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perlen-gold · 28 days ago

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A MelkorxMairon story

inspired by saintstars

“Come.”

They call me Great Death, the Constrainer. Black Foe of the World, Master of Lies. They say I am merciless and proud, atrocious, barbarous, brutal and ruthless, abominable and terrible to behold, wicked and vicious. They are not wrong.

“Come,” I whispered, my voice a phantom of its earth-cracking thunder tracing across his heated stone-skin.

I imagined him adorned lightly. Onyx-black, ink-soft lace balming his skin. A hue of jewelry, the rings he so liked, fragrant with flawless gold.

Lose, the scarlet-crimsoned whisper of his hair, embroidering the tickling shadows about him, breathing with a faint, warm glow, lose, unbound, free.

Instead, iron and steel. Rather, I felt it was the blunt taste of metal humming beneath my fingertips., winter-gray and silver-cool.

Never had I hissed at the melody of cutting cold as he, freezing snow and whirling ice. Now, as I envisioned him in soft-light fiber and warmth-glowing fabric, I nearly did.

Instead, I touched upon the spiral shell of Mairon’s armor, inch by inch.

Enough work.

I almost say it.

I feel Mairon tense the moment the words soar upon my tongue. I think his bruises, sprains and scars, so carefully withheld beneath his armor, coil.

My own injuries are throbbing as the mountain’s heart pulsates.

On the tip of my tongue I finger two different syllables, then. I taste them, long and probing. They are not familiar between my lips.

Instead, I murmur, “Come.”

Then try, taste, whisper.

“Please.”

As I stroke the sounds, I feel the remnant scars of my wounds squirm and stretch.

Enough work. I had said those words before quite differently.

He had been absorbed in a long list of parchment, winding and dry, just like now, after an endless day of meetings and councils.

War is an ever-hungry machine that constantly must be fed and patted and attended to. Not I but Mairon is its master who keeps it ever roiling and toiling. Its needs are both endless and unending.

There are weaponries to be forged, armor to be hammered. Hosts of Orcs to be commanded, captains to be instructed, recruits to be trained.

Expedient though they are, Orcs make poor comrades in arms. Constantly squabbling, perpetually fighting each other for position or food or simply the lack of distraction or wit, they are ill-made for cooperation and it takes more than a whip to tame them. Fear might control them but it takes more to make them efficient, Mairon often says.

And efficient he makes them. Orcs and goblins have a natural aptitude for battle, their fighting is simple and crude nonetheless, Mairon often also sighed, and the imbeciles end up killing each other before they even learn how to swing an axe in an accurate arch.

Then there is food and rations to be retrieved and organized, routs to scout and news from spies and traitors to be collected and molded into benefits and advantages.

I knew all of this because Mairon had told me, complained to me of these things more often than I wished and, what was worse by far, even made me listen till I was fed up and bored beyond even my unyielding power. Oh, there was relentlessness in him that heeded neither my ostentatious disregard nor my sour mood whenever he pestered me with these trifles. I might have escaped, oh yes, but he would serve me thrice the tales of battlements in need of improvement, insufficient food resources and incompetent Orc armorers designing poorer battering rams when I hungered for the naked sheen of his skin.

I have always thought Mairon mercilessly vindictive beyond even my desire for revenge.

“Your army, my lord, needs attention”, he would say lilting as skittering pearls and with a tone so quizzacious I might seize his throat eventually which would make him laugh and brush the sweetest gasp against my ear.

Once, I sank my teeth into the tender rose-petal softness of his beautiful neck and he moaned softly into me while he enumerated all the little repairs needed for some dispensable outpost in such a shuddering, smile-curving little voice that I, smeared with his gold-liquor blood, considered biting off his tongue. It made his heedless smile curve even wickeder.

There had been always only one way to silence the brazen little creature.

And for a while he writhed and arched beneath me, trembling, mouth and body sealed, only to continue his speech in the fire-gilded afterglow of our bodies, his throbbing flame-heat and shivering legs still around me.

Oh, even my fell cruelty, which I thrust into him, could not match his own.

This time, however, it was different.

I say war is a machine but, in truth, Mairon is the machine that is war.

Like the rings he so loves for their boundless, immaculate symmetry, none of his designs or schemes knew either end or beginning and it was these endless, tedious things in his fingers around which they always snaked like wild adders eternally, perpetually.

And Mairon is just as endless and snaking.

There is no detail to escape his lidless mind’s gaze. No mosaic stone unset, no jigsaw piece uncontemplated. Every piece my and his spies gathered glides between his sizzling fingertips.

Not a single piece of floating ash is unknown to him. No trifling squabble crumbled under his high boots unseen, no minor sentiment of unrest skittered across his path without his notice. He weaves a single-minded Orc’s gripe into his hair when he rises in the crisp morning, he holds an outpost’s trivial failings in his grasp when setting the chisel in his forge and he slides a letter intercepted over his skin when he undresses in the evening.

I call him my little flame, and it delights his curving dagger smile, for he is neither little nor single-tipped flame.

My troops, on the other hand, my Balrocs and generals and captains and Orcs call him the lidless, sleepless, all-seeing eye. I might be the god they serve but one single gush of wind loosening a lone scarlet-gilded, fire-whipping strand of Mairon’s hair sends them scudding and scurrying as ants.

I did not, or barely, notice at first.

So consumed was I that it was only an irksomeness in the beginning before it grated at my attention, more and more.

Always there had been a piece of something on Mairon’s mind, a roll of parchment in his long-fingered hands, a whispered request in his well-shaped ear, another meticulously drawn map, another scouting route worked out, another keen-eyes report at his sharp-angled elbow.

It was as though catching an industrious spider weaving double the nets or spotting the arctic fox growing twice the pristine fur.

And yet.

I say I heeded not the change, at first. Yet, in truth there was something vexing me outside the range of my vision, like a buzzing fly my dragons cannot see yet not quite bait either.

When then, at long last, it woke me out of my razor-riven raptness, it was like a silent shiver running through the earth meeting a mountain, a cresting wave crashing against a sheer cliff of rock after building for weeks.

Ah, I had not known it had been there.

Suddenly, however, my ire raged clear and raw.

“Enough!”

Ah.

My skin prickling as the stagnant air before a storm.

My voice, having sundered heavens and cleaved continents, a lightning bolt lit.

Plans and maps, plans and schemes, schemes, schemes and plans! I had been surge-swelling with them like a river breaking its bed.

My captains and leaders, Orcs and goblins, their heads snapped around to my seat as if I had broken their necks. However, I was no longer seated. Why had I come to this counsel at all, dark creatures in my service startling and groveling? Mairon had stopped dragging me there long ago and I rarely obliged him when he did.

I did not take notice whether it was letter parchment or outline scroll I tore from Mairon’s hands. A shattering on the onyx black floor, I felt myself towering, looming with my mounting rage.

In the breathing space between us, him and me, my body was sparking at the edges.

Never had I, quite unlike Mairon, endeavored to control my wrath, unlike him who could mask the brightest blaze of anger like ash covers the still-glowing embers within.

Instead, I felt my shape rise and my all-seeing vision expand, fraying at the edges, burn with it.

Whatever it was that I tore from him crumbled into smoke and electric sparks under my hands.

And still he would not look at me.

Ah, there it was, the hilt and pike of my sudden temper which I was fingering like my warhammer, Mairon’s steady gaze still, still, still fastened on what he had been reading an instant before, parchment and scrolls and lesser creatures and, oh, everything without even once in weeks upon weeks and months uncounted looking up at me who was his master.

The fortress around us, the raven-black stone floor beneath our feet shivered with a ringing tremor.

I thought ages to pass but, in sooth, Mairon stared at the quivering remnants of what I had just ripped from his hands much longer while my rage sloshed and billowed into vastness.

Then, his gaze flared into mine.

It was as though a ray of morning light hit me, clear and spear-piercing.

His gold-crystal eyes were aflame as a crisp winter’s dawn. This was the only warning I was given.

I saw his transformation only in shreds ere Mairon lashed himself upon me, flame-gleaming fur and blaze-white teeth.

My wrath was sharp enough to wrap us both and Mairon’s teeth even sharper.

Fire cannot consume the mountain but it can sweep across, melt, mold and scar it beyond recognition.

Ah, and scar each other we did in our conflagration.

If any dark creature, Balrog or maggot Orc had been present, they must have fled for no insect lingers to watch whether slashing rains or whipping winds may triumph over the storm.

Had we been lesser beings, we might have easily slain each other.

Instead, the stone-blind walls around us gasped as we fought and parts of Utumno well-nigh collapsed under our rage.

When at last we both sank against opposite walls, the torches shook under our breaths as grass before the scythe.

My anger, however, fled as swiftly as it had come and his surely must have to.

The air tasted of stale smoke and departing thunder.

As we huffed, I expected him to limp toward me. Even lean against me, his inferno fury and my cosmic wilderness abated and washed away by the great tide of our fighting, leaving as brine-raw and satisfied enough to huff and touch each other’s wounds with well-practiced fingers softly and tender lips. I would have licked his wounds, and more, and his lips could have kissed mine till we shook from a different kind of fury and another quake came upon Utumno ere an unsimilar fatigue settled between us, and then we would have finally tended to each other’s injuries in a more lasting way.

What rags of his fine-woven garment had withstood his skin-changing were torn to shreds by me and fell from his bare skin.

Yes. I expected his sly smile dripping mockingly from his slyer lips.

Though rare, it had no been our first fight, after all.

As our breaths pooled in the empty counsel room, I saw Mairon rise to his staggering legs.

Instead, however, he left as abruptly as he had flared, limping.

He strode from my hall, naked, gold licking beneath the glowing soles of his feet, the hue of fire-lit blood in his whipping hair and gleaming skin the only cover to veil his lithe shape.

A single Orc stumbled from behind an onyx-carved column.

It stared.

And stared.

“Please”

The sounds touch queerly between my lips.

I feel my eyes, one of crystal-frozen ice and one of molten-moving magma, close against the silence of his shadow-hewn chambers.

There has been neither council nor meeting.

We have not talked since.

Mairon moves not.

My vision is obscured by the dusk of my own eyes.

The dancing darkness within me notwithstanding, I know his eyes, perusing the endless lines on the rustling scroll in his slender hands tenaciously, to have stopped, poised, on one spot alone.

Slowly.

Slowly my scarred hands begin to move.

Gradually, I touch upon what has been shaped unerringly by him. Layer by layer. Piece by piece.

I remember not undoing his or any other armor ever before. Haltingly, my fingers find few gold clasps sleeping beneath.

Iron plate and greave slither ceaselessly against each other, harness and chestplate.

I have never tasted, brushed my tongue against this creation among so many of his, immaculate in its deadly beauty as everything he invents.

But what my scorched hands find is not beauty alone.

Inch for inch, I let my scabbed finger pads slide over smooth plates of metal, one after another. Perfectly round circles of twisting iron, dark as night, black as a midnight’s dream. Slender-long gauntlets gliding sleekly against each other without the slightest hitch.

Polished, my charred fingertips find the glossy plates against his stomach.

Not a nook or cranny on the metal stretching across the small of his back; neither scratch nor scrape beneath my quiet palms straying along his waist, down his iron-veiled flanks.

No plate hugging his legs, no piece of armor whispering, pressing against his thighs ever requires a drop of slick oil. I can feel it underneath my tingling hands. Not one part of metal will ever rub against its brothers nor bear mark or squeak. Like snake scales rising against each other’s fall.

As I wander him, a thought strikes me like a smiling fish in the presence of the diving king-fisher. That even Aulë himself would envy this. It is coiling perfection lured to making. It is usage spelled into fascination.

Another thought strikes my pricking skin, then. It is not what he has worn before.

My realization is another spell woven by the king fisher. When has Mairon created this new armor? It must have taken him an age of life to master it into being.

When did he do it? Where had I been?

But, of course, no beauty for Mairon without purpose.

I think, even Aulë will envy this.

It may be a day, it may be an age eternal till I draw his body against mine. Bare skin to skin.

Under my hands his armor is coming undone like a mountain peak, year by year, age by age.

I allow my gaze to fall on the graceful line of his neck then, note the lustrous strand of fire-lit hair that coiles around it. The smooth heel of his hand, aligned to the scroll, the tips hidden behind the faded yellow. The sharp angle of his left elbow, the serpentine line of his muscled back. The svelte shape of his ear, the cutting line of his jaw. All this, I merely graze with my gaze, light as raven feathers before I let the knuckles on the back of my fingers follow my eyes’ hushed trail.

Beneath, slashes and lacerations like gouges half-knitted, purple bruises and blood-cusped strains, half-healed.

Wroth and savage had been my violence, vicious and cruel his own.

I expect his skin, his body to be fire scolding, a blaze like a hurricane. My touch, however, evanesces upon contact with it as though one wraith reaches for another.

Somethings tugs at me then, strange-shaped and eternally coined.

He does not stir, does not move.

Still, his fire has not blazed my scarred skin. And still, Mairon’s voice of melting steel has not spoken to me.

I might pry into his mind, of course. What futility. Mairon has never given anything he did not offer first.

Last is his hair, bound tightly, wrought infinitely to the lovely shape of his neck. It is not in my nature to hesitate, not once, and like softest silk each flaming strand loosens between my stroking, combing fingers.

At last, my time is come to speak.

My eyes still veiled by the endless darkness of my own lashes, against the warm fall of his hair I lay my lips.

“Precious.” Murmurs. “It is enough.” Whispers, straight and firm. “Even you have an end to your flames. Even you must rest.” Murmers and whispers from my lips.

My darkness, a fortress. ”Even you must not be consumed by one thing alone in this world.”

Mairon stirs not. And yet, I feel it in the jolt of rigid muscles against my naked skin like a bow-string springing back.

I catch the thought he aims albeit he aims it not at me. It is the first time I hear his golden voice ever since I returned.

It is like laughter, only viler.

You are one to talk.

Around his naked waist and chest my hold tightens. In anticipation, perhaps, of another attack, wondering idly what other beastly form he might use, I look forward to whatever claws and teeth he will sink into me this time with a kind of grim satisfaction.

I palpate that almost-thought of his idly, turn it around in my silent-grown mind seeking out its facets and angles.

His skin is cool silver light upon the parched flesh of my fingers despite the honed flames it shields within.

No beauty for Mairon without a purpose.

There.

Ah.

Here, at last. A morsel of truth.

Slowly. Gradually, I begin to comprehend. And yet, still, I understand not.

Long is the silence stretching between us, infinite as the darkened night sky, dull as the lessened moon shredded in wispy mists.

Slowly. Slowly, my arms’ force increases. Slowly, the hold of my embrace tightens.

Slowly, I force Mairon’s body around. Force him to turn. This is what I do and this is what I try.

Ah. Many are the minds and brains fooled by his appearance. He might shroud his viper shape in a robe of splendid cloth but I have seen the bare stretch of his arms and shoulders bent over the forge, his back straight and straining. The ones he seduces think him fair and beautiful alone, yet I have heard Orc sword masters threaten their fosterlings with Lord Mairon’s lust for challenge. His legs apart, sinews and muscles aglow in the sheen of the furnace. He would not even have to lift the hilt of his sword. Among the recruits, his physical strength is a legend told at night fire watches.

And with all his strength he is fighting me now, ah, what resistance against the strain of my arms around his back and sides, against my will to bind him to me, force his body around to face mine.

Vaguely, I am wondering once more if he will transform again, now, in this instant, to raise the amount of bristle and teeth and claws he can punish me with or if he will simply sink and dig his gilded nails and incandescent teeth into my flesh as he is.

Neither of us is speaking.

But this. This is more a fight of wills rather than a battle of physical force, and this once, this once in our eons of time, my will prevails over his.

I can feel him straining as his ember-honed cheek comes to rest upon my beating pulse. It is like holding a candle to my chest.

I feel the touch of his breath as warm as sun-lit honey on my chest, flecks of gold in it.

All at once, I am unable to remember. This. The wisp of his fiery hair. The width of his smooth brow. The length of his body, flush against mine. Unable. Unable to remember the last time I felt his gold-leaping warmth seep into my storm-cloud skin.

My injuries matter not. Their circling pain is forgotten like morning mists fracturing at the break of dawn. We move not and do not speak. However, this once, I will not let him escape.

Puzzled yet I am. Pondering. Wondering. I, Melkor, confess I fail to grasp his ire fully.

Would he envy another craftsman thus? Ah, I think not. Too proud Mairon is of his own prowess, too confident, too brilliant in his own skill.

Would he resent thus what he deems utter folly? He has stood and endured far greater whims of mine.

I know the fight to have seeped out of him, now. There is only the pooling of warmth, small huffs against my skin.

I am closing my eyes to darkness and stillness again.

Long is the silence stretching between us.

“Do with them as you please.”

At first, Mairon does not move.

Then, against the total blackness of my eyelids, I can see him stir. Rise. His head tilting back. His fire-honed gaze, at last, upon my face.

My hand opens for him.

They cannot burn me any more than their luminous light already has.

As I open my eyes, despite myself, my gaze falls upon them as splashing water from the sky.

Even before my eyelids lift, I know their lovely glow shedding light over my maimed, scorch-darkened hands. I know not whether Mairon’s eyes follow the lust of my eyes, become drawn and ensnared as mine. If not, I can neither examine it nor him.

Even now I cannot part my gaze with them.

If the moon had been carved into thirds in the bejeweled night, none of it, though born from that same radiance, would have glistered like any of them!

One sun-lit and citrine-hued, bright as sun-filled water. Vivid as the very heart of the earth the other, a thousand rubies aflame. The last, a brilliant, ever-shining, ever-pure, dazzling white.

Even now I am mesmerized at the luminosity of the first light, percolated through the incinerated cage of my fingeres.

Even Mairon’s light of fire-drunk gold almost dulled beside them. Almost.

This, maybe, is what makes me realize the flash of Mairon’s hand toward the blinding light.

All of a sudden, through the luminous splendor and breath-taking, sky-rendering incandescence, fear jolts through me like a thunder-spear.

No, I am no stranger to pain, not even to dread, the loathsome spider be cursed and all her descendants, but never has terror such as this seized at my hammering pulse.

The yell, the roar aimed at Mairon ignites in my throat as volcanoes erupt with spilling fire.

Almost as soon as it builds, I huff out a breath of absurd emptiness. Mairon’s supple fingers have gripped the resplendent silmarils long before my anger rushes in. Beneath his skin, like strands of his own hair, silk shimmers between him and the precious jewels.

Of course.

My chest almost tears with swallowed, frayed laughter.

Whatever rules Mairon’s black-sooted heart, greed is not a part of it.

His fiery gaze is thrumming into mine, the long-lashed gold of his eyes never once wavering to the wonders aglow between our hands. I imagine his wrist flick and a burst of radiant light clattering across the onyx floor.

Mairon’s voice is quenched iron, spitting with cooling water, “I shall cast them into the darkest sea, the deepest pit and highest sky.”

The fury of this world grows between us, gathers in the thunder lightning and earth-shading clouds, a fell music of drums and clangs.

It is arduous at first, cruelly laborious, to wretch my craving stare from them.

I can see Mairon’s eyes follow the length of my glance, the direction of my lusting breath.

They are magnificent in their effulgence, entrancing in their beauty, enrapturing in their unfathomable luster.

Long has the silence stretched between us.

Silently, I speak.

So you shall.

Mairon does blink. Now. Once. An eternity. Twice.

Finally, ultimately, I can see his gold-glittering eyes flicker toward the luminescent jewels in his hand, his gaze falling, cast down.

“I shall forge a crown fit for them and you, my lord,” he murmurs, lowly.

No love for the sea, the earth, the skies?, I think

“They are to be set in a crown by my hands already.” I speak aloud.

There it is, the sneer.

“It is like calling the elven child hoarding heaps of sand an architect.” Mairon returns, slyly as a minx.

Insolent creature, I think, letting the words flutter soft as lashes against his smile-honing lips.

“Not tonight,” I hum, drawing him closer still, pressing against his curving lips, “Tonight you are mine.”

I think, tonight I am yours alone.

Mairon’s limber shoulders rise as he lifts his hands to lay them along my face, his willowy fingers astir, roaming through my hair where there are caught the colors of the night and the light of fading stars. The light in his eyes is enough to blind and scar the whole world and everything that comes after.

They say I am merciless and proud, cruel and pitiless, tyrannical and spiteful, enviously, greedily, recklessly selfish beyond imagination. They call me Master of Lies, Great Death, Black Foe of the World. I feel giddy with delight when I think of it. It is all true.

Let them not see what else I am.

He, whom they call Sauron, whispers into my ear, his arched fingers woven into my shadow hair, his graceful limbs, the length of his pressing body pouring sun-lit heat into mine of melting ice and frozen stone, the smiling cheek of his lips thawing against my ear.

“You have yet to say ‘please��, my lord.”

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eilinelsghost · 4 months ago

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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.

#gwindor #my fic #double drabble #prompts #silmarillion fanfic

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curiouselleth · 4 months ago

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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!

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whorefindel · 2 months ago

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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

#silmarillion #lotr #tolkien #maedhros #maglor #celegorm #silmarillion fic #tolkien fic #fanfic #silmarillion fanfic #lotr fanfic #silmarillion fanfiction

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conundrumoftime · 18 days ago

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Collecting up the Sauron/Galadriel/Celeborn fics I've done already because I was going to reply to @coraleethroughthelookingglass with what I'd done on this one and then thought, well I should just do a post for this I can link to in the fic masterlists, surely there will be more. So!

Always coming home the same castaway (TROP, rated T, 1200 words) - s1 canon divergence, in which Sauron is trying to stall Galadriel from learning who he is for as long as possible by whatever means he can think of, including retrieving her lost husband.

But it doesn’t matter. He is here now. He need no longer wish for that ephemeral existence, his breath mingled with mountain winds and his heartbeat the pulse of water drawn up from a forest’s roots, his edges dissolving as melting ice and his voice turned to birdsong. He laces his fingers through Galadriel’s, alive and warm and real. He rests his head against Halbrand’s shoulder.

As certain dark things are loved (Silmarillion, rated E, 8k words) - 2nd-age Ost-in-Edhil, Annatar trying a divide-and-conquer approach:

Annatar gets to his feet and her husband steps back. (A problem, maybe – a complication, certainly – but no effort can be spared for him just now.) Galadriel does not rise from her chair and only tilts her head as she watches. She is, perhaps, expecting Annatar to kiss her; she is certainly expecting him to do something; and he takes a certain delight in seeing the dart of surprise in her as he kneels at her feet.

All the kinds of alive you can be (TROP, rated E, 13k words) - post-s1 fic, Sauron shapeshifting into Galadriel to seduce Celeborn as a kind of revenge/obsession thing and then getting more involved than he meant to.

“If you have harmed him I will make you pay for it every single day of your miserable existence. Concern yourself with that.” “He isn’t harmed. I’ve kept him very well pleased.” She goes to stab him again and he turns the blade to water, running between her fingers. She stares down at it in stillness with an expression he can’t read. “Come back and let me make amends to both of you,” he says.

And my current TROP WIP The names of our wounds is not there yet but will get there eventually :)

#sauron x galadriel x celeborn #rings of power fanfic #silmarillion fanfic #love triangles have three sides #eyeofacat fic

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hongchenzhu · 6 months ago

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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?

#please help #help #pls help #how to name fics #fanfic #naming #what to name my fanfic #silmarillion #silmarillion fanfic

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anerea-lantiria · 1 year ago

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"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.

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southfarthing · 2 years ago

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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)

#reposting because teehee #silmarillion #silm #silmarillion fic #silmarillion fanfic #maedhros #tolkien #tolkien fic #maglor #fingon #mine #my fic #*lotr #lotr: fic

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spiced-wine-fic · 1 year ago

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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.

#Wip snip #writing #silmarillion fanfic

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z-h-i-e · 1 year ago

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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.

#silmarillion fanfic #finrod felagund #finarfin #earwen

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