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lendmyboyfriendahand · 8 months ago

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Even more in the older kidnap fam fic

At Amon Ereb, accommodations for the twins do get marginally more comfortable.

It is, after all, a proper fortress complete with prison cells. All the Feanorian fortresses have them; for criminals, or captured orcs they want to interrogate, or for the rare occasions the sons of Feanor were aware they needed to be stopped.

The cells have solid stone walls and floor, with metal gratings for doors, so the prisoners can't escape by setting a fire or digging.

Some of the cells are missing doors, where the metal bars were taken down and reforged into armor or weapons, but there are still several in good shape.

And the Feanorians are putting both princes in one cell, anyway. It will be easier to guard one place than two.

Elrond and Elros are very agreeable to sharing a cell, rather than being put at opposite ends of the dungeon, with who knows how many days or weeks before they see each other again. And it's not like they'd have actual privacy with their own cells, there's going to be a guard outside constantly.

They are marched down by a half dozen guards, with their arms tied. Once Elros is untied, he has to stand his facing the wall opposite the door before the guards will bring Elrond forward and untie him.

Elros kind of wants to laugh at how intimidating he and his twin apparently are, to warrant this hassle, but it's not funny with swords inches from his brother.

Still, eventually all the guards leave, except for one who locks the door and stands across the hallway.

The cell has a bed, a chamber pot, a bucket of fresh water, and a bed roll designed for camping. There's room for one person to pace, if the other sits on the bed.

Elrond and Elros can talk to each other. Not unobserved, but without a sharp deadline. Better than since they left Sirion.

After reassuring each other that they have no serious injuries, they compare their experiences of the battle, particularly the end.

Elrond and Elros conclude that Elwing is dead, but the Valar sent an eagle (or perhaps another bird, Elrond is unsure of the species he saw) to retrieve the Silmaril.

The Valar have sent eagles to help the house of Fingolfin twice before, and retrieving Fingolfin's body was a lesser favor than saving Maedhros's life (as evil as he is). It's reasonable that the third aid from eagles would be even smaller, not saving the queen's body but saving only her jewel from her enemies.

Elros and Elrond are still confident that it's better than the Feanorians having the Silmaril, though. Who knows what evil they would be able to accomplish with its light?

They are very sad though that their mother is dead. And it's been over a year since Earendil left on his latest voyage, so he's probably dead too, though Elwing hadn't admitted it where they could hear.

That makes Elros king of Sirion, heir to Gondolin and Doriath. Elrond kisses his brother's hand and pledges his fealty.

In practical terms though, Elros and Elrond aren't sure this changes the situation at all. Sure, Elros is king - of a people he can't reach.

They're still prisoners, and there is no Silmaril to trade them for - though of course they are brave warriors who would rather die than give such a holy object over to the evil Feanorians.

They seem to be just here as hostages, so Gil-Galad doesn't sack Amon Ereb, and because the Feanorians still have enough pretense at honor not to kill enemies who surrendered.

The first of those conditions has no end date, and the second only does if they're unlucky. Elros and Elrond will be prisoners until they learn if peredhel can die of old age.

Meanwhile: Maedhros has commanded the guards to keep a watch on the cell, feed the prisoners from the same food as the soldiers, and stop them from escaping. Preferably non-lethally, but if the prisoners reach the courtyard go ahead and shoot them.

He's taken a report from the seneschal, confirming nothing has changed at the castle in his absence.

Maedhros has made his own report of names of the dead, so their work can be redistributed among the living. He's passed on news of Elwing's escape with the jewel, and the signs of orcs they saw on their way. No one pursued the army from Sirion though, which is good.

Maedhros does all the tasks that need to be done to settle his army back in the castle, or at least all that can't wait a day.

He then locks himself in his room to cry over his dead little brother.

Pretty soon it turns to screaming. Wordless cries of pain, insults to the Valar and Eru, curses to the idiocy of child queens.

It's audible outside his room, but he doesn't care. Let them think him mad, being sane has never won him a battle. (Nirnaeth Doriath Sirion, never achieving his goals, and always those he loves dying for him.)

The soldiers are uneasy, but tell each other loudly that it's just his nightmares. Lord Maedhros is sane while awake, and none of them will judge for troubled sleep. Definitely that.

From the prison cell, all that can be heard is the occasional scream. Elrond and Elros thought they were the only captives, but is someone being tortured?

Maglor sleeps for a day straight on arriving at Amon Ereb. He's the best rider left, and switched between advance scouting and Singing their trail cold as needed for the whole journey. It's not literally true that he hasn't slept since Sirion, but he hasn't been fully rested since they marched out from Amon Ereb.

He's still the first one to approach the twins for conversation though, late the next evening.

He's done diplomacy with Fingolfin after leaving him to die, how much worse can it be?

(Okay, he didn't actually get any concessions out of Fingolfin. And he gave up his entire city. But no one died! And people unassociated with the royal family were exchanging small items and food with each other! He's sure it would have taken less than a century to create an actual formal relationship.)

@tar-thelien asked to be tagged for updates!

#silmarillion #my fic #older kidnap fam #my writing #kidnap dads #silm #older kidnap fam fic #<- sorry that's the tag with the rest of it

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runawaymun · 8 months ago

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Hi! I'm bothering you with questions. What's a Tolkien headcanon that makes you chew drywall?

Elrond and Elros did not go with Maedhros and Maglor quietly. They didn't cower in fear and simply hold still while they were scooped up. They were scared for sure. Terrified. But they didn't go quietly. Elros kicked Maedhros in the shin and bit him when Maedhros tried to scoop him up to get a better look, and when Maedhros dropped him in surprise he scrambled for the door as fast as his little legs could carry him. And Elrond would've clawed Maglor's eyes out if it weren't for his helm. They spit and they kicked and they screamed because they knew who these guys were and they'd heard the stories about their uncles and they absolutely thought they were about to die.

And man does it make me absolutely feral. I think all headcannons about Sirion are valid and I love reading everybody else's interpretations, but the idea that Elrond and Elros fought with every inch of their tiny bodies against the last sons of Feanor and actually landed a few hits? That Maedhros got a new scar from Elros that day? I have art planned and in the draft stage for it right and now and someday I will manage to write my own version of kidnap fam, but in my head they didn't go quietly. They thought they were going to die and also even in their young minds they understood that there was an implication that, if the sons of Feanor were here dragging them out of their hiding place -- and their mother hadn't come for them? There was absolutely the understanding that they'd murdered her (even if, in actuality, that's not what happened) and these little six-seven year olds would not stand for it. That's their mom, and they will avenge her, and also? They'll avenge themselves. If the sons of Feanor want to kidnap them or kill them, Elros and Elrond were gonna make it difficult every inch of the way.

#elrond #elros #sack of sirion #kidnap fam #thank you for this ask ahhhh!!!!

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imakemywings · 2 months ago

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Ransom of the Fairy Twins (1/4)

Fandom: The Silmarillion

Relationships: Elrond & Elros, Elrond & Elros & Maglor, Elrond/Gil-galad

Summary: Maglor and Maedhros trade Elrond and Elros to King Gil-galad in exchange for a Silmaril, but they have miscalculated.

A fill for this prompt on the Silmarillion Kink Meme.

AO3 | Pillowfort | SWG

Next chapter

When Elrond and Elros were six, the Havens of Sirion went up in smoke. Their mother kissed their foreheads and sent them upstairs with Evranin their nurse, who had been her nurse before, and promised to see them soon. It was the last thing she ever said to them.

Instead of Mother, a pair of flame-eyed, blood-streaked Elves threw down the bodies of the guard stationed outside the room, and one held Evranin captive while the other ransacked Mother’s room. These invaders took nothing, but threw the screaming nurse aside, and left with the children.

The last time they heard from mother was inside the house, but the last time they saw her was on the cliff-side, where those towering men of ash and blood tried to make a deal with her. When Elrond and Elros were six, a man held a blade to their throats, and promised to spare them in exchange for something else.

It had been a long time since they had heard mother say the names of her brothers aloud, those uncles they had never met—who had died younger than they were then: Eluréd. Elurín.

The last time they saw mother, she was there: and then she was gone.

She didn’t scream, but their captors did. The leaders, and the ones who followed them, all howling and wailing and cursing and running to the edge of that cliff, to burn their stares into the frothing salt water as it battered itself against the rocks. They nearly missed the seabird that went wheeling overhead, out towards the water, out west.

The boys were loaded up onto a horse in front of the dark-haired second son of Fëanor, and so they could not look back and see the ruins of the Havens still smoking. For nearly an hour they rode in complete silence, and then one of the boys tilted his head back, looking up wide-eyed and trembling at the man behind them and asked: “Where are we going?”

“Home,” replied the killer.

II.

When Elrond and Elros were twelve, the sons of Fëanor finally succeeded in making a deal. Gil-galad had come into a Silmaril—and the methods of which do not pertain to this tale—and, by suggestion of his councilors, was willing to offer it to the Fëanorians, in exchange for the lives of Eärendil and Elwing’s two children.

The parchment nearly smoked of how fast they accepted this offer.

Gil-galad sent a small core of trusted advisors to transport the holy jewel, but being unwilling to enter the fortress of Amon Ereb, they left it some two miles out. The land was flat enough the two parties could still see each other. Once it had been deposited, Gil-galad’s men retreated to a safe distance. They watched the sons of Fëanor, the only two left, ride out and examine the jewel. When they had presumably satisfied themselves, they departed, and when Gil-galad’s men returned to the spot, the boys were there waiting.

Each was supplied by Gil-galad’s men with a pony and provisions, and a message was sent ahead to the king. They anticipated the need to travel slower with the children in tow, but the king should be made aware as soon as possible that the plan had succeeded.

“His Grace King Gil-galad offers welcome to the sons of Eärendil,” announced the deputy. The two boys stared dully up at their new compatriots. They each bore some makeshift luggage, ragged sacks and bits of things hanging from their tunic belts.

“Where are we going?” one of them asked at last, almost wearily, as if it were a necessity.

“To the isle of Balar, in Lindon,” said the deputy. “To your new home, we hope.”

“We hope?” echoed the other boy. “What do you mean by that?”

“His Grace offers you a place in his home: you may refuse it, if you wish,” said the deputy.

“You mean we may leave?” said the first boy, narrowing his eyes. The Elf blinked at him, as though they were having a discussion about pink skies and cows with wings.

“You may,” she said. “King Gil-galad does not take prisoners.” The boys exchanged a long look.

“Very well,” they said at last, together. “We would like to meet him.”

III.

The capitol of Lindon was now, for all intents and purposes, the isle of Balar, whose separation from the mainland gave it some minor additional protection from the forces of Morgoth. It was unlike anywhere Elrond and Elros had been before, but for the comforting wash of the waves on the shore, which seemed to reach back into hazy, half-remembered recollections of their childhood, stirring something they couldn’t quite grasp. Balar was an established Elven city, with stone walls and towers and glinting glass windows, and people. Anyone who could get to the island from the nearby lands had, and they were piled on top of each other trying to eke out some measure of safety in an increasingly terrifying world. The twins gawked as they rode through the streets, and were gawked at in return by Elves who had never seen a Peredhel before, only heard tales of those rulers of the Iathrim, but who had heard of the cruel capture of the boys at the sack of Sirion, and of Gil-galad’s plan for rescue.

“Why do they all look at us so?” whispered Elros loudly to the deputy. In their days of travel, the boys had relaxed somewhat around their guards, apparently determining it was unlikely they intended any immediate harm.

“They have heard tales of the last queen of the Iathrim, and of the lord of the Havens at Sirion, and its destruction,” replied the deputy. “All of Lindon hoped that we would be able to bring you out of Amon Ereb.”

“But why?” Elros asked. “We are strangers to them.”

“One’s heart may still bleed for a stranger, yes?” said the deputy. Elros frowned thoughtfully and sat back on his pony. Elrond rode alongside him, and they kept so close together as they wound up to Gil-galad’s castle that their knees were bruised by the end of the day from bumping together.

When they reached the castle, their ponies were led off (they needed no help dismounting) and the deputy gestured for them to follow her inside. The twins shuffled after her, clutching each in one arm his belongings, and with the free hand clasping his brother’s hand.

The architecture of Amon Ereb had been Elven too, finely wrought and carefully planned, but gone to ruination. It had been decades since anyone had properly cared for it, and its present occupants seemed to take joy in spoiling it further. Rarely did anyone of its sparse staff have time to clean, and when they did, the effort was half-hearted at best. Occasionally the boys were set to it, but with no skill or enthusiasm.

Gil-galad’s castle was at the prime of its life, and kept clean to boot.

The twins expected to be led to the throne room—for they had heard such things existed—but Gil-galad met them in a small salon, dressed not in his royal regalia, but something less formal, with only a simple circlet to indicate his office. There was food laid out on a table, which both boys looked to immediately, before turning their attention back to their new lord.

“It is wonderful to finally meet you,” said Gil-galad with a smile. He was fair of face, with oak-brown hair drawn back into a knotted braid, and eyes that seemed both green and brown. Heavy earrings weighed down his earlobes and polished jewels winked at his fingers and his breast. Like all the Elves they had seen thus far in Lindon, outside the soldiers, his dress was splendidly bright, as if Yavanna herself had painted on the colors. “Please, eat.” He gestured to the table, and the young boys decided further introductions could wait: they fell upon the food.

It was hearty and rich, if a less extensive spread than might have been there in years gone by, though this the twins did not know. They dipped soft, white bread in bowls of soup shining with fatty oils and snatched fistfuls of fresh vegetables. They had grown unaccustomed to the taste of seafood, but now they happily scarfed down baked fish, fried oysters, and strips of raw tuna on beds of greens, barely pausing to evaluate whether they liked one dish better than another.

“We were nearly short on supplies,” the deputy remarked to Gil-galad, who responded with faint surprise.

“A miscalculation,” he said. “I trust all else went well…?”

“Indeed, my lord. Easier than anyone expected, truthfully. No fight at all.”

“Are you Gil-galad?” Elrond demanded as soon as his plate was clean, his small shoulders hunched as he spoke. His mouth and chin shone with grease.

“Indeed I am,” replied the king. “Are you Elrond, or Elros?”

“Elrond,” they both replied.

“Then you must be Elros,” said Gil-galad to Elros, who glanced around as if it was possible there was someone else the king might take for Elros.

“What are you going to do with us?” Elrond asked. Gil-galad blinked a moment, but quickly selected his answer.

“Feed you, I think,” he said with a smile. “It seems there needs to be more of that!” The twins continued to stare soberly at him, and the smile disappeared from his face. “I mean to offer you my home,” he said, gesturing with a hand around him. “It seems to me more suited to childhood than Amon Ereb. You shall have teachers too, and there is someone in Balar who can teach you nearly anything you might like to know. And when you are grown, perhaps you will decide to stay.”

“Did you know our parents?” Elros asked after a long silence. Gil-glad again considered before answering.

“I did not,” he said. “I did not have occasion to visit the Havens at Sirion before…before its end.” The twins looked down at the table. “But there are some who did,” Gil-galad added, studying them. They looked up. “You may not have been aware—” He could see that they had not been, “—but there were survivors of that event.” Immediately the twins were sitting up ramrod straight, their eyes alight, and Gil-galad realized he had spoken carelessly. “I do not mean your mother and father,” he said gently, and their disappointment was visible. “But others. They have settled in a place called Greenwood forest, and they are led by a man called Oropher. Do you remember him?”

Elrond and Elros shook their heads.

“If you wish it, I will write to him,” said the king. “He may agree to come and visit, and you may ask him any questions you have about your parents or Sirion.” He could not tell that the boys had any reaction to this.

After food and introductions, the twins were given rooms, one for each of them. They chose between them one room, and fated the other to merely gather dust. They were bathed, and measured for new, properly-fitted clothes (although they were permitted to keep what they had brought), and directed to a few adults they might seek out if they had need, then they were left alone.

“Do you think we could ever find him again in here, if we wanted to?” Elros asked with idle curiosity as he lay stretched sideways over the soft bed. “There’s so many rooms.”

Elrond, seated at the window, arms wrapped around his knees, shrugged.

“There’s so many people,” he said with a faint shudder. Elros made an uneasy noise of agreement.

“There…used to be people,” he said uncertainly after a few moments. “In Sirion. I remember that. There were other children, do you remember? There were Men children. We used to play. We used to play a game with little round stones.”

“That was a long time ago,” said Elrond.

“Perhaps it will feel normal again,” Elros suggested. Elrond shrugged again. They went silent. Elros stared up at the ceiling, which had been painted to look like a summer sky, edged with rolling sea waves. Elrond watched the city beyond the window, and the horizon further out behind the shimmer of the mainland.

“What do you think they shall do now?” Elros asked at last, lowly, voicing the question neither of them had been able to ask while still amid company.

“I would not know,” said Elrond tightly. “Go away, hopefully.”

“There remains still one Silmaril, isn’t that right?” said Elros.

“I don’t care,” Elrond snapped. “They shall probably do something stupid trying to get that one back and get themselves killed in the effort.”

“Probably,” Elros agreed with a shrug. He stretched his arms out over his head. “At least we needn’t trouble ourselves with it anymore.”

“Indeed,” Elrond muttered, hugging his knees a bit tighter.

Gil-galad had expected to see the boys explore the castle, but they remained in the space that was given them until they were called for dinner.

IV.

Gil-galad had not intended for Celebrimbor to still be on the island when the twins arrived. In fact, he had done everything to conceal it from them. The jewel smith had been supposed to be gone more than a week ago, but a broken wagon axel and a squall had kept him around, and it was yet another thing for Gil-galad to wring his hands about. Nevertheless, in the interest of politeness, as Celebrimbor had come at his behest, Gil-galad paid him a last visit after the twins were settled in their beds.

“How are they?” Celebrimbor asked as soon as he had let Gil-galad into his room, twisting his thick-fingered hands together. Celebrimbor was not a small man, and it might have been comical to see him so physically express his anxieties, if Gil-galad didn’t know that he was genuine.

In response, Gil-galad sank into one of the chairs at the hearth and pressed a hand over his eyes. His head tipped back against the chair.

“I do not know how I shall manage this,” he said. He dragged his hand down his face. He rested an elbow against the arm of the chair and cradled his head. “I know not what I’m doing.”

“Surely…anything here is better than there, Your Grace,” Celebrimbor said, settling on the edge of the other seat. “Are they…are they hurt?”

“Physically?” said Gil-galad. “No, I don’t believe so. Can you tell me anything else?” Gil-galad asked, raising his head.

“Everything I can tell you, I have told,” answered Celebrimbor, shaking his head. “As I said, I never spent much time with Maedhros and Maglor. They did not much like children, especially Maglor, in Aman. They were adults; they had not time for me.” He pulled at one of his earrings. “But here in Middle-earth, I have seen…Maedhros brings out the worst in them. He is the most determined of all of them, perhaps even more than my father. He will not allow Maglor to wander off this path they are on.”

“Stars.” Gil-galad rubbed his eyes again.

Celebrimbor, a step away from actually wringing his hands, got up and went to the nearby table to pour two goblets of wine. More, Gil-galad suspected, to have something to do with his hands than any desire to drink. Gil-galad took the proffered goblet and set it down undrunk.

“Have you had any word from the survivors?” he asked. Celebrimbor gave a bleak laugh.

“Me, heard from the Iathrim?” he asked, bitter rue tinging his tone. “I would not reach out to them even if I knew how; they ought to have some peace. I have heard nothing of them since you left for Sirion, except that I understand they have moved into the Greenwood?” He sipped at his wine and his shaking hand dribbled it down his chin; hastily he swiped it away.

Gil-galad stared brooding into the fire, drumming his fingers slowly on the arm of the chair. Then, abruptly, he brought his fist down on the table between the seats.

“We should have been there sooner!” he raged. He squeezed his eyes shut. “We should have been there sooner. We could have had the twins then, and spared them the last six years.” His muscles were a knot at the corner of his jaw.

“You did what you could,” Celebrimbor said softly. “And believe me! You have done the right thing bringing them here. No child deserves to live in Amon Ereb as it is now. Not with them.” He shuddered.

Gil-galad said nothing, but lapsed into stillness, gazing into the flickering firelight. Celebrimbor shifted uneasily in his seat, debating, and then said:

“Will you be alright, having them here, when they have grown?” Gil-galad looked questioningly over at him. “I only mean…as direct descendants of Turgon and therefore of Fingolfin…do they not technically have a better claim to the crown of the Noldor than you, Your Grace?” Gil-galad exhaled and rubbed his eyes again.

“Yes, I suppose they do.”

“And…do you think they might…want it?”

“They are mortal,” Gil-galad emphasized.

“Yes, but…so was Dior.”

“We are not the Iathrim. What is your point, Celebrimbor?” Gil-galad snapped, his nerves worn thin.

“If they chose to challenge you for the crown, what would you do?”

“Give to them and wait,” said Gil-galad flatly. Celebrimbor was quiet, but evidently not satisfied with this answer, and Gil-galad went on: “We do not have time for these squabbles among Elfinesse. How can we think of coups and usurpations at a time like this?” His hand curled up on the arm of the chair, and then he drummed his fingers again, and then crossed and uncrossed his legs, finally sinking once more into stillness under the thrall of the fire. At length, he said, very quietly, almost as if he feared breathing a curse into the world: “We are losing this war.”

The fire popped and crackled in the hearth.

“I know,” Celebrimbor replied, equally soft.

“Círdan still has seen no sign of Elwing, nor of the return of Eärendil.” In response to Celebrimbor’s silence, he added: “If they cannot succeed at bringing help from Valinor, I think we are only waiting for the end.”

“They cannot,” said Celebrimbor gently, as one might speak to a dying pet. “They are mortal, Your Grace. That path is closed to them.”

“They must,” Gil-galad replied. “If they do not…if no aid comes to us…then this war is already lost. If there was a time when the free peoples of Middle-earth had the strength to unite and overthrow the Enemy, it is gone. Without the Calaquendi…without the Valar…I fear the continent will soon go dark. And soon.”

Celebrimbor said nothing.

Gil-galad sighed, and nodded to himself, and rose to his feet.

“Thank you for coming, Celebrimbor,” he said.

“Of course, Your Grace,” said Celebrimbor, rising with the king. “Anything I can tell you which may be of help I am glad to do.”

“I pray we may recover some of the damage,” said Gil-galad, shaking his head. “But only time will tell.”

The next day, Gil-galad’s men hustled Celebrimbor and his small retinue out of the city and no more was said of his visit. It was the last time Celebrimbor came to Balar.

The Iathrim survivors of the sack of Sirion had not been seen since. It was known their small band had traveled east, and settled in the Greenwood, but they had gone quiet after their relocation, and no one had sought them out. It seemed best to let them be; by the measure of Elves, it had been a mere blink of an eye since that terrible day, six years only.

But when Gil-galad wrote, the answer came promptly, and Oropher came forth from the wood.

He would not enter the city, but established a camp on the shore of the mainland, along with the retinue he had brought. In concession to his guest’s understandable wariness, Gil-galad did not summon him to the castle, but brought the twins out to Wood-elves’ camp to meet with Oropher there. The effect on the assembled when they entered the tent was immediate.

One man began weeping openly. Several others covered their mouths and looked away; some others appeared to visibly restrain themselves from more overt reactions. The twins walked forward, pressed together at the shoulder.

In the seat at the back of the tent was Oropher, newly-crowned king of the surviving Iathrim, though he did not title himself as such, preferring to attach his kingship to the Greenwood. He made no claim to be any heir to the kingdom of Elwing. He was perhaps slightly taller than average for the Sindar, with golden hair and blue eyes, and he bore no crown the children could see but a thin wreath of wood and leaf. He held himself placidly, but there was a shadow on his mien, something unspoken, but imminently present. Facing him, Elrond and Elros clasped hands.

“Elrond,” said the king of the Wood-elves. “Elros. My name is Oropher. I have come because Gil-galad—” He glanced past the boys to the king of the Noldor behind them, “—has said you wished to speak with me.”

“King Gil-galad says…” The boy trailed off.

“…you knew our parents,” the other finished for him.

Oropher tilted his head from side-to-side, saying neither yes nor no. It was a gesture that suddenly and aggressively reminded Gil-galad of the Sindar Wood-elves who had joined them in Nargothrond, but he had to push that memory aside.

“I served the house of the Greymantle,” he said. “But my personal acquaintance with Queen Elwing was little, and less still with Lord Eärendil.” The twins shuffled, and squeezed hands, and looked at the floor, then back at Oropher.

“Do you…”

“…know where they are?” the boys finished together, gray eyes turned hopefully on this new king, though the tension of their shoulders suggested they were braced for disappointment. The shadow on Oropher’s face deepened, and he cast his eyes askance, and shook his head at last.

“I do not,” he said softly.

Elros bit his lower lip, and Elrond swallowed hard.

“I cannot answer this question for you,” Oropher said, leaning forward. “But others, I may. And I shall. Anything of Sirion or Doriath is your right to know. I do not imagine your…previous guardians knew much of it.” The effort with which Oropher restrained himself from snarling was immense. He looked up at Gil-galad. “Perhaps we might speak privately.”

Gil-galad hesitated only a moment, before he determined no harm could come to them there, and nodded. He departed with his guard, and might have gone off to other kingly affairs, but he chose to wait until Elrond and Elros emerged with Oropher from the tent. They filed obediently back to Gil-galad’s side, like a dog returning to its master.

“I will leave some individuals here, though we cannot spare more than one or two,” said Oropher, “that they may act as tutors, to teach you things the residents of Balar are not likely to know.”

“Yes, that would be ideal,” said Gil-galad, choosing not to take offense that Oropher did not ask the king’s permission to add to his staff. It would be good for the boys to have teachers that knew the Iathrim traditions and history; certainly Gil-galad knew little enough of it, and he imagined Maedhros and Maglor had known less still. Gil-galad at the least had had a Sindarin mother (though she had been of the Falas, and not the woods). “We would be most grateful.” Oropher nodded.

Gil-galad never knew what Oropher said to the twins in the tent, but they were quiet the rest of the day, speaking only between themselves, and quickly hushing up the moment someone else appeared within earshot. If their hearing was weaker than Elves, they must have learned already the approximate distance at which an Elf could hear them whispering.

At dinner, they were still silent, until one of them—Oropher believed it was Elros, though he could not say why—announced: “We wish to go with Oropher.”

“We were told we might leave,” Elrond added, his small body tensed as if for a blow.

“We were told you take no prisoners,” said Elros.

Gil-galad, taken aback, stared for a moment, and then said, slowly: “If you wish to depart with Oropher, and he would welcome you, you are of course, free to go. It is not my intention to keep you here against your will.”

“He said we were welcome to accompany him—”

“—if we wished it.”

“Very well,” said Gil-galad. “We will prepare supplies for you to take with you.” The twins exchanged a look, then stared back at Gil-galad, but when he said nothing else, they spoke again.

“You really mean—”

“—to let us go?”

“Just like that?” They finished together.

“As you heard,” said Gil-galad, slicing a bit of pork loin, “I do not keep prisoners, and certainly not children. It was my desire to ransom you away from the sons of Fëanor for your own sake, not that I might keep you in their stead. I spoke truthfully when I said you are welcome to stay in my home, but you are welcome also to leave, if that suits you better. I trust Oropher and his people will take great care in looking after you.”

“Oh.” Some fight seemed to ease out of them, and they began to share more frequent looks, and jab at each other under the table, though they remained quiet, and quickly stilled if Gil-galad looked directly at them.

After dinner, he sent a runner out to the camp of the Wood-elves. Not that he did not trust the twins’ report—but it would not hurt to verify with his fellow monarch that this was agreed upon, before he simply sent two children off with them.

#elrond #elros #gil-galad #the silmarillion #tolkien tag #fanfiction #tolkien fanfiction #rocky writes #the silmarillion kink meme

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polutrope · 10 months ago

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why do you prefer that maglor only (as opposed to maglor and maedhros) acts as a parent/guardian for elrond and elros? saw you mentioned it in one of the ask games and i was curious!!

(In reference to this.)

Thanks for the curiosity, Anon, I'm happy to expound.

I used to have a very pedantic answer to this, which was: "Because it's not canon." Strictly speaking, nothing is said in the published Silmarillion about Maedhros being involved in the twins' fostering.

For Maglor took pity upon Elros and Elrond, and he cherished them, and love grew after between them, as little might be thought; but Maglor’s heart was sick and weary with the burden of the dreadful oath.

Okay, but so what? I asked myself, in one of my more reasonable moments. It doesn't say Maedhros wasn't. In fact, in the earliest drafts of the Silm, it is Maedhros who takes pity on and fosters them. And regardless, he was probably around, right? So what's the big deal? Let him be involved, who cares!

But still it bothered me, so I asked again: Why? And I'll tell you why. Because it's something that makes Maglor special. There is so little Maglor does alone in the Silmarillion: he kills Uldor, he fosters Elrond and Elros, he questions the Oath, and he casts away a Silmaril. The last three in particular are to me his defining moments as a character. They are the reasons 13 year old me latched onto him and did not let go.

I don't want him to share any of that with Maedhros. Maedhros gets enough to make him special. So I feel very protective of Maglor's role as Elrond and Elros' captor-fosterparent.

Now, my point here is not to argue that my preference is the right one, but I can't resist making a little pitch for my case: I think if Tolkien meant for Maedhros to be involved he would have said so. He would have said "Maedhros and Maglor" like he does in a dozen other places. But he doesn't, because the whole Fostering - Questioning - Casting is a linked set of actions belonging to one character. Some drafts it's Maedhros, some it's Maglor, but it's always only one of them. It's what sets him apart, and sets him up as different.

For me, the idea of Maedhros being equal to or even supplanting Maglor as that complicated parental figure washes him out and diminishes the importance of a major element of what makes Maglor unique and compelling. To me.

Not to get emotional about it. I mean, they're just characters. Obviously.

Um. Anyway. If anyone's interested in how I've dabbled in kidnap fam dynamics given this sentiment, I have a few fics.

And Love Grew (T), canon-compliant WiP about the aftermath of the sack of Sirion

Ungoliant's Bane (G), contrasting Earendil and Maglor through storytelling

Scorched (E, Elrond/Maedhros), a psychosexual unfamily drama from four povs

#asks #anon #maedhros #maglor #kidnap fam

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aipilosse · 1 year ago

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Why Pengolodh of all people is able to stoke such rage within me on his behalf is so bizarre. Like, he's a non-character, a name and some facts Tolkien came up with in his carousel of in-universe authors to keep the layers of narration he loved, but the way he is maligned in this fandom is tragic.

I've touched on before that treating the Silmarillion as if it were written and relayed by a single author is entirely incorrect so I won't go into that here, and honestly I'm sure I've said this all before BUT

The idea that Penny is for some reason *least* suited to write most of the events of the Silmarillion is PATENTLY ridiculous, and I would challenge anyone who says that to a duel, either intellectual or physical (even in my current weakened state... Tulkas is on my side I cannot fail). First of all, the one place where nobody else knows anything about what happened is GONDOLIN, so I think if anyone is going to be writing about most of the events of the Silm, they either need to be from Gondolin or need to live in Sirion with survivors.

OH WHAT'S THAT.... SIRION?!?

Yeah, Sirion! The place where not only are there survivors of Gondolin, but there are survivors of Doriath and Nargothrond AND any remnants of the Beorians, Hadorian, and Haladin. Like, I can think of no other place where the Mannish legends would be able to be recounted, and put on the same level, as the Elvish ones.

"But the Feanorians," you squall. "He's so *unfair* to them, and how could he know ANYTHING about them? That's why we know sooo little about the Feanorians and why they are soooo unjustly maligned."

Ok, first of all, ya basic. Second of all, HE HAS ACCESS TO FEANORIAN SOURCES TOO.

There is Celebrimbor, and all the other former followers of Curufin and Celegorm that could of course tell Penny what was up in Himlad and afterwards while he was in Gondolin. Also, there were probably Feanorians who lived after turning on Maedhros and Maglor during the sack of the Havens who could fill in what happened after The Luthien Incident. So, actually, Pengolodh had multiple sources to literally all of the essential events of the Silmarillion.

OH YEAH THE SACK OF THE HAVENS. Despite living through what is described as the worst atrocity of elf v elf, despite having people we KNOW were friends with him KILLED during that fight, despite having his home destroyed by fellow Noldor, he *really* gives Maglor and Maedhros every excuse. "they felt bad, they're so tired, love grew between them and their victims" etc etc. The Silm is sympathetic to the Feanorians and you can't convince me otherwise (you're not some crazy rebel because you like them!) (They are also Doomed by the narrative, but attributing that to an in-universe author requires getting into the territory of events that occurred not actually occurring and... what's the point if you're going to say that the things that the book is about didn't happen? why are you even here?)

I see people say that the bias is against the 3 Cs, Caranthir especially, which is an ABSURD statement to make in conjunction with the 'Pengolodh, sole conveyer of the Silm' theory. Like, Pengolodh most likely never met any of the 3 Cs or if he did he was very young -- why would he dislike them more than the brothers that massacred his friends? I think the theory here is that he's just such a huge Turgon fan and just absorbed Turgon's opinions on the 3 Cs, which is just conjecture on top of conjecture with no solid footing.

I think there is more credence to him being biased against Maeglin on account of the Fall of Gondolin. But, I ask you, is it really *bias* when the guy is partially responsible for the sack of the city you spent most of your life in and likely the deaths of most of your friends and relatives? And Maeglin too in the published Silm is not without his good qualities! If you hate someone, it can be very hard to admit they're handsome and smart, but Penny does not have that issue.

Anyway, justice for Pengolodh. You didn't write the whole thing, Penny, but what you did write was I'm sure fucking fantastic.

#Pengolodh #justice for pengolodh #pengolodh nation rise up

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nyxshadowhawk · 17 days ago

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I Read The Silmarillion So You Don't Have To, Part Ten

Previous part.

Chapter 21: Of Túrin Turambar, Part 2 In which our angsty tragic hero tries to outrun his curse, kills people he shouldn’t, sleeps with people he shouldn’t, and fights a dragon.

Picking up right where we left off…

It’s been four hundred and ninety-five years since the first rising of the Sun over Middle-earth. Two Elves arrive at Nargothrond from the south, Arminas and Gwindor’s brother Gelmir. (Gelmir, as in Volcano Manor? I see you, George R.R. Martin and FromSoft, with your giant glowing tree, and your “Numen,” and “Morgott,” and your volcano named after a completely random Tolkien character!) These two Elves have been living with Círdan, and they bring news of a prophecy from Ulmo, the Vala of Water himself!

Here’s the message: Because Morgoth controls the River Sirion, Ulmo is losing his power in the north of Beleriand. He foretells that doom is coming to Nargothrond. His advice is that the Nargothrond Elves swallow their pride, lock the doors, and hunker down.

King Orodreth listens to the warning, but Túrin is too proud and too stubborn to heed the words of a literal god. He’s used to getting his way, and isn’t about to hide away in a hole again just because two randos claim to speak for a Vala. He stays out in the open, and doesn’t bother to destroy the great bridge he built across the river that leads straight to Nargothrond’s gate. That’s basically rolling out the welcome mat for Morgoth. Meanwhile, Morgoth creeps southwards, defiling the magic spring of Ivrin and heading straight for Nargothrond.

When Morgoth’s army arrives, the Elves ride into battle, with Túrin beside the king. Morgoth brought a trump card, Glaurung the Dragon — the Elves don’t stand a chance. Orodreth dies, and Gwindor is mortally wounded. Túrin rushes to carry him to a safer place.

As he dies, Gwindor tells Túrin that he both loves and hates him, and that he regrets the day he rescued him from the Orcs. Who can blame him? Túrin basically ruined his life. It’s entirely Túrin’s fault that Nargothrond is doomed. Gwindor’s final wish is that Túrin protect Finduilas.

Yes, a powerful and ancient Elven kingdom fell because of the stubbornness of one Man who isn’t even from there. Is anyone surprised?

Túrin Turambar and the Fall of Nargothrond by breath-art

Túrin rushes off to find that the city is being pillaged and destroyed by Morgoth’s forces. He tries to find Finduilas, but runs straight into Glaurung. Unexpectedly, the dragon speaks, greeting Túrin. Glaurung mocks him for all the bad things that he’s caused, directly or indirectly: “Thankless fostering, outlaw, slayer of thy friend, thief of love, usurper of Nargothrond, captain foolhardy, and deserter of thy kin.” (Can’t you just hear that in Benedict Cumberbatch’s voice?) As a final twist of the knife, Glaurung brings up Túrin’s mother and sister, who are poor and miserable, dressed in rags while Túrin lives like a prince. (This is a complete lie; they’re in Doriath, and they’re fine, but Túrin has no way to know that.)

Petrified by the dragon’s gaze, Túrin is horrified by his own behavior (which isn’t the worst thing? My dude needs some self-awareness). While he’s literally frozen in a mental health spiral, the Orcs finish sacking Nargothrond. They drag Finduilas away with them. Glaurung twists the knife again, pointing out how useless Túrin is to either his family or Finduilas.

The Sack of Nargothrond by Donato Arts

Túrin can finally move, and lashes at Glaurung’s eye, but misses. Glaurung spares him, letting him live with his guilt, but leaves him with the sadistic Gwen Stacy choice: He can either save Finduilas, or his family, but not both. Túrin immediately runs off to save one of them. Glaurung crawls inside what’s left of Nargothrond, makes a pile of all its treasure, and lies down on it as his dragon hoard.

Following the sack of Nargothrond is a winter so bad, it’s known as the Fell Winter. Túrin goes to his birthplace of Dor-lómin to rescue his mother and sister, only to find an empty, ruined house. He asks around to find out where they’ve gone (and by “asks around,” I mean “threatens people at swordpoint”). Once he learns the truth, he starts killing people out of sheer rage.

The only silver lining is that it was his own actions as “The Black Sword of Nargothrond” that gave his mother and sister a window to escape. That means he actually did something good for someone! By accident! Túrin decides it’s best not to follow them to Doriath. He muses that he destroys everything he touches, and he doesn’t want to subject them to that. After what happened in Nargothrond, he doesn’t want to risk the same thing happening to Doriath, for everyone’s sake.

So, Túrin goes off after Finduilas, but it’s already too late for her. He hears from one of the Men of the Forest of Brethil that the Orcs killed Finduilas by pinning her to a tree with a spear. Her last words were to ask the Men to tell “the Black Sword” where she died. The Men lead Túrin to where they buried her. Distraught, Túrin throws himself on the mound. Realizing who he is, the Men of Brethil pity him, and take him in until spring. Túrin renames himself Turambar, “Master of Doom,” thinking that he finally outran his curse. That’s very hubristic, but of all Túrin’s many epithets, this is the one that stuck.

The last refugees from Nargothrond find their way to Doriath. They reveal who Mormegil the Black Sword was, and assume that he’s either dead, or still frozen in place by the dragon. Morwen rides out into the wilderness alone, desperate to find out what actually happened to her son. Thingol sends his captain Mablung after her to guard her, and her daughter Nienor sneaks out after them. (The narration pauses to inform us that this is a choice point, and if Nienor hadn’t left, a lot of suffering could have been avoided.)

Morwen and co. make their way to Nargothrond, but Glaurung is still there, and eager for some more destruction. Some of Thingol’s Elves are killed, and Morwen goes missing. Mablung boldly sneaks inside the ruins of Nargothrond while the dragon is absent. Nienor gets caught in the dragon’s gaze, and he makes her forget who she is and why she’s there. When Mablung finds her, she can’t see, hear, or speak. Mablung tries to bring her back to Doriath, but they don’t get far before she runs off into the wilderness in terror.

Nienor makes her way to the Forest of Brethil, living like an animal in the wilderness. One night, during a storm, she throws herself on Finduilas’ mound. The Men of Brethil and Túrin find her there, and nurse her back to health. Because she doesn’t know her name, Túrin calls her Níniel, “Tear-maiden.” In the next couple months, Nienor learns to live and speak like a person again, but she still doesn’t remember anything from her former life.

You can probably tell where this is going, can’t you? Nienor has amnesia and can’t recognize her brother, and Túrin has never seen his sister before. They slowly fall in love, and get married in the summer. Túrin thinks that he might finally have some happiness! You’re just braced for the impending trainwreck.

In the intervening years, Glaurung hears that the Black Sword is alive, and goes to Brethil to kill him just for shits and giggles. Túrin goes to fight him, saying a tearful goodbye to his wife. Nienor makes the same mistake she made last time, and goes after him.

Túrin comes up with a strategy to sneak up under Glaurung from a narrow gorge, catching him by surprise. He successfully makes it across the gorge, and stabs Glaurung in the belly with the meteorite sword. Glaurung screams and writhes, throwing the enormous bulk of his body across the gorge, breathing fire as he dies. All the forest around the gorge is burned to a crisp, but Glaurung the Dragon is finally dead…!

The End of Glaurung by Coliandre

Túrin crosses the gorge again to recover his sword, and mocks Glaurung in an ironic echo of the dragon’s words to him in Nargothrond. As he wrenches the black sword out of Glaurung’s body, a spurt of black blood covers his hand, burning it with venom. Then Glaurung’s eyes open — he’s not dead yet! He smashes Túrin, and Túrin passes out from a combination of the blow and the venom.

The Men see the burning forest, and assume that Glaurung must have won the fight. They turn to flee, except for Nienor, who insists on seeing her husband again.

She finds Túrin lying, seemingly dead, beside the dragon, and cries over his body. Glaurung, who still isn’t dead, puts two and two together and laughs in Nienor’s face. He reveals her true identity as a daughter of Húrin, and that her husband is actually her brother. He also lists off all of Túrin’s other crimes for good measure. Then he dies. Finally.

The Death of Glaurung by Elena Kukanova

When Glaurung dies, his evil spell breaks, and Nienor finally remembers everything. Horrified, she says her farewell to Túrin, and throws herself over the gorge. That spot becomes known as Cabed Naeramarth, the Point of Dreadful Doom — no plants grow on it, and all people and animals avoid it.

The leader of the Men of Brethil, Brandir, returns to his people, and fills them in on what happened with the requisite tragic Messenger Speech: Glaurung is dead, Túrin is dead, Níniel is dead, and also Túrin and Níniel were siblings the whole time. As the people mourn, Túrin himself shows up — he wasn’t actually dead, just in a faint. Brandir tells him the terrible news, and Túrin blames Brandir for Nienor’s death, assuming that “you’re actually siblings” is just another one of Glaurung’s lies. Túrin does his usual thing and kills Brandir in a fit of rage.

Túrin escapes into the woods, finding Finduilas’ grave. He prays to her for advice about what to do next. Clearly, he couldn’t outrun his fate. His only options are to go to Doriath and risk more destruction and sorrow, or to go die in battle. As he cries there on the grave, Mablung just happens to show up. Túrin tells Mablung that he killed Glaurung, and Mablung is very impressed that Túrin could kill Glaurung when generations of Elves failed.

Túrin asks after his family, and Mablung tells him the bad news — Morwen is missing, Nienor is a delirious amnesiac, and neither of them have been heard from in years. That’s when Túrin realizes that his wife really was his sister. On top of that, he just murdered a man in cold blood for telling the truth! In fact, he just murdered the leader of a tribe that was kind enough to take him in! Túrin laughs like a madman, curses Mablung, curses Doriath, curses everything, and runs away into the night (again).

He goes to the gorge where his sister died, and takes out Gurthang, the black meteorite sword. He asks the blade if it will kill him, and the sword speaks with a cold voice: “Yea, I will drink thy blood gladly, so that I may forget the blood of Beleg my master, and the blood of Brandir slain unjustly. I will slay thee swiftly.” Ahhhh, that’s so creepy! The black sword was sentient the whole time!

Túrin stabs himself with the blade, and dies at the same point where his sister did. Mablung and his Elves find Túrin’s body, and Mablung blames himself for Túrin’s death, because he told Túrin the truth about his sister. Mablung, the Elves, and the Men of Brethil bury Túrin on that point, alongside the shards of the black sword, which snapped in half. They mark his tombstone with both his name and Nienor’s.

The Death of Túrin by _yidany_

Wow, what a classic tragedy! You know, some people hold up A Song of Ice and Fire as the anti-LotR — Game of Thrones is high fantasy story that’s dark and gritty and more cynical than idealistic, with realistic effects of war, a massive amount of character death, and lots of gore and incest. What those people don’t realize is that Tolkien already wrote that story, and here it is! You think Tolkien is an idealistic kindly grandpa who only writes about cute hobbits, pretty elves, and dark lords getting defeated? Try this on for size!

Honestly, it shouldn’t be surprising to anyone who knows anything about Tolkien’s source material. This is what mythology is like. I applaud Tolkien for his authenticity. He combined parts of the Volsung Saga, parts of Oedipus Tyrannus, and maybe a bit of Beowulf with his own lore to create a brutal uber-tragedy. And, bonus, he also gave us our requisite angsty pathetic man as a protagonist.

Túrin by Līga Kļaviņa ***

Chapter 22: Of the Ruin of Doriath In which Húrin is finally released, and Thingol makes the most colossally stupid decision of his career.

Well, we all knew that Doriath was too good to last. Looks like its time is up.

But first, we need to know what happened to Húrin. Húrin is Túrin’s father, and he’s been imprisoned on a mountaintop this whole time, tied to a chair and forced to watch the tragedy of his son’s life. Morgoth finally lets him go. Morgoth claims that he’s acting out of pity, but that’s obviously a lie — he knows that if he lets Húrin go, it’ll start a domino effect of bad stuff that will make everyone’s lives worse.

Húrin tries to go home to Hithlum, but he’s unrecognizable after almost thirty years in Angband. His own people think he’s one of Morgoth’s goons, and shun him. Feeling resentful, and having nowhere else to go, Húrin tries to find Gondolin again. All he finds is a forbidding wall of sheer rock. The eagles notice him, though, and Thorondor, the king of the eagles himself, goes straight to King Turgon to tell him that Húrin is at his door. Turgon doesn’t believe this, assuming that Morgoth is up to his old tricks again. Thorondor snaps back with, ‘if the divine eagles made mistakes, Gondolin wouldn’t have lasted this long.’ After thinking about it for a bit, Turgon agrees to let Húrin in. But when the eagles go to look for him, he’s already gone. That’s what Turgon gets for taking his sweet time.

As the sun sets, Húrin screams in despair in the direction of Gondolin, imploring Turgon to remember their friendship. But Morgoth’s spies have been on him since he left. Now Morgoth knows where Gondolin is! He still can’t do anything because of the eagles’ protection, but the clock is ticking.

Húrin dreams of his wife Morwen. In his dream, she’s crying somewhere in the Forest of Brethil. So, he heads in that direction. The men of Brethil think he’s the ghost of a warrior, that’s how terrible he looks. He finds Túrin and Nienor’s gravestone, but doesn’t look at it; he already knows what it is, from having seen the whole story play out with Morgoth’s supernatural vision. In front of the stone, an old woman with tattered clothes is mourning. She looks up into Húrin’s eyes, and he recognizes her as his wife, Morwen. They reunite briefly, and sit together in silence in front of their children’s grave. When the sun sets, Morwen dies.

Húrin and Morwen at the grave of their children by steamey

Húrin sits there, numb, until his grief is replaced by anger and a desire for vengeance. Because if you’re a man whose wife and kids are dead, what else is there to do besides revenge? He adds Morwen’s name to the tombstone, then goes on his way.

As for the tombstone, according to a bard, nothing will ever topple it. Not even Morgoth. Not even when Beleriand sinks into the sea, and nothing else is left of it (which the narration reminds us will happen in the near future). The stone still rises up out of the sea, far off the coast of Middle-earth.

Húrin goes to see what’s left of Nargothrond, and finds Mîm, that dwarf whom Túrin had lived with for a time after killing his son. Mîm moved in after Glaurung left, and took all the treasure for himself. None of the Elves challenged him, because they’re all afraid that the dragon is still there. Mîm believes he has a rightful claim to Nargothrond, because the Petty-Dwarves lived in those caves first. He’s got a point there, but Húrin still declares that he will take back the caves, as payback for Mîm having betrayed Túrin that one time. Mîm begs for his life, but Húrin ruthlessly kills him.

Húrin lives in the ruined cave palace for some time, but it’s pretty dismal. When he leaves, he only takes one piece of treasure with him: the Nauglamir.

Remember the Nauglamír? You probably don’t, so here’s a refresher: It’s a necklace that the Dwarves made for Finrod, as a thank-you for giving them treasure from Valinor. The Nauglamír is as light as spider silk, and it’s set with the Valinor gems. I’m almost certain that Tolkien based it on the Brisingamen, a necklace belonging to the goddess Freya. There is a myth in which Loki steals it, and Heimdall fights him over the necklace (according to Snorri, they were in the shape of seals), but most of that story is lost. Despite the lack of surviving information about it, we know that the Brisingamen was a common folkloric trope in Germanic mythology, because it’s referenced briefly in Beowulf and a few other sources.

Húrin travels east towards Doriath, and is captured by Elven scouts. They bring him to King Thingol. Húrin resents Thingol and Melian for having failed to protect his wife and kids. He blames them for everything bad that happened, instead of blaming Morgoth, who literally cursed his family to his face! This is because Morgoth made sure to paint Thingol and Melian in an especially unflattering light. Thingol and Melian are some of the only people in Middle-earth who stand a genuine chance against Morgoth, so from Morgoth’s perspective, the sooner they’re out of the picture, the better.

Húrin throws the Nauglamír at Thingol’s feet, declaring it his payment for having done such a great job at keeping Túrin, Morwen, and Nienor safe. Thingol feels genuinely bad for Húrin, and doesn’t say anything. After Húrin vents a little, Melian speaks up to say that Húrin’s perspective has been skewed by Morgoth. Seeing through Morgoth’s eyes is always going to twist the truth a little. She and Thingol loved Túrin, and Morwen and Nienor. It wasn’t their fault that Húrin’s family all left Doriath and went to their respective dooms.

The magic of Melian’s wall helps protect Doriath from Morgoth’s magic, so Húrin finally sees that she’s telling the truth. Ashamed, he picks up the necklace and gives it to Thingol as a sincere gift.

Then he leaves. No one knows where he goes, but it’s assumed that he throws himself into the sea in shame and despair. He did Morgoth’s bidding, without even knowing it. It’s a pathetic end for the greatest warrior of all Men.

After Húrin leaves, Thingol stares at the necklace for a long time. Then he has the bright idea to have it reforged, and to set the Silmaril in the middle. If sending Beren to get a Silmaril in the first place was a dumb idea, this is the dumbest possible idea. Remember, just having a Silmaril puts a target on Thingol’s back, because the sons of Fëanor are all magically bound to repossess it. But setting it into a Dwarven artefact is going to piss the Dwarves off, too!

Thingol almost can’t be blamed. The Silmaril is like the Ring in that it exerts an influence over the mind of whoever possesses it. Thingol no longer wants to keep it confined to his treasury, he wants to wear it and show it off, like Fëanor once did.

Elwe Singollo and the Nauglamír by K.Mendou

He summons the Dwarven blacksmiths who work in his court, and tells them that he wants to set the Silmaril in the necklace. The Dwarves are immediately struck with the same desire to have the Silmaril for themselves, but they put it out of their minds and do the job. It’s a long and difficult process, and Thingol personally goes down to the forge to look over their shoulders as they’re working. When the necklace is finished, the Dwarves present it to Thingol.

As Thingol goes to take it and put it around his neck, the Dwarves suddenly take it back from him. They demand to know why Thingol thinks he has a right to it, since it was made by Dwarves. The only Elf who had a right to it was Finrod Felegund, who’s dead. Húrin stole it from Nargothrond, so, Thingol doesn’t have true ownership of it.

Thingol sees that what they really want is the Silmaril. Without thinking, he insults them (paraphrased): “How dare you of the uncouth race demand anything of me, Elu Thingol, Lord of Beleriand! I’ve been here since the dawn of creation, long before the stunted people!” (Note that he proclaims himself the lord of not just Doriath, but all of Beleriand.)

You can imagine how well the Dwarves take that. They straight-up murder him, on the spot! And that’s how Elwë Graymantle, king of the oldest Elven kingdom of Middle-earth, the only person to have married one of the Ainur, and the only Sinda to have seen the Two Trees of Valinor, dies. Racism and sheer hubris.

Nauglamír by breath-art

As the Dwarves escape with the Nauglamír, Thingol’s warriors chase after them. They get almost as far as the river at the edge of Doriath when the Elves kill all but two of them. The remaining two Dwarves make it all the way to their home in the Blue Mountains, and tell the Dwarves there what happened. Or rather, they lie about what happened. They say that Thingol ordered their comrades killed for no reason, and that he cheated them out of their rightful reward. The Dwarves mourn for their lost craftsmen, and plan to wage war on Doriath.

The Elves bring the Nauglamír back to Queen Melian, who grieves for her husband. I can only imagine how sad and frustrated she must be. She warned Thingol this would happen, but couldn’t do anything until it was already too late. She sits beside Thingol’s body and cries, thinking about their first meeting in the forest under the stars. In her grief, the magic wall that she maintained for centuries dissolves. Melian tells Mablung to tell the resurrected Beren and Lúthien about the Silmaril. Then she disappears out of Middle-earth. In her true divine form, she returns to the garden of Lórien in Valinor, where she can cry in the company of other spirits. And that’s it, that’s the end of her story.

Without the magic wall, there’s nothing protecting Doriath from the Dwarves. They march straight into the Thousand Caves and slaughter as many Elves as they can find. Mablung dies in the battle. The Dwarves ransack the place, and steal the Silmaril.

Now you know why Elves and Dwarves hate each other!

I didn’t expect Beren and Lúthien to be part of this story again, but here they are. They hear about the terrible battle, and Beren leaves with his son Dior and a bunch of eastern forest Elves to ambush the Dwarves. When the Dwarf army comes back east, Beren and co. rain arrows down on them. Then ents, of all things, show up and drive the remaining Dwarves away.

Beren steals back the necklace from the Dwarf lord, and kills him. The Dwarf lord curses all the treasure as he dies. Beren just stares at the Silmaril, the jewel of Fëanor that he himself had stolen from Morgoth. He washes the blood off of it in the river, and the rest of the (now cursed) treasure is thrown in the water. Beren gives the Nauglamír to Lúthien, making her the most beautiful thing this side of Valinor. And that’s not subjective: Lúthien wearing the Silmaril produces such good magic that, for a while, Ossiriand becomes almost like another Valinor.

Dior, the half-human, half-elf son of Beren and Lúthien, is Thingol’s grandson and the rightful heir to the kingdom of Doriath. So, he leaves his parents to take his grandfather’s throne in Menegroth. The Sindar don’t have any problem being ruled by a half-elf. They’re just happy to have gotten a new king so fast, and to finally have something to celebrate.

One night, an Elf from Ossiriand knocks on the door of Menegroth, and gives Dior a chest with the Nauglamír in it. When Dior sees it, he knows that his parents have finally died naturally. He stares at the Silmaril and thinks about how his parents retrieved it from Morgoth. It’s said that they died so soon because the light of the Silmaril around Lúthien’s neck wasn’t meant for mortal eyes, but Dior clasps the necklace around his own neck. At that point, he’s the most beautiful person in the whole world, because he’s descended from Elves and Men and Maiar.

Dior Eluchîl by @vinyatar

But wait! Remember the baggage that comes attached to the Silmaril wherever it goes? That’s right — the sons of Fëanor! Lúthien was so magical that no one dared to attack her, but Dior has no such luck. Once the sons of Fëanor hear that he’s wearing a Silmaril, they come after him. Dior could have just given the Fëanorians the Silmaril, and avoided a violent conflict, but of course it doesn’t work like that. The seven brothers sneak into Doriath in the middle of winter, and attack. What follows is called the “Second Kinslaying,” because it’s only the second time the Elves have fought each other.

Celegorm, Curufin, and Caranthir all die, reducing the sons of Fëanor down to four. Dior and his wife Nimloth also die. Celegorm’s servants kidnap their two sons and leave them to freeze to death in the forest, which is especially cruel. That was a step too far for Maedhros, who looks for the boys in the woods for as long as he could, but he doesn’t find them. No one knows what happened to them.

The Second Kinslaying by Jenny Dolfen

And that’s the end of Doriath. Thingol’s kingdom lasted a good long time. Now Gondolin is the only safe place left…

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