Perhaps I should. Come. Sit. Help yourself to something. We need to talk, you and I."

Manwë pulled out a chair and made himself comfortable before reaching for a flagon of water. He was thirsty, he realized, as he drained cup after cup of cold water. Eru waited until he started on a platter of cheese and olives before joining him at the table. 

"Now," he said, drawing two folded pieces of parchment from a hidden pocket sewn into his sleeve, "the reason for my little summons is this."

Manwë pushed the platter of food away and took the parchments to hand. He unfolded each and parsed through the contents, his eyes widening with each line. The letters were no ordinary letters. They were offers of marriage. 

"Marriage?" he sputtered in disbelief. "You want me to marry?"

"I want you to choose," Eru said, steepling his fingers beneath his chin. "Lady Varda of Starfield will bring with her the bounty of Greengrove and eight hundred of its fabled mounted lancers. Lady Uinen of Alqualondë, on the other hand, will bring us five hundred archers and fifty ships. I would settle for Alqualondë. Lady Uinen has a much sweeter temper, I am told. And we need to strengthen our defenses along our eastern flank. However, if you have another bride in mind, I am more than willing to listen to your reasons."

"There will be no bride," Manwë breathed. The room started to feel hot and stuffy. His chest tightened while fear and dread coiled within his belly like hungry snakes about to strike. "I will not wed any lady you place before me."

"Plan on marrying your sweet raven, is that it?" Eru said, his voice as sharp as steel. Manwë, shocked, looked into his father's eyes. What warmth was there was now long gone. Those molten silver eyes were like flints of steel now. They seemed to spear him into his chair. "What? You think I did not know of your trysts with your little lordling? That I did not know how you sneak him into your chambers every night whenever he visits?"

Manwë struggled to speak or even breathe. It felt as if the very walls of the room were closing in on him, threatening to crush him. He did not know what to do. He could not marry any of his father's choices for a bride; his heart already belonged to Námo.

"There has to be another way," Manwë said as those walls had already boxed him in, leaving him with little hope of escape. "I cannot do this. You cannot make me."

“We have no choice. We need allies. Allies that can bring us warriors and ships, provisions so Taniquetil can survive winter in comfort." Eru pushed his chair back and stood up. "Can your raven do that?"

Manwë's eyes were fixed on the letters before him. His thoughts, however, were somewhere else. Haunted Pass was a beautiful but harsh place. It was all rugged mountains, vast underground caves, and the land was hard to farm even at the best of times. The Blackgraves had few warriors and presided over souls, and souls brought no coin with them. Oh, they had some wealth, it was true, but that wealth was nowhere enough to interest someone like his father. Politically, Námo brought very little into a royal marriage.

"No," he choked out finally.

"Then answer me this. Can Námo at least provide you with heirs? Sons and daughters to further the family line and help you secure the line of succession?"

"No, he cannot." Manwë breathed, and mustered his courage. Despite the tears that threatened to come unbidden, he rose and stood tall against his father. "But if heirs are the issue, what stops you from taking either of these ladies to wife? Hmm? Surely you can marry and secure the line of succession yourself."

"Perhaps I should," Eru agreed, "and then all of Valinor will learn I am plagued with yet another son who shirks his duty. Is that what you want? To be seen as no better than that brother of yours?" 

The barb struck true. Manwë loathed his brother for forsaking his duties and running away, leaving him to pick up the pieces Melkor left behind in his wake. 

"I am not Melkor!" Manwë cried, his eyes stinging. "I am better than him!" 

"Then act like it!" Eru insisted forcefully and slammed his hand down on the table. "Act like who you were meant to be! A prince of the realm and its future fucking king!"

He was the future king. There was no escaping it, no denying it. But to accept it, to become who he was supposed to be...

"But.. but Námo..." Manwë whispered, heartbroken. "I... I love him, father."

"I know." Eru sighed. His eyes held a shred of sympathy. Manwë was unsure if it was genuine. "Even a blind man could see how much you love him. But it must end. Duty towards crown and country must win out over all else. Even love." 

"What do I tell him?"

"The only thing you can tell him. It is beyond your control. Now go. End it now and spare yourself further agony. Lie to him if you must. We will talk more once you have made a decision."

Manwë walked out of that council chamber as if in a trance. Varda and Uinen were exceedingly comely, sharp-witted, and accomplished—everything one could want in a queen—but he did not desire a queen. All he craved was his little raven, and now he would have to give him up. He would not run away from his duties like his brother. He had to do the right thing.

If what I am about to do was right, why does it feel like every part of me was dying?

Manwë had no answer. Or perhaps he knew the answer, and refused to face it, like a coward.

It is beyond my control, he kept telling himself instead. It is all beyond my control. 

Námo had been waiting for him in his chambers. He rushed into Manwë's arms and kissed him. The prince prolonged that final kiss for as long as he could, savoring the warmth of Námo's mouth and the taste of honey and cloves on his lips. He sighed when silken silver locks slipped around his fingers like water. That precious memory would be the only thing to keep him going for the rest of his days.

“What did the king say?" Námo sighed wistfully and pulled away.

Manwë padded over to a window. He struggled to harden his heart and despaired. And yet it had to be done. He had a duty to his family, his subjects, and the crown. As his father said, it was beyond his control. 

"Yes. About that." He said, his eyes seeing nothing. "We must end this. I plan on taking a wife, and she will not take kindly to a rival for my affections. You must leave as soon possible."

"What?" Námo came to him, grabbed his arms, and turned him around. "You must marry? Why?" 

Manwë forced himself to look Námo in the eye. He deserved no less from him. "The line of succession must be secured. We need allies. It is beyond my control." 

Námo took a step back, staggered by what he heard. His look was one of deep anguish and confusion. "Why are you doing this?"

Lie to him if you must, his father said. And lie he did. "Because this...whatever it is that we have... has run its course. It is beyond my control."

The prince felt his heart shatter when tears pooled in Námo's eyes. "You... I thought... you said you love me."

"Yes. Love. A pleasant illusion," another lie, "but an illusion all the same. You were a distraction. Nothing more. It is beyond my control."

"You are lying!" Námo cried. He began to feebly pummel Manwë’s chest with his fists. "Please tell me you are lying!"

"I am not," Manwë violently pushed him away, silently damning his brother to a thousand agonizing deaths for turning his back on his family, his father for putting him into this position. He finally damned himself for what he was doing. "What I felt for you was brief and fleeting, and nothing more. I cannot marry you even if I wanted to. You will bring little to our union. You cannot even give me heirs. It... It is beyond my control."

“Perhaps you and your bride can come to an arrangement,” Námo pleaded in desperation. “It has been done before. Please... I... I cannot lose you.”

“No.” How the prince wished for such a thing! Yet he knew he could never ask, not without insulting his bride and her House. "I will not wed one and bed the other. It is beyond my control.” 

Námo burst into tears. He collapsed in a sobbing heap at the prince's feet. It took every ounce of strength Manwë had not to take Námo into his arms and beg for his forgiveness. He wanted to go to his father and declare his intention to give up his claim. He found he could not.

It is beyond my control. The words repeated themselves like a dark and twisted prayer. 

 "You can stay until you are well enough to leave," Manwë nearly sobbed. Heated tears coursed down his cheeks. "But you must leave after that. It is beyond my control."

He turned sharply on his heel and walked away, forcing himself to turn a deaf ear to Námo's keening wails. 

A memory of his childhood lessons came unbidden. Love is the death of duty, my boy, His tutor once said, And duty is the death of love. That is the price that must be paid.

Manwë finally drank from the cup of duty. He found it to be a most bitter vintage and the cost was more than he could bear.

Tags: @cilil​ @edensrose​ @fictionfordays​ @asianbutnotjapanese​

[bluezenzennie]

To heal, is to take your time.

Pairing: Irmo/Estë/Kalla ( oc )

Characters: Irmo, Estë, Kalla, Námo, mentioned: Ruinë ( @edensrose 's muse ), Melkor, Mairon, Nienna, Aurëlius ( My other muse ).

Synopsis: After the war of wrath, Estë and Irmo keep a close eye on Kalla's continuous self isolation and silence, which seems to have no end.

They decide to take matters into their own hands, when nobody else does, and make a deal with Námo to send them to Lorien, so they can take care of them until they're fully healed.

Themes: Angst, Hurt comfort.

Warnings: Detailed desc of a meltdown | Exhaustion | Survivors guilt | Guilt in general | Crying | Lightly detailed vomiting | Yelling is written in caps.

Wordcount: 20k

"They've been so quiet, my dreamer." Estë murmurs, her soft breath fanning against Irmo's exposed neck, as the two of them cling to one another in a tight embrace.

"We should seek them out, speak with them."

Another hopeless attempt is made to push Irmo to talk, and help her decide, but he seems so lost, it's impossible to pull him out of his thoughts nevermind how hard she tries.

The silence is heavy when even Estë grows quiet, and all she does is sway around the fëantur in her arms gently for another minute or so, before he finally, finally, decides to speak his mind.

"I fear that we'll lose them..." That single sentence, that passes through Irmo's plush lips is quiet, soft, and full of an unmistakable grief, that swallows him whole and threatens to claw at his insides, to tear through flesh and break bone, to create a nest, a void of sadness, within his usually beautiful and vibrant fëa.

It still bore his beautiful song, yet there were changes to it - a faint hymn, so full of sorrow and pain, and, it only seemed to grow the longer he held back his emotions.

"We won't lose them if we confront them. Our little lily needs our help." Soft and dainty fingers dry tear stained cheeks and eyes. One thumb brushes over a tired eyelid whilst the other strokes the white haired vala's cheek carefully, before Estë continues her best to pull him out of this state.

She doesn't remember the last time she saw him this shattered and broken - had she ever?

"You have to understand this my love, we can't keep fearing for the worst and not take action, the worst will be the outcome if we do not... I am not as knowledgeable on topics like these as your sister, perhaps... but what I do know is, that we have to be brave and take them with us here - letting them rot in the halls of Mandos until they've fully healed, will do no good."

"I cannot look at them when I was among the valar who chose them to go shelter the wounded and scared in middle-earth." Irmo whimpers shakily.

He claws at his wife's dress and doubles over, resting his forehead against her shoulder.

"They begged, cried, did everything in their power to prove that this was not a mission fit for them- and yet we sent them away, only for them to come back mute, emotionless and shattered. I'm ashamed of myself for ever agreeing to sending them away, I doubt Nienna is proud of making the final choice too, despite all of us agreeing it was a good idea... I think Kalla's name just popped out of her mouth during that meeting, without actually meaning to suggest them." The cracks in his usually warm and smooth voice become increasingly louder, sadness so prominent you could almost see the blue aura around his fána.

It was painful to witness him in such a despairing state, truly, but Estë grew irritated and stubborn.

She loved the man with her whole fëa and fána, she adored him to her very core, and would always love and support him unconditionally.

Which is why it hurt her so much to seem him like this.

Though perhaps blunt when she speaks again, it is by no means meant with intentions to hurt him whatsoever.

Her words come out as stern and full of emotion: "My love, if you do not stop wallowing in self pity and guilt, I will go myself and drag Kalla back here, no questions asked and I will make you talk to them, there is no way out of this. They need you, they need me, us." She moves both of her hands to cup his chin, gently removing him from her shoulder, and looking into his tear filled eyes, before placing a small kiss on his forehead.

"But Est-"

"I will not tolerate anymore excuses, Irmo. Now listen to me."

There's a long silence between the two, as Irmo lowers his head further, a small whine threatens to rumble in his throat.

Alas, he nods, listening to his wife as she resumes speaking.

"You cannot continue to do this to yourself. You are hurting yourself by letting the guilt swallow you whole- as well as they are hurting themself by isolation and complete silence. You are leaving a wound untreated, dirty and prone to infection if not tended to soon enough."

Amethyst irises move to look directly into pools of deep emerald green, that stare into his, half lidded and full of stubborn confidence.

A fond hum fills the small grove the two lovers find themself within, slithering it's way through his post-cry swollen lips- an amused, fond, and sad hum.

He leans forward to place a soft kiss upon Estë's lips, brushing them against each other before pressing them together for a short moment.

Pulling away and wiping the rest of his tears away with the long purple sleeves of his robe, a sigh escapes his nostrils as he takes a few deep breaths.

"What would I do without you, darling?" He ponders.

"Oh Irmo, a whole lot." The lady of the hurt and weary chuckles, and takes her husband's hand.

"Come now, my dreamer, hand in hand."

"Hand in hand..." Irmo mutters, inhaling a last big gulp of air before exhaling, as they begin the journey to his brother's halls.

Mandos is in chaos when the two arrive, chairs have been thrown across viridian carpets, ruined and in splinters, while vases are shattered and scattered across the floors.

Loud screaming echoes throughout the doomsman's abode, bouncing off of pillars and obsidian walls, directing themself through the rest of Mandos.

No fëar are around to be seen, and it's quiet, aside from the loud crashing ruckus echoing from the corridor to the right of the two.

They exchange worried looks and with haste, they make their way towards the chaos.

Already now do they have an idea of who it is, that is screaming their head off.

"Olothëra, I need you to calm down." Námo professionally, yet quite panickedly attempts, trying to snap Kalla out of their meltdown and reason with them.

Usually he would be calm, collected and would keep up his "stoic" facade, however, it was hard not to panic, when the small maia of his sister, had been running around and screaming on and on without giving their vocal cords a break, ruining everything piece of furniture that blocked their path, for hours on end.

It had come to a point where even he had become deeply concerned and started to feel slightly on edge.

"I DO NOT CARE WHAT YOU NEED." They screech, eyes flashing with searing blue light, as they throw a vase his way, only for him to dodge it and give them a stern stare, although, the sadness behind his viridian eyes betrays him and his expression.

Kalla has never behaved like this, they've always been quiet, reserved, caring- always accepting people who need to talk, with open arms, a warm smile on their red stained lips.

Yet, now, with the intense emotions rushing through them; Anger, grief, revenge, guilt, pain- they had snapped.

After everything, bottling up and repressing their feelings, emotions and trauma- it all came tumbling down. Nobody truly knows what triggered this event.

Kalla hadn't spoken ever since their fëa had arrived in the halls of Mandos. They had but only cried or slept, and food wasn't something they interacted with much either.

The rumors of their death had been passed from hall to hall, even outside the walls of Mandos it would seem.

They whispered of Sauron kidnapping them, holding caged within the cells of angband, only to be thrown into a pit of fire by Melkor, after they had refused to crackle under his persuasion and corruption.

Those were the rumors, and what was worse? It was all the truth.

Perhaps this was why they had snapped? From discovering that the truth was out? That people now knew; they failed their mission, that they were weak and could not even keep up the duty of protecting and comforting those weaker than them.

Námo watches helplessly as they claw at the permanent scar left on their throat from years ago, when they were assaulted by the dark lord in their slumber, screaming that he had taken something from them, and how they could feel it.

They were smashing vases with dark magenta roses in them into the floor as the flashbacks of Ruinë, looking back at them with her magenta eyes, as they arrived in angband, shackled and being shoved back and forth by Melkor's followers and servants, flash before their eyes when they spot the color.

And they screamed, as loud as they possibly could, until they'd lose their voice, for all those they had failed to save.

Kalla stands in the middle of a small lounge, where fëar usually rest and collect themselves.

Crying and screeching angrily.

"IT'S MY FAULT THEY DIED- AND YOU DARE HAVE THE NERVE TO TELL ME TO CALM DOWN?!"

With spasming hands, they reach out towards Námo, as if to take ahold of his robes and shake him, but pull back and pick up another chair instead, smashing it against the floor, the splinters flying to all corners of the room.

"IT'S ALL MY FAULT, I SHOULDN'T HAVE SURVIVED THAT, THEY SHOULD'VE, NOT ME, nOt mE."

They tug and rip at their white tresses, hyperventilating and grinding their teeth together as the tears continue to spill from their eyes, seemingly never ending.

They're still screaming, their voice slowly progressing into crackling and at times fading into a whisper. It's the early signs of their vocal cords giving in, after so much strain and stress.

They could fill whole oceans with their silver tears, if they wanted, and yet, it was keeping all of these memories buried deep within and never speaking out, that was the reason they ended up here today after all, getting lost in their meltdown, so full of anger and grief, and even if their muscles grew sore and began pulsing, they didn't care- if there was something they could tear apart and destroy, just to get the frustration out, they'd find it and do it.

Consequences of their actions would have to be later, they needed to let this rage out, lest they wished to combust with other unwanted episodes like these for the future to come.

They felt their heart clench and scrunch in pain, the way grief stabbed at their gut and how the anger fried their brain, the extreme emotions too much to handle, too overwhelming.

They felt like they were freefalling into the abyss, stomach hurting from the rush of the fall, the slight feeling of nausea slithering its way to their throat, itching and burning, demanding they barf up the lunch from earlier.

They didn't want to hurt anyone, they held themself strong enough to not do so, at least, not physically.

Yelled they had, at anyone who had tried getting in their way, even now at Námo, a man they have deep respect for and will always look up to, now a victim of their wrath and suppressed trauma.

They did not notice the two faces staring at them with shock standing in the doorway to the lounge.

It was a risky move to put a hand on their shoulder, Estë knew that. They easily flinch, she might receive an arm around her waist that'll push her away gently, to protect her from their anger, but to her, it was certainly better for that to happen, than to let them continue to ruin the furniture of the lounge and hurt themself even more on the shattered clay vases, that made their ankles and feet bleed.

So she reaches out, and places the hand on the maia's shoulder, hushing softly into their ear, and speaking before they can react:

"Kalla- Breathe." She demands, sternly, yet with soft undertones laced to her warm voice.

Námo's eyes snap towards the entrance of the lounge, only to meet eyes with his younger brother, who seems to be too lost in thought to speak.

Viridian eyes move back to Estë, the confusion in them evident.

When did they arrive, how did I not notice? He wonders.

Yet as a few moments pass, his eyes grow soft with relief and flutter closed as he takes a deep breath, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

The storm is over.

The room grows quiet and the maia breathes in and out frantically, doing their best to steady their breaths.

Instead of pushing Estë away, or flinching, Kalla turns around and pulls her in, crying into her shoulder, all whilst weeping hoarse apologies to Námo for making his halls look as if a monster had walked in and smashed it to ruins.

They told him to lock them up for all eternity- that they did not deserve anyone's mercy nor pity for what had happened back in middle-earth.

They're clawing at Estë's dress as they cage her in a tight embrace, and despite the violent shake of their body, they manage to keep the hug tight, feeling her warmth move to their cold body.

They grip at the soft fabric of her dress, the cold and faint hands of their half transparent fána clawing into it, scared that she'll fade away if they let go. Another deep breath fills the silence of the room and ruby irises move from the oldest fëantur, to the youngest, who can't seem to find any words to share with the world, too overwhelmed.

Námo reaches out and places a careful hand in Kalla's soft white hair, ruffling it slowly, but remaining quiet even as he pulls away.

He wouldn't want to say something that could potentially trigger a relapse, sending them back into their raging meltdown.

So he decided to let Estë and his brother take over, whenever he was ready as well, and while the lady of the gentle takes care of them, the older brother moves towards the younger, placing a gentle and firm hand on his shoulder to snap him out of the state he finds himself in.

"Kalla my dearest- no, you've done nothing wrong- this is, we can fix the damages here- you did your very best protecting those creatures, elves, dwarves and mortals as well- you need not worry dear, you will not be punished."

Estë murmurs softly and sways them from side to side, unintentionally increasing their nausea.

"I think I'm going to vomit." They manage to just whisper, before the nausea surges through their system and they let go of Estë, pushing her away before turning around and vomiting on the floor, their whole body doubling over and cracking.

The wet sounds of vomit pattering against stone floor fills the silent room, alongside Kalla's uncomfortable cries as they cough up their lunch until they're done vomiting.

"Eru- I'm so sorry Námo. Oh I'm messing everything up, what would my lady think if she saw me in such a state..."

They cry, their voice barely a whisper.

"You needn't be, and I have no doubts that my sister would only understand and comfort you, Olothëra, have some faith in your lady." The doomsman reassures firmly, whilst rubbing Irmo's shoulder comfortingly.

Estë sighs and reaches out to Kalla, pulling back into her arms and wiping their eyes, nose and mouth from spit, snot, vomit and tears with a sage green handkerchief, soft and warm hands moving up to cup cold cheeks covered in a thin layer of cold sweat.

"It is a common reaction from people who have been through such circumstances and events as you, Nityamorco ( Little bear ). I am beyond surprised that this did not happen earlier, Nienna did mention you had a habit of keeping things on the inside, but I was not aware it was this bad."

Deep inhales and exhales fill the room again as everyone grows quiet, the three valar allowing Kalla to slowly pick up and collect themself before allowing the two fëanturi and the vala of the gentle to help.

"Irmo."

The youngest fëantur's shoulders shift up to his ears as his whole being grows stiff.

His breathing halts, as he readies himself to take the verbal punches from the small maia.

"Irmo, I don't want you to be sad. Don't forget I see through you, your eyes have never look so blue." They croak and look at the vala a few feet away from them.

Amethyst eyes now turned a deep ocean blue, that had been focused on the floor widen slowly and glide across the room and up Kalla's small form, until he meets their eyes.

"Hm?" He hums out in utter confusion.

"I don't want you to be sad, you 'nd the other valar- chose me because you were sure that the task would be one I could handle... Despite my pleas and begs, I learnt a lot from this mission...

I believe that we can learn from these mistakes, that have been made. They can never be changed, so, instead, let us accept them to be a part of us..."

"I was never mad at you. I can feel it, you think I'm mad at you, but I'm not. I could never be mad at you, not you Irmo... I'd betray my own heart."

Their tired eyes close, as a small yawn interrupts their words.

"The final decision was not your choice, that was my lady's, you and the other valar's votes only counted based on who agreed whether I was strong enough to go- I was, in reality, but... I refuse to use my power, you are well aware of this and so is she.

Why she thought I was fit for this, I still do not understand. I've a feeling it was the slip of her tongue though, a rare thing...

I only proved myself to be worthless. I could never have been prepared for what I witnessed- experienced in middle earth, I proved myself to be completely, and utterly, useless."

Flushed ears twitch slightly at the muttered words from the exhausted maia in front of Irmo, and in mere seconds the fëantur has made his way over to his wife and their friend, grabbing their hand and giving them an almost childish, angry and stubborn stare.

"Stop calling yourself such hurtful things, good Eru- You're going to drive yourself mad, little moon."

"But-"

"Mm, no." The white haired vala wraps his arm around his spouse and Kalla, shoving their face into Estë's shoulder gently.

Soft sighs escape Kalla, as the tears tumble down their face once again, the silvery droplets landing on the shoulder fabric of Estë's dress, but she cares not.

In fact, a smile tugs at the corners of her lips, while her hand moves to brush through their messy hair.

"You must be so exhausted... Our little lily bear." She mutters.

"I am." They reply, quietly and hoarsely, nails digging into Estë's back as they take in the familiar and comforting scent of warm nights, visiting her and Irmo and drinking the man's homebrewed tea, surrounded by lilies, roses and hyacinths.

"I am... really, really, tired Estë..."

Warmth tugs at the hearts of the three in their embrace, Kalla's fëa slightly passing through Irmo and Estë's fánar and merging with their fëar for but a moment, it's such a beautiful feeling.

Oh and tears are shed, though this time, they are not of sadness, nor of joy, but simple relief and the comforting sense of safety.

It's like a breath of fresh air, passing through the body and soul and cleansing it.

Námo clears his throat awkwardly and huffs in hidden amusement when 6 eyes snap towards his direction in synched unison, waiting in silence for the words directed at Irmo:

"... Well, I suppose I cannot stop you from taking them back to Lórien, can I?"

"Oh, Absolutely not. We're taking them."

A cheshire grin forms on Irmo's lips, his eyes flashing with a flurry of color, before changing back to his amethyst hues, his emotions settling once again.

"Very well..." The older hums, staying silent for a minute, scanning his surroundings. The cluttered mess around him of broken chairs and shattered vases- the vomit on the floor- is enough to call forth a slow headache, that's taking its sweet time to slither its way to his eyes and forehead and pulse uncomfortably. This wasn't the only room that had fallen victim to Kalla's destructive meltdown, however... Perhaps there were some good things this event.

Long had the doomsman and and his spouse discussed changing up the interior of the halls, as the leaves of the trees had begun to shift in color, turning orange and red, resembling Arien's beautiful fire and light, and the smell of pumpkin pies filled the air around Vána and Oromë's cottage, whilst the breeze slowly became crisp and began to bite and nip softly at sensitive skin.

"There's so much that needs to be cleaned and fixed..."

"Námo!" Irmo exasperatedly huffs out, cheeks puffed and lips pouted, as a deeper red mixes with his amethyst irises, gaze shifting between Kalla and him, scared his little moon will start feeling guilty again.

"What? Excuse me, mr. mothmorien, Is it not the truth? Look around, I am not trying to make anyone feel bad- but look at this place, it's a mess, no?" He chuckles, a rare thing to catch the doomsman allowing himself to do around most.

He flips his hands around, gesturing to the clutter surrounding the 4 of them.

"I must say Olothëra, your work is impressive. For someone so small, you sure can turn the whole of my domain upside down with no hardships. Are you sure you're not one of Tulkas' reckless maiar?" Námo huffs, drawing a smile from of them.

The room goes quiet for a minute, before the sound of restrained snorts fill the silence, which shifts into small snickers and suddenly bursts out into loud and tired laughter.

"Never let them know your next move, or- or whatever it is Aurëlius usually says."

They laugh and wipe the tears from their eyes, pressing their hand against Irmo's face to get him to look at them and not his brother.

"Tell your maiar I said hi and I'm sorry for giving them more work and"

A pale hand full of silver rings on each finger and chains wrapped around the wrist delicately is raised, silencing the maia.

"Worry not, I'm sure they'd count redecorating the halls as a break from all the- well- death, and if it would be a relief to you, then your punishment shall be that you join them." He hums, letting a small smile flash on his features before switching up to his poker face once again.

"Now go, rest."

With those three simple words from the doomsman, Estë grins throws Kalla over her shoulder, chuckling at the squeak that escapes their lips.

The vala of dreams follows behind the two, halting for a moment to look at his brother, only to blink and give him a bright smile.

"I should send you and Vairë a bouquet as thanks!"

"I'd rather you not." Námo sighs and shoos his brother out of the lounges doorway, shaking his head with a smile threatening to claw its way back onto his face as he watches the three go.

"... What will I tell Vairë when she gets back with her new silks and sees this mess."

A/N: Ah ( Slams head onto table )

I'm so sorry if some characters seemed ooc you guys, I'm trying my best to put myself into the shoes of characters, it also really depends on the bonds of the Canon characters and the muses.

Taglist: @edensrose

Want to get tagged on my fics?

Clickie here dear.

( Hi, if you were not tagged, it is because I am a little unsure whether this would be dark content that was not wanted to be read. I will update my taglist soon, where it will have another box where you can specify what you can and cannot read. Thank you for reading )

[ao3feed-angbang]

A Piece that was Once there

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/uHndSx3

by PeachyYogurt

Edânnisé is the handmaiden of Eru Ilúvatar. She works with him, worships him, and in return, he speaks to her through her dreams, as she is the only Vala to sleep. Much like Mandos and Manwë, Edân understands the visions of Ilúvatar. However, unlike the other Valar, her dreams leave her in a frail state. To many, she is considered the weakest Vala, especially in terms of physical strength. Still, she is considered valuable, especially when her dreams from Ilúvatar come as warnings of impending darkness. Now, with the looming threat over the Children's impending arrival, Edân must navigate through trial and danger in hopes to save them, and quite possibly all of Middle Earth. ********************** I'm really not good with summaries lol.

Words: 6380, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Fandoms: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, Middle-earth: Shadow of Mordor (Video Games)

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Categories: F/M, M/M, Multi

Characters: Morgoth Bauglir | Melkor, Sauron | Mairon, Manwë Súlimo, Eönwë (Tolkien), Aulë | Mahal, Fëanor | Curufinwë, Yavanna Kementári, Annatar (Tolkien), Ulmo (Tolkien), Tulkas (Tolkien), Nessa (Tolkien), Námo | Mandos, Irmo | Lórien

Relationships: Morgoth Bauglir | Melkor/Sauron | Mairon, Morgoth Bauglir | Melkor/Original Female Character(s), Manwë/Original Female Character, Sauron | Mairon/Original Female Character(s)

Additional Tags: Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Dubious Consent, Dubious Morality, Dubious Ethics, Angst and Tragedy, Drinking, Blow Jobs, Oral Sex, Anal Sex, Rough Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, I Was Drunk When I Wrote This, this is an au if Manwë and Varda weren't together, Falling In Love, Love Triangles, Love/Hate, Enemies to Lovers, Oath of Fëanor

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/uHndSx3

[cilil]

𝓐𝓽𝓱𝓮𝓵𝓪𝓼 - 𝟐𝟎 𝐃𝐚𝐲 𝐃𝐫𝐚𝐛𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐠𝐞

⊱ Doom

Characters: Námo/Manwë Synopsis: Námo wishes he could be more than just another servant to his king. Warnings: Angst Follow-up to ⊱ Fate

So it is doomed.

Every time Námo is ordered by his king to pronounce his judgement, every time he utters these words, it feels like he himself is damned, alongside those unfortunate souls who have chosen an ill-fated path; yet unlike the Children of Ilúvatar, he was never really given a choice to be someone different than he is.  

He stands in the Ring of Doom, tall, proud and elegant, his fána concealed by long robes and veils, his hands folded neatly underneath wide sleeves, his expression betraying no emotion. Manwë gazes upon him from his throne, contemplates his words and finally accepts with a gracious nod. 

"So be it." 

And in an instant, Námo is deprived of the warmth of blue fire within his eyes again, a silent dismissal. He bows his head and sits down, feeling oddly small. Of course the Elder King's gaze wouldn't linger on him; he is but a servant of His Majesty, and his appearance certainly doesn't draw attention due to his modest attire. He must always maintain the dignity and appearance befitting of the tasks he was made for, and Eru does not permit him to stray from his path. 

Námo knows he will have to admire his beloved king from a distance and show his adoration and devotion through his service; for that is all that will ever be, so is his doom.

If you enjoyed, please consider liking and reblogging!♡

taglist: @a-contemplation-upon-flowers @asianbutnotjapanese @bluezenzennie @edensrose @eunoiaastralwings @floraroselaughter @i-did-not-mean-to @melkors-defense-attorney @singleteapot

read more? athelas drabble challenge masterlist | main masterlist get tagged for my writing? tag list form

[ao3feed-tolkien]

A Piece that was Once there

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/dxhJjyD

by PeachyYogurt

Edânnisé is the handmaiden of Eru Ilúvatar. She works with him, worships him, and in return, he speaks to her through her dreams, as she is the only Vala to sleep. Much like Mandos and Manwë, Edân understands the visions of Ilúvatar. However, unlike the other Valar, her dreams leave her in a frail state. To many, she is considered the weakest Vala, especially in terms of physical strength. Still, she is considered valuable, especially when her dreams from Ilúvatar come as warnings of impending darkness. Now, with the looming threat over the Children's impending arrival, Edân must navigate through trial and danger in hopes to save them, and quite possibly all of Middle Earth. ********************** I'm really not good with summaries lol.

Words: 6380, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Fandoms: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, Middle-earth: Shadow of Mordor (Video Games)

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Categories: F/M, M/M, Multi

Characters: Morgoth Bauglir | Melkor, Sauron | Mairon, Manwë Súlimo, Eönwë (Tolkien), Aulë | Mahal, Fëanor | Curufinwë, Yavanna Kementári, Annatar (Tolkien), Ulmo (Tolkien), Tulkas (Tolkien), Nessa (Tolkien), Námo | Mandos, Irmo | Lórien

Relationships: Morgoth Bauglir | Melkor/Sauron | Mairon, Morgoth Bauglir | Melkor/Original Female Character(s), Manwë/Original Female Character, Sauron | Mairon/Original Female Character(s)

Additional Tags: Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Dubious Consent, Dubious Morality, Dubious Ethics, Angst and Tragedy, Drinking, Blow Jobs, Oral Sex, Anal Sex, Rough Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, I Was Drunk When I Wrote This, this is an au if Manwë and Varda weren't together, Falling In Love, Love Triangles, Love/Hate, Enemies to Lovers, Oath of Fëanor

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/dxhJjyD

[eri-pl]

Apparently today is a "too many good posts to rebly*, too little time" day.

\* I couldn't decide between "reply to" and "reblog", but I like the result.

Oh, Melian. How much I have in my head about her.

Anyway, wouldn't she …not know, maybe, but at least have some ideas? Melian who married an Incarnate. She must have had thoughts about them, a lot of thoughts. She must have pondered. About the long-term questions too. She's a Maia, she would consider those.

And if we assume that Thingol did share his dreams (bad dreams about Men) with her, or that she had any foresight whatsoever about what may lay in Luthien's future — she would jump at every tidbit about Men even more than Finrod (I assume) does.

Also, I get that Tolkien maybe imagined Melian and Thingol like "fate hit them in the heads, regardless of their personal preference, because that's how love works", but no other Maia fell in love with an Elf (or Man), and I think she must have been weird enough from the start.

"I found this lowly, pitiful thing in the desert forest so I loved it and we got married" is… a lot. It's just so different? wild? eldritch? Shocking.

And she does like this and she raises her daughter to be weird enough to repeat it. She couldn't have been a normal, well-behaved, level-headed Maia like Eonwe. (It's not that I don't like Eonwe, he is a good guy and all)

So, to sum up, I have a hard time imagining Melian not talking with Finrod for whole nights (assuming he came to her with those topics to talk about). But I don't know how the timeline works, when did he meet Men at all and how often he visited Doriath and when.

Námo. I think I imagine him as more literal and less verbose than you do. (My version goes a bit against how he speaks in the book, but anyway). So I would assume he did start the conversation with a short and direct "I cannot tell you". Which is a bad assumption, because it invalidates the idea of writing a fic about it. ;) Unless Finrod then goes to pester some Maiar. Who don't know much and may have some incorrect guesses even. ;)

I imagine Námo as knowing all the story. I know the Silm is cautious about it, I think like Tolkien needed a — what to call it — a safety mechanism and it make sense that he did. So that's why he added a possibility of exceptions. But I am not really buying the idea as part of the setting.

Also he gets more interesting to me as a character if I see him as "knows all, but can tell very little". This gives him some angst and many internal facepalms and generally makes him an interesting character to imagine. His reaction to various situations. And to other characters.

To be claer: what I mean by "knows all" is that he knows all the outside facts. Who does what and so on, like on a movie. He does not want what they think and generally what's in their minds. This interpretation makes sense to me with how he's described.

Which (again, in my hc) results in him not being very emotionally inteligent for a Vala. He knows what people will do, so doesn't need or have a good model of why they do it. which makes him a bit awkward at times. ("Not the first" AKA probably the most trigerring of all the well-intentioned lines).

Also, I imagine the Feanturi (which canonically don't include Nienna but I don't like this exclusion, so I use this name for all 3) as: Námo knows everything intelectually, like memories of audiovisual+facts, but he feels only the emotions related to what he is currently perceiving, like a normal person would (and usually doesn't show them at all, and very, very rarely shows intense emotions). Irmo and Nienna share the emotions that came with his knowledge.

So, Nienna reacts emotionally to all the things that ever happenned, without knowing the events. Sure, she has more emotions about what is currently happening, but her emotions are not limited to present or past.

This even has some slight canon support: when Yavanna plants the Trees, the Valar are awed, and Nienna is crying. It reads as if she's crying more than usual. I think she is already mourning them, even though she doesn't really know this.

And Irmo has the other part of feelings. Joy, awe and such. Plus, he is the one most connected to the topic of "what would happen", even though I don't think it's a fully valid type of questions.

So, anyway, (in my hc) Námo knows the whole story, but doesn't much emote about it. Also, of course he has perfect ability to not emote what he doesn't want to hint at. He has the perfect ability to keep the secrets, because of course he does.

I am still very curious, what are "topics that are actually mysterious to the Vala too", but yes, if Finrod knew any he would probably try to discuss them.

Thoughts about Finrod and Namo:

Kind of for @eri-pl since we're both interested by what his stay in the Halls must have entailed

The thing is that for all his years in ME, Finrod, ever the philosopher, has been collecting experiences and knowledge he really wanted to discuss with — any — of the Ainur. (Melian, of course, Melian was better than nothing — but that's still only one perspective, and the things he was fascinated by were usually not matters on which she knew much more than him)

So, now that he has an occasion to — he is absolutely going to bother anyone within his reach. (And he would have bothered Namo anyway, because most his questions are about the Fate of Men)

Mandos actually canonically knows where mortals go¹. He is also bound not to tell anyone which puts him in a kind-of awkward position when confronted with an insatiably curious elven prince full of goodwill.

I really imagine it takes him some time to just burst out "have you considered it might not be my secret to share?"

Finrod: You could have started with that! — Namo: You know, I would have assumed an adult and head of his house would know what "no" means, but maybe I was mistaken.

...The probable result of that is that Finrod moves on to topics that are actually mysterious to the Vala too; it's debatable whether that's for better or worse.