#Silmarillion Fanfic

[eilinelsghost]

Gwindor and green things even among the pits and rocks? 💛

Thank you so much for the prompt! SO sorry this took [checks calendar] five months to answer, but it has been incredibly helpful having these prompts in my pocket for when the writer's block is needing a disruption!

Here's a double-drabble of dear, long-suffering Gwindor:

Seven there were, each stalk a prayer lifting up from the slag. And on each stalk, a spray of leaves fanning out like feathers and stretching their fingers toward a wind that would not lift them. 

Gwindor fell motionless upon the slag where the foreman ordered them and let his eyes flutter shut—nay nearly shut, slits lingered just beneath the lashes and his gaze was fixed on these hallowed tendrils, green things even among the pits and rocks. 

Once before he had seen a brush of lichen, clinging against reason to the arch above the west mine’s entrance, and in his surprise he had exclaimed aloud. But the line guards had followed his eyes at once, and the nearest laughed and spat upon the stone and scraped their blades along the surface, shearing away the growth and trampling it into the ash. 

So he lay now as one in the trance-slumber of the spent—cheek pressed to the slag, breath shallow and even, eyes veiled as he peered between the shattered boulders and clung with all his soul to the solace of Yavanna’s whisper. Seven stalks in the darkness, each stalk a prayer his lips would no longer utter.

[curiouselleth]

I'm thrilled to to share my @tolkienrsb collaboration with @naryaflame! Narya's fic features "elven social history, in-world meta, and an OC scholar learning more than he bargained for!" It is absolutely AMAZING, check it out!

A chance encounter in the library leads a young scholar to friends and discoveries he didn't expect.

Rating: Teen and up audiences

Warnings: No archive warnings apply

Relationships: Minor or background relationships

Characters: Original character(s), Caranthir, Finrod

Word count: 6,054

Read it here on Ao3!

And you can find the full artwork, "Untitled Map of Beleriand" here!

[whorefindel]

sing for me (drabble)

summary:

Maglor gives comfort. He does not receive any in return.

rating: teen and up

relationships: maedhros & maglor, celegorm & maglor

characters: maedhros, maglor, celegorm

tags: sibling abuse, implied/mentioned physical abuse, angst, hurt no comfort, lake mithrim, ambiguous relationships, maedhros needs a hug, maglor needs a hug, guilt, self-hatred, drabble

word count: 828

chapters: 1

series: maemags drabbles

[hongchenzhu]

I have a question... how do yalls name your fic, cause I don't have that much creativity to name fics that I write. But the one I'm currently writing needs a name?

[anerea-lantiria]

"We are the sum of the parts of the world"

The Edain creation myth in Atanatárissë by @eilinelsghost is so inspiring! Here's my rendering of the page she describes from Beor's book of lore, an heirloom handed down through the generations from second child to second child. Do yourself a favour and treat yourself to this fic!

In the beginning of time there was the Dark. Within the Dark dwelt Melishk, the goddess of earth. And within the Dark dwelt Guënid, the god of water. Long they danced in the time ere forms were bound, long they wound together in the shapeless mingling. Each pressed into each, seeking ever to lessen the substance wherein they lay separate from the other, until from their union was wrought clay, there amid the timeless spheres.

Thence from the clay of their unity were wrought six forms, limbed and visaged in the fashion of Men. Then Melishk said to Guënid, “Now let us call forth our sisters to aid us, now let us summon hence our brothers for succor. Let us make within the dark a habitation, that these figures we have shaped may be filled with our breath and live, that within them we might dwell forever as one. From earth and from water have they been ordered, from earth and from water have they been formed, and within them shall earth and water walk ever in the bond of unity.” Then Melishk set forth hills rising up from the soil, upon its face she smoothed valleys and fields. And Guënid swiftly did follow her there: to the heights where he rushed down in torrents; to the valleys in sluggish, wide calm; to the fields where his tendrils spread through her loam.

At that time Fon rose up from his slumber and fire came forth within the world. He passed over hill and field and vale, till he stood beside the gods of water and earth and looked on the work of their mingling. Heat he gave unto the six waiting figures before him and receiving such, their clay limbs eased into flesh. Then Luftu soared through the timeless spheres and with the wind of her presence she laid breath within them. Iuthap awakened too at the call of her sister and illuminated the bare world about them. She set her lips to the face of each figure and sight came into their eyes. Then she leapt laughing into the firmament to take up once more the gods’ dance in the sky. At the last, Satheweis arose from the silence and his singing followed Iuthap’s dance through the air. He brushed his lips across each waiting mouth and at once speech came forth from their tongues. Thus were our people born from the Darkness, our tale called up from the Silence. Remember its measure and call out its rhythm: We are the sum of the parts of the world. We are the meeting of earth and of water. We are the fire and light. Ours, the song of the Dark.

[southfarthing]

Maedhros tries.

The guilt, the overwhelming debt of it all, weighs down on him as he turns from Fingon to his uncle, Fingolfin. It pushes him to his knees as he pleads for forgiveness despite the whispers behind him. But he lifts his chin and looks Fingolfin in the eye, and this time it is Maedhros’s turn to word his oaths.

‘Do you think you will ever regret it?’ Fingon asks later.

They are at the edge of the hall at Mithrim, sat by the gasping remains of the fire. Maedhros runs his fingers along his wounded arm, stopping abruptly short of the cloth where his hand should be.

The pain is sharp, but worse is the loss itself.

‘Will you regret saving my life?’ he asks quietly.

The crown he had never touched. His sword-hand, though, was his pride. His shame.

‘Of course not.’

At the other end of the hall, through the low light, he sees the grave faces of brothers who believed him dead: who left him for dead and now, only days after seeing him alive once more, scorn him for the title he has left untouched.

It was Fingon who found him. Fingon who saved him, despite the burning of boats and bonds and honour.

‘I wish there had been a better way to do it,’ Fingon adds in a slow, sure voice. ‘But I would rather you were alive than dead.’

Maedhros is glad to hear the firmness of Fingon’s voice once again. The cries and broken song at Thangorodrim he wants to forget.

He lets his hand fall to his side. ‘And I would rather be alive among my kin than a king chained.’

Fingon looks at him, and Maedhros wonders if he, too, is thinking of the way in which they left the shores of Aman. Shores that bled horrors into the sea.

Fingon followed him down into damnation, and still he sought him beyond hope. Perhaps it is Maedhros’s turn to follow Fingon’s lead, now.

-

Maedhros tries.

Snow brushes his face, hot with wrath and exertion, as he stands tall among the limp foes at his feet. His sword drips steaming blood behind him as he strides forward.

He didn’t think he could ever wield a blade again, and yet it swings from his left hand as naturally as it did his right, if not more so. There is a fire within him, a fire that he never thought he would inherit from his father.

But like Fëanor was robbed of his Silmarils, Maedhros, too, has been robbed. And for every day he hung from those cruel rocks, he will stain the land with another of Morgoth’s mockeries.

He won’t swear to it, but the thought burns in his mind, licking at the corners of his conscience until his sword pierces orc-flesh.

His words to Fingon, too, echo in his head – he is alive, unchained, unhindered. And he is not alone.

Ahead, he sees the banners of Fingolfin swaying in the wind.

-

Maedhros tries.

He tries so, so hard. He brings peoples, kings, armies together. And after the fury and deceptive hope, all that’s left is death.

He doesn’t know where Fingon’s body is, if a body remains. He watches as Turgon’s host retreats, slinks back to Gondolin. Maedhros is too numb to do anything, say anything.

The fire hasn’t been fully stomped out, but what’s left among the bruised embers turns against him.

-

He doesn’t want to keep trying, but he has slain kin once. He does it again.

The oath keeps him steadfast, though steadfastness is not a word he would choose as he looks around the decimated throne room. His brothers lay dead; the young king lays dead. And the one thing that could justify such brutality is gone.

The girl ran, they say, or she died. She cannot be found. And what of the other two children? The two little boys, the ones that reminded him of Amrod and Amras?

Maedhros rushes from the silent caves and into the woods, Maglor at his heels. They search in silence, and a voice in Maedhros’s head, one that sounds uncomfortably like Fingon’s, tells him that his search for the boys rather than for the Silmaril shows he isn’t utterly lost, even though the blood on his blade hasn’t yet dried.

But they never find the boys, and Maedhros looks at Maglor in the grey-green shadows.

-

These boys will live, Maedhros thinks. Maglor will see to it.

The fight has left him. The Silmaril is gone. Between Morgoth and the sea he can never cross, he lingers. In the early mornings, he wonders if it would have been better if he had died long ago, in some valiant struggle against evil.

The sun rises weakly, and Maedhros closes his eyes.

-

He can stop. He can turn back, Maglor says. Beg for redemption, try for forgiveness.

That’s the word – try. Maedhros has done nothing but try. Try to grab a hold of the noose pulling him on, reign it in, lead it himself. But the two remaining Silmarils are there, and Morgoth is gone. A fate he never believed he would see, once the initial fire of the oath had dampened on the shores of Middle Earth.

The end to his torment, the reward for his toil, within his grasp.

No. He cannot turn back from this. It ends here, in victory or in death. He makes one last effort and closes his hand around the Silmaril.

-

(though here at journey's end I lie - crossposted to ao3)

[spiced-wine-fic]

WIP SNIP

Thank you so much @cuarthol

The stairs wound up, at last, to narrow battlements that ringed the Tower of the Mindon’s awesomely tall and slender reach. The tower was hollow and more stairs spiralled to the top where one could stand beneath the massive glass dome where the flame was lit. Undying, that fire was, and its beam shone down the Calacirya to the shadowy seas beyond. 

Fëanor’s arms rested on the white stone of the parapet. He was staring outward down the Cleft of Light, his lion’s mane of black hair tossing in the winds that funnelled up and smelt of salt and darkness — and, one could almost imagine, faint and unimaginably far, the wildness of Endor. Of home. Perhaps Fëanor’s inner sight travelled that distance and built, in his mind’s eye, the mountains and forests and rivers and stretched further yet, to the shores and pale, glimmering waters of lost Cuivíenen.

Tagging @cycas, @jane-ways @naryaflame @nocompromise-noregrets @polutrope, @lucifers-cuvette, @nuredhel @geneeste @g-m-kaye who sees it and fancies sharing a snippet of a WIP.

[z-h-i-e]

FIC: Prototype

Silmarillion Characters: Finrod, Finarfin, Earwen Summary: Newly reimbodied and the first deceased Elf to make it out of the Halls of Waiting, Finrod copes with being reborn. Notes: I don't know if this is all of it or not, so here, have a possible finished possibly not fanfic I'm too tired to fully tag but wanted to have today as its birfday.

“Can I get you anything else? Another piece of cake?”

“Goodness, no, mother, I am more than stuffed. Anyhow, I would hate to get crumbs in the bed.” Finrod lifted his arms and received another tight embrace.  Number twenty-seven that evening. 

“Glass of water?  I could sing you a song.”

Finrod clung to Earwen and memorized everything about her with his eyes closed.  There was the scented oil in her hair that misted over him, the feel of her arms, strong from hundreds of years of sailing, holding him firmly, so well that had he gone limp she would still have kept him elevated just slightly from the bed.  The links of the metal hoops that dangled from her ears created bell-like noises, reminiscent of the tall cathedral in Valmar. He felt himself match the pace of her breathing, hearts beating close.  As the muscles in his back began to complain, Finrod pulled back and settled down again. 

The pillow was at an odd angle, but it had been four times since being brought to bed that he had tried to arrange them in a less troubling manner, and he did not want his mother to think that she had to tend to him further, so he left them alone and tried to concentration on something else. 

Something else was his arm, and he started to pick at the raised skin. 

“Do they itch?  Or hurt?  I have a cream for either,” spoke up Earwen. 

Finrod curled his fingers away from the scar and tried to smile.  “No.  I just get nervous.  I feel like I need to be doing something.”  He brought his hands back under the covers and fisted them in the sheets, unseen by his mother.  

“You just rest.  Oh, here is your father.”  Earwen leaned in to kiss Finrod’s cheek; he reciprocated.  Then she stood up from where she had been sitting on the edge of the bed and Finarfin took her place. 

“I finally managed to extract myself from council at a reasonable hour,” announced Finarfin.  He stood at the bedside for a moment, taking in a son once lost, and then sat where his wife had been. 

“I will see you in the bed chamber,” said Earwen to Finarfin, blowing a kiss to Finrod before she left the room. 

Finarfin gave a nod towards her even as her back was turned, and then attended to Finrod, adjusting a side of the blanket that had migrated off his feet and checking that the water glass was within reach.  “How was supper?”

“Good. Really good.”  Finrod wanted to say that there was no need for eight courses and a bounty of desserts every night, but Finrod was also not sure yet if it was due to his recent return or just the way Valinor was for the king and his family, and so he said nothing of this.  “How was council?”

“Boring, per usual,” was all Finarfin offered.  “Did you enjoy the garden?” 

“I did.  It was a very nice gesture for you to build them,” said Finrod. 

“Feanor was my brother, too.  We actually got along quite well, compared to how he and Fingolfin were.  It was a shock when Miriel presented us with the tapestry of Feanor’s last battle.  I hope his spirit has been able to find some peace where he is now.”

Finrod only nodded.  He knew the truth of the Hall of Waiting, and how impatience was not a trait of those who were successful there. His thoughts flashed back to his own brief stay there–unlike those who were angered or sad or hurting, Finrod had accepted his fate.  He benefited from the lack of physical barriers which once prevented visits to relatives and friends living far away.  He learned how to sing without voice, how to move without muscle, how to transport himself with mere thought.  

He enjoyed the freedom of the Halls of Waiting. 

He was now in a prison, in a land where he did not know many people, for all his friends and most of his family had gone to Middle-earth before or when he had.  He was not yet strong enough or coordinated enough to seek out Amarie (though it was not lost on him that she had yet to visit him, and the announcement of his return, of the rebirth of the son of the king, had been announced far and wide, so it was not for lack of knowledge). 

To get up the stairs, he had to be carried.  His mother had done this earlier.  To move around the gardens, he was set in a cart with cushions to prop him up which was either pushed or pulled by two or three of the palace guards.  All independence he had in the Halls was lost. 

His jubilation in the Halls of Waiting had been mistaken for a healed soul.  In reality, he hurt–but he found he immensely enjoyed being disembodied. He enjoyed the encounters with Men and Elves alike whom he had known when they both walked in Middle-earth, to speak with them in thoughts in an instant of that which might have taken days to speak with voice. 

Little warning was given; he was told he was to be an important part of the song.  How could anyone say no to that, and certainly not to Namo himself. 

And then–

–he was awake.  Alive.  Gasping for air, half in the water, half out, on the shores of what was once Alqualonde’s thriving seaport.  Reimbodied in the midst of a forgotten and abandoned impromptu graveyard.  Naked and afraid once again. 

He tried to stand and immediately fell.for  He tried again with the same result.  

The tide approached, and he crawled, trembling and sobbing, until he reached the dry sand.  The sensation of thousands of tiny particles all touching him at once had him paralyzed, and he curled in on himself and wept, eyes shut tight, gnats landing on him and biting, and he too shocked and devoid of energy to swat them away.  

If it was hours or moments or even days he would never know, for at some point, he was lifted and carried and flown elsewhere.  Only later would he learn it was Eonwe who had encountered him, and taken him to his parents for a reunion. 

“Is there anything else I can get you?”

Finrod was suddenly aware that he had missed at least two minutes of conversation with his father, that he had likely been told about the council meeting or perhaps the procurement of the site which now housed the Prince Feanor Memorial Garden. Finrod took a deep breath and shook his head.  Finarfin smiled, leaned in, and kissed Finrod on the brow.  Then, as he began to stand, he reached out for the knob on the lamp.  Just as his fingers were about to connect, Finrod shouted out, “No!”  Finarfin withdrew, and Finrod took another steadying breath.  “Please.  Leave the light on for me.  Mother has done it for–since–when I came back.  I just–I need it.  I need the light.”

Finarfin was already stroking his trembling son’s forehead while nodding, yet allowed Finrod to finish.  “Of course,” he said.  He kissed Finrod’s brow again.  “Sleep well, son.”

Finrod looked to the light of the oil lamp once he was alone in the room.  Though it stung his weary eyes to look upon it, even worse was the resulting darkness without.  No one who had lived but once could understand, he reasoned, how it should be that it was so important to have the light. 

[potatoobsessed999]

Throwback Thursday Friday Saturday

Tagged by @jaz-the-bard to post one of my older fics!

I'm gonna throw my series Remember: Folktales from Angband's Mines at y'all, because I am never not having emotions about the thralls of Angband and I would like everyone else to be having emotions about them as well. Three stories on hope in the dark:

The Elf-Maid's Song, about a thrall who will not stop singing. The Twins Who Sought the Stars, about two siblings who have never seen the sky. The Siblings Who Were Parted, about families lost and found.

I would like to write more of these at some point, but that's the anthology for now. Come feel feelings with me!

And I shall tag uhh @cycas, @outofangband, @thejakeformerlyknownasprince, and anyone who wants to!

[annabawritersdream]

Let me introduce you to...

Nárael (one of Enna's Maiarin ladies-in-waiting, check my character profiles if you want to know more) and her...girlfriend. Her girlfriend is literally my newest OC (I created her, like, ten minutes ago) and I think she's an Elf. Her name is Ëaris.

So, I guess their ship name is Nëaris?

Poor Nárael will fall in love with her and feel really guilty about it (someone tell her that falling in love with an elleth is not as bad as trying to destroy and enslave the whole of Middle-earth). She'll have a hard time trying to understand that.

[dalliansss]

a bag of peas

Also available on [AO3]

Findekáno surveys his reflection in the mirror: his face is that of an elf past full maturity, meaning he has recently celebrated his first century. He is thoroughly Noldo: the angles and lines of his father Nolofinwë’s face, his cheeks, the perfect nose, the lips. His eyes, however, are his mother Anairë’s – blue-gray, more gray, however, than blue. His dark hair is beautiful – long gentle waves of brown-black, taken from his Grandfather Finwë, yet when this hair is left unbound, Findekáno thinks he looks like every Noldo there is in Tirion – and he would be so easily lost in the crowd – if one knew what to look for. For Findekáno does not have the usual towering, willowy heights of the Noldor; he is short, among the shortest in the House of Finwë, and the only one shorter than he is is his infamous Uncle, Fëanáro.

He sighs. He looks to the ornate jewelry boxes by his dresser, and he takes the lid off of each one, and inside he finds the usual implements: rings, earrings, necklaces, brooches. There is a bitter taste at the back of his mouth as he picks out his usual jewelry: a ring or two, silver and gold, unadorned. He picks out simple dangling earrings, with diamonds and lapis, that highlight his eyes. He used to wear sapphire but since Findaráto was born, he had graciously surrendered the stone to his young cousin, who was fairer in face and worthier of the gem. As an eldest child, Findekáno was used to surrendering things to the younger ones.

He wears his earrings. 

He thinks of the agenda for today, and he remembers how they come down to it at last: a war of attrition that has spanned decades since he reached his majority as an elf – Indis his grandmother had roped in his Amil to look at names and portraits of eligible elleth for him to consider, as he is his father’s eldest son, Nolofinwë’s heir. He has to wed properly, make connections, elevate his own status considering he does not have a chance to inherit Finwë’s crown and throne.

He thinks about it. To be born in the Noldorin aristocracy is both a gift and a curse: a gift of an easy life, with servants and attendants tending to needs he does not otherwise have time for – yet a curse, riddled with obligations and responsibilities not easily shed, nor delegated to somebody else. The eldest son of the second son, he was expected to be in council, make a proper marriage, beget his heirs– things mentioned in the books, and expected by society.

Yet he does not want this.

What he wants, Findekáno has been telling himself for as long as he could think – a nice time away from Tirion, spelunking in caves, exploring this and that place with Maitimo and Findaráto. He doesn't care if he has to camp in the wilderness for this, or live in hovels and inns with dripping roofs. If he cannot have this life, he has a back-up plan: settle somewhere quiet, with a shelf of good books, and a big plot of fertile earth, and there on the earth he will grow things – vegetables, fruits, root crops – perhaps house some animals like goats and sheeps. A table always filled with good food and wine, to welcome his own siblings and his beloved cousins, and maybe even his Uncle Fëanáro, when he comes to drop by with Aunt Nerdanel in one of their many, many travels around the Undying Land.

Yet here Findekáno sits, about to face the arrangement Indis has made, finally out of excuses. He remembers Turukáno’s words: it is not so bad, hanno. You think it is bad, but you have to have an open mind. You might find your match in the Music.

Find his match indeed!

And Turukáno, speaking in such an ignorant, care-free manner, simply because he found Elenwë with no difficulty at all. The garden party for him was not even half-over when he and Elenwë saw each other, and there began their great love affair, and a subtle political victory for Indis had been won – the first Vanyarin match for a grandson, though Findekáno knew she was not truly satisfied, for she would have liked to be able to match him first, her eldest grandson. 

He wants, more than ever, to be on his horse, running off to Eru-knows-where, with Maitimo and Findaráto, the wind in their hair, their laughter swept from their mouths and throats. 

He stands.

He chooses a simple blue-and-silver tunic, shrugging into a pure white innermost layer, wearing his belt, and then shrugging into the blue over-layer last. He hears his door open and his chamberlain Vorosanya joins him, and begins to tend to his dark hair unasked. Under Vorosanya’s expert fingers, Findekáno’s hair is parted into sections, twined with golden silk ribbons, and braided off into the hairstyle the entire land of Aman knows to be his recognition. 

Vorosanya holds his shoes for him. He slips his sock-covered feet in them, his right hand closed over his chamberlain’s left shoulder. His other shoe goes on without a hitch.

“There, Highness. You are ready,” Vorosanya pronounces. 

��Ready to waste time?” Findekáno asks, sly smile curling his lips.

“And ready to fall asleep, perhaps, if the conversation is not ideal,” Vorosanya returns, and on his ageless face there is only sympathy. 

“Thank you, Voro,” Findekáno replies, and with his right hand he spares his chamberlain a pat on the cheek.

==

In the carriage, he finds the peas.

Bags and bags of them, and he instructs his carriage-driver, an elf named Calandil, to tarry a while and go around Tirion for an hour before they make for the palace. As Calandil complies and they trundle around the outer sections of the city in the slowest pace managed, Findekáno stuffs his face with peas. They are lightly salted, a bit dry, but very tasty. Findekáno eats. And eats. And eats.

One bag is emptied.

Another follows.

A third one.

The fourth, he knows he can no longer manage, and so he contemplates the situation, and he tells Calandil to finally aim for Finwë’s palace.

As his carriage hits a slight bump on the pavement, Findekáno rests a hand over his middle. Beneath his clothes and his flesh, his stomach gives the first dangerous rumble.

==

The fire trees in the eastern garden are in full bloom, and Findekáno pauses despite himself, standing there, neck craned up to appreciate the red, red blossoms. Fëanáro had fire trees in Formenos, and there they thrived, blooming like nobody’s business during summers alongside the sunflowers. When Findaráto first saw them, he declared that the fire tree was Nelyo’s tree, and that Yavanna made them for their eldest cousin and his beauty. Maitimo had been flattered to no end. 

There are round tables here, and the guests are already milling about. There are Noldorin elleths, but most of them are Vanyar – a sea of golden heads, with dark hair dotting here and there, like tiny islands in a golden sea. 

Findekáno thinks in distaste how his cousins are on their way to Formenos now, no doubt already passed the waterfall cliff by the Calacirya and done the yearly jump into the big lake waiting beneath. And here he is, still stuck in Tirion, going to be late for a week or two, because he has to deal with these garden parties.

Indis finds him, and his grandmother approaches, and her hand finds his left wrist, and Findekáno braces himself as he is swept away into the crowd, a prize to be displayed at auction, going to the highest bidder, as it were – the fairest, the highest-esteemed lady herein, with the greatest connections and prestige to offer.

He hates every second of it.

==

Their names and faces slip his mind like oil refusing to mingle with water. Findekáno, under the veneer of composure, is sweating coldly down his back, and his stomach is staging a revolution against the Valar. His plan may have worked a bit too well. A lady asks him about his favorite food, and he says it is fried fish, the taste kindled by his Aunt Eärwen’s cooking, who is very close with his mother Anairë. The lady seems off-put by this answer, for she is proper Vanya, and the Vanyar rarely like Telerin dishes.

Time swims in a haze of stomach pain and conversation so shallow Findekáno could have nodded off and fell asleep where he sat.

Indis is asking him something. Another golden-haired elleth is introduced, and he hears himself return proper courtesies. The revolution in his stomach is at its peak. He feels sick yet at the same time his stomach is bloated; he has not touched any of the foods brought forward for him. 

Someone is talking. He is not certain if it is the elleth or his grandmother.

He slowly lets go.

A small sound, first.

A tiny peeefft of sound. Then it snowballs from there, followed by the horrendous stink, and the tiny peeefft escalates into a full-blown poooooooht. Too late. The stink spreads. The elleth catches it, and so does Indis. Both quickly sport growing looks of horror. Findekáno bites his lower lip. Another poooooooht. He stands. He is pale. A trail of cold sweat drips down his temple. He feels sick. He feels atrocious.

“Excuse me,” he says, his voice strained and pained. 

He escapes, turning heel, and the damage is done. 

In the nearest toilet in the palace he barricades himself, and as he sits there, his tunic pulled up and his breeches down to his knees, he quakes in silent laughter, both hands clamped over his mouth.

==

His Amil is ballistic.

He endures her angry scolding, sitting still, hands on his lap, his head bowed in remorse. Anairë rants and rails. Goes on and on about his ruined reputation. The shame on their house. The shame on his father. The shame– the shame.

(What is shameful about it, Findekáno wonders. It is a natural body process, he likes to point out. He ate, his stomach reacted, he released. Did not the ladies of the Vanyar release their gas also?)

His Atar goes into full damage control. The tea was bad. The biscuits were bad. The entire kitchen retinue was put on tenterhooks for two weeks as an investigation was launched. Nobody was fired when the investigation came in empty-handed, though Findekáno had planned for back-up arrangements, having told Vorosanya to employ anybody who would get fired into his household instead, with double the salary. 

Anairë and Nolofinwë search high and low for the saboteur responsible. At some point, Nolofinwë even considered Fëanáro, but Fëanáro was in Formenos and cooked his own food, and never shared outside his family and his favored nephews. 

Indis returns to Taniquetil for some days to explain he had been ill. Letters were written, Vorosanya told him. 

But the damage is done.

The next year, no garden party is arranged for him.

And the year after that. And the year next. And the years roll into a decade, and nothing. 

Angamaitë gets betrothed to another Vanya, Eldalótë.

Findaráto, poor Findaráto, is forced to spend more company with his childhood friend, Amarië. 

But Findekáno remains unmatched, and alone.

==

He tells Maitimo and Findaráto about it twelve years after the incident had come to pass. Maitimo tips his head back in great laughter, his shoulders shaking, and soon he is wiping tears from his eyes. Findaráto, when he is done laughing his own guts out, turns out a scowl, and curses him from snatching the same trick from his grasp.

Findekáno shrugs. “You are doing well on your own, Ingoldo. So far, still no betrothal is announced, is that not right?”

Maitimo has an arm around his shoulders and ruffles his hair. Findaráto gives him a small gut punch. Findekáno makes the expected noises and pretends to double over from Findaráto’s punch. Then he pulls his cousins to himself, an impromptu group hug.

“We are three terrors,” Maitimo muses. “The Three Menaces of Tirion.”

“May Eru spare Valinor from our antics,” Findekáno says. He kisses Maitimo on the cheek simply because it is impossible to reach his hair with his pitiful height. He kisses Ingoldo on the cheek as well, to be fair.

“May Eru indeed help the Noldor, when our time comes,” Findaráto supplies.

[eilinelsghost]

The Portrait of the Youngest Son of Finwë Ñoldoran

fic by @that-angry-noldo; art by @eilinelsghost

Rating: G Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Academic documents (but could be Finarfin & Finrod) Characters: Finrod, Finarfin, Original Female Character Word Count: 5.1k

"The Portrait of the Youngest Son of Finwë Noldoran" is a joint name for three separate documents, dating to various periods of history, two of which were recovered from the ruins of Nargothrond during F.A. 549 by the forces of King Gil-Galad Ereinion. Archived with an expressed permission of King of the Noldor in Aman Finarfin Finwion, seeing how the issues discussed are closely related to His Majesty's life and bloodline. All further research and references must be reviewed and agreed with the Head Archivist.

SO excited that the @tolkienrsb 2024 collection is now live and that you can all read @that-angry-noldo's incredible fic written to accompany my art submission to this year's gallery. I'm obsessed with how poignant and approachable it is, even in the academic style, and the framing device she chose for this piece is so SO clever. You're all in for a treat!

[curiouselleth]

Hi! From the prompt list you reblogged... could I convince you to write me a lil thing of “Sometimes I feel like there is a weight on my chest that takes away all my breath.” with Finrod, perhaps? (maybe re-embodied Finrod in Valinor, if you feel like indulging me on a more specific request?)

Hello!! I wish I could of told you before, I did not forget and I did write something, it just took a while.

Here it is, I hope you enjoy it!! I am quite proud of it.

[whorefindel]

cooking something short and depressing up to post while i continue writing my fourth age mairon fic (sooo much fun so many ideas and not enough hours in my day) 💫

[bralesscommie]

Blossoming Red

4.9k, Elrond character study

He is six years old, and everything is on fire.

Everything is made of stone, he thinks, how could it be burning?

His twin grabs his hand. A warm hand, dirty and desperate, tugging him, begging him to move. He stumbles forward, foot catching on something. He falls forward, scraping the palm of his hand. The stone below his hand is painted red, drops of blood sitting on it. How strange.

He looks up. An elf stands close by in the street, red hair flowing back. It is only a moment that he stands straight. An arrow whistles by, hitting him just above his chainmail.

Red. It splatters over them, graceful arc of death. Someone shakes him, and the world comes back into focus. Soldiers rush down the street- the twins jump to their feet, clutching each other's hands, ready to be saved.

A tall elf stands behind them. But he does not see them, striding past them, ready to meet the soldiers. His brother lays dead on the ground, the brother he shares his red hair with. Their mother's hair.

The soldiers of Sirion have no chance against the elf, even if he stands alone, his sword held in his left, right hand long gone.

The twins run, trying to get out of the city. Just like their mother's brothers, they rush through a battleground, hoping, wishing not to be found. Exhausted, they fall to the ground.

The blood is still spattered across his face, and the scrape on his hand is still bleeding.

A strong hand grasps his shoulder.

Father? He thinks for a moment, but when he looks up he sees the tall, red haired elf, blood stained and majestic.

Continue reading on Ao3:

[anerea-lantiria]

You know how sometimes you want to write a fic just because it's the fic you'd really like to read but nobody's written it yet, and yet you also know you wouldn't be able to write it to your satisfaction? Well, without knowing this, Frankie picked my TRSB art and wrote that fic. Only way way WAAAY better than I could ever have hoped for, and with soooo much more marvellous worldbuiling than I could have ever dreamed of!! I'm simultaneously blown away and soooo happy, and extremely honoured and simply fucking delighted!

*anérea does yet another happy dance* Here, have another snippet from Atanatárissë by @eilinelsghost, this time in the wake of the Sudden Flame:

Hiril drew the girl in against her, stroking the hair back from her forehead as her mother would have done. Rían still held the little holly sprig clenched in one hand and was tracing the leaves with the fingers of the other as her tears gradually eased. There had been a border of holly drawn about the pages of this story, Hiril recalled, its tendrils wrapping around the writing so that it encircled the tale within its guard. Outside the holly lay a menace of creatures, maws gaping and teeth reaching toward the twisting leaves.