#The Fëanorians

[i-did-not-mean-to]

Hunted H(e)art

My dear friends,

Have a discarded draft for another fic that I'll rewrite and add to as I go along!

I shall not be posting the fic on tumblr, as the chapters tend to be rather long, and I don't want to strain your eyes or overburden your feeds more than necessary.

Anyway, if you want weekly updates to a story combining all my favourite characters and ships, hop on over to Ao3!

Lot of love!

Pairings: Fëanor & Fingolfin, Oromë & Nessa, Amrod & Amras, Aredhel & Galadriel, Maedhros x Fingon, Turgon x Finrod, Celegorm x Curufin, Melkor x Mairon (and some more)

Words: hard to say...20k?

Warnings: Gen chapters, E chapters, hunting, blood, sadness, trauma, sex, incest, the usual

If that sounds like something you'd want to read ⇢

💖Link💖

Chapter 2 (Gen)

Chapter 3 (Celegorm x Curufin)

Chapter 4 (Aredhel & Galadriel)

Chapter 5 (Amrod & Amras)

Chapter 6 (Turgon...x Finrod)

Chapter 7 (Maedhros x Fingon) (explicit)

Chapter 8 (Celegorm x Curufin (x Finrod) ⎮ Galadriel & Aredhel ⎮ Melkor xMairon) (explicit)

Chapter 9 (Maglor & Caranthir)

Chapter 10 (Turgon x Finrod ⎮Finwë, Fëanor, Fingolfin, & Finarfin) (explicit)

Chapter 11 - Finale

Thank you so very much for reading and interacting <3

[balrogballs]

I'm still sad about this heartwarming and mildly amusing little section where feral adolescent Aragorn brings some joy to Maedhros in his unhinged little way, which I had to cut out of Cast in Stone for structural reasons, especially as I had gone to the trouble of illustrating it!

But I realised it reads perfectly fine standalone, so you guys can have my crumb of Maedhros-joy instead. No context required: Maedhros and Maglor are temporarily staying in the Shire during the late Third Age, Maedhros had a horrible night of traumatic dreams and was being maudlin — until young Aragorn, aka Elros II and the bane of his life, turns up like a bad penny, as he often does. Enjoy!

---

"You look unhappy," said Estel, sitting down before Maedhros, legs crossed. "Does your hand hurt? Surely it can't be as bad as when it got chopped off, can it?"

"No, but leave me be, Estel, I have —"

"All right, but let me ask just one question. I promise, then I'll go away. I just remembered something from my lessons, and every time I ask Ada he looks up at the sky and asks the Valar where he went wrong in raising me," Estel moved closer, looking around for eavesdroppers. "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to. But I would like to know."

Maedhros frowned, swallowed the lump in his throat and dragged in a breath. "What?"

"Fingon rescued you on one of those enormous eagles, didn't he? On that mountain with Morgoth and all of that. It was one of those, right? Manwë's Eagles."

"Yes. He did. I do not wish to answer any further questions on the matter, clear off."

"And it was quite a long journey, wasn't it?"

Maedhros grunted.

"I've always had a question about it… and again, you don't have to tell me if it's too traumatising," Estel's eyes shone, as though he were about to hear a state secret. "And I promise I won't tell anyone."

"Spit it out, boy, or leave me now. I am in the mood for neither company nor memory."

"Did it… you know…?"

"If you're trying to ask me if losing the hand hurt, yes it did," Maedhros snapped. "Now leave me alone, I've had enough reminiscing for a damned century. Get off home, now!"

"Oh, shut up, I wasn't asking about your stupid hand, I don't understand why you think everyone sits around thinking about your hand," Estel scowled, pursuing his lips, before deciding his quest for scientific knowledge was more important than whatever had crawled up Maedhros' arsehole and died. He widened his eyes conspiratorily, looked around again. "My question has nothing to do with that! I just wanted to know, did the eagle… you know?"

"Estel, I am not going to repeat this, get out of my sight right this —"

"Did it take a shit?"

"Did… what?"

"Did it take a shit?" Estel flushed as he said the word, Elrond's parental touch finally taking hold, though in a predictably useless manner. "And if it did, how big was it? As in, was it normal bird crap, or was it, you know — like a bucketload of it?"

Maedhros blinked. Estel held his hands out to demonstrate.

"I've always wanted to know that about them, you know," the boy continued, stroking his chin like a philosopher. "Manwe's eagles, that is. Surely if they're big enough to carry two people, one being a towering beast like you, their droppings must be massive."

"What…?" Maedhros couldn't formulate words, a state of being Estel clearly had no familiarity with. "Their… what?"

"And yes, I know they're divine, all of that, but surely they can't be toilet trained, can they? I just don't see Manwë having enough time to toilet train an eagle, you know. Could you imagine just… going about your day, and having this massive tub of birdshite fall on your head? Oh, it could drown a person, I'm sure of it!" Estel grinned, as if said occurrence would be the best day of his life, had it happened to him. "So, did it? And if it did, did you see if it went on someone?"

Maedhros sat there blinking at the boy in complete silence before rising quietly, taking the now-extremely-familiar ear, and slowly — like he were a corpse — leading Estel to the village gate. He didn't say a word, only gestured weakly and put up three fingers, a signal the now sulky boy was very used to.

And as Estel, muttering darkly all the while, neared the completion of his first punishment-lap of three around the village green, he heard something that sounded like a donkey in immense pain. It was a sound so tremendous and unexpected that it brought Maglor running from the house, gaping at the source, having not heard such a thing in centuries. It was no donkey, but Maedhros in complete hysterics, sitting on the ground exactly where he was when he beckoned Estel to run, sobbing with laughter, actual tears pouring down his face, which itself was screwed up and flushed so pink he looked like he'd been badly sunburned. He was trying to explain the situation to Maglor (who had been glaring at Estel as if he had personally killed his brother, and now looked upon him like he was Iluvatar himself) but Maedhros was howling too hard to even stand, let alone form coherent words.

Estel pretended not to notice, and started on his second lap. Though objectively speaking, the laugh itself sounded like something between a foghorn, a pig and whatever noise he imagined Ungoliant would make — there was something rather lovely about it that brought an inexplicable little smile to his face.

[imflevrett]

Fëanorian star (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧

[mahtariel-of-himring]

Silm Headcanon:

Battle braids were common amongst the Noldor when they first arrived in Beleriand. The tradition of braids had transitioned from Valinorian family, friendship or marriage braids into ones for battle. New styles were invented and quickly spread across the Noldorian community.

The length, placement, thickness and beads that were added or not added told stories of survival and hardship throughout time.

The most common ones were the following:

First battle braids, a simple three strand braid with a black bead marking that an elf had spilled their first black blood.

Partaker braids, for different big battles that simply marked a soldier as having been apart of said fight.

Fealty braids, openly showing who one’s loyalty lies with.

And at last survivors braids, these were worn by those who survived any type of imprisonment by dark creatures, there was also a more complicated version of this braid for former thralls of Angband.

There were also very rare braids which brought the wearer great respect and honor if an elven warrior wore said braid in their hair.

One of the rarest and most admired was the braid marking the survival of an encounter with Sauron, which on its own was feat enough.

It was a complicated four too five thread braid with multiple smaller or larger beads depending on the length or severity of the meeting.

Another was the one worn by Balrog slayers. This braid however only really surfaced after the first age when Glorfindel returned from Valinor since there were no surviving Balrog slayers to wear it.

One of the few braids that stayed the same from Valinor to Beleriand was the braid of the High King. Having only ever been worn by Finwë, Fëanor, Maedhros, Fingolfin, Fingon and Turgon.

Gil-Galad did not continue this tradition due to his decent from the house of Finarfin who‘s braiding traditions, just as many other elven houses, had faded over the years.

But since braids were mainly worn by the first to arrive in Beleriand after the flight of the Noldor, therefore fëanorians and their loyalists over time battle braids became a symbol of their house which quickly resulted and a fast decline of elven battle braids being seen on daily basis.

After the second and third kinslaying they had nearly completely disappeared in all but those still loyal to the remaining two son‘s of Fëanor and the son‘s themselves.

There were also unique braid, only ever worn by one person.

One of those was Maedhros‘ side braid.

A simple but elegant side braid on his left with no beads or pearls or any decorations whatsoever.

He wore it always after his rescue from the cliffs of Thangorodrim.

This braid was neatly kept, closly against his skull and tightly braided.

The braid of Maedhros became a symbol for the Lord of Himring and only ever associated with him and his qualities.

His formidable talent as a warlord, his unchallenged title as the greatest and fiercest swordsman of Beleriand, his fëanorian heritage and his standing as leader of the followers of house Fëanor.

The orcs, goblins, werewolves and evil men began to fear the braid of the red haired elf and his name became even more devastating to them than it already was.

After Maedhros died none dared ever wear his braid, for it stood for a fury no one dared claim as their own.

The centuries went by and braids got fewer and fewer. The second age was nearly at its end and the war against Sauron in full go.

But then came the day on which Sauron’s forces marched with Celebrimbor‘s dead body used as a flag.

And the infamous fury of the Lord of Himring was set ablaze in another, one who deemed himself close to the deceased elf to this day.

Elrond.

When he saw his beloved cousin’s body, defaced and dishonored that fire his foster father had carried was lit within him, and something snapped.

The next day the entire army was in shock and disbelief as their King‘s herald walked onto the battlefield wearing said infamous side braid, paired with a set of armor made by Celebrimbor, and an ear cuff also known for having once belonged to Maedhros.

That day the orcs of Sauron learned to fear the fury of the half elf, for they had already forgotten what true Noldorian spirit was. Elrond cut them down one by one, killing hundreds of orcs by himself and struck terror into the hearts of his enemies as they watched their companions fall to his blade.

Elrond didn’t stop until nearly all orcs were either dead or had fled from his wrath.

Then he went to find his cousins body. He freed him from the wooden pole he had been bound to and carried him away. Far off into nature, away from Lindon and Eregion, far away from all they once knew and laid him to rest in a peaceful spot where many flowers grew and old trees surrounded them.

To this day Lord Elrond visits his cousin often, for his final resting place is no far from Imladris, and to this day he wears the braid once associated with Maedhros, and he would do so until his arrival in Valinor.

[wisesnail]

Hello, I'm Clo and I might have a problem in the form of my love for a certain redeaded elf...

I kinda made myself tear up with this, so I decided to add the final #chibi to show another aspect of Maedhros that we should not forget... <;

[carnistirmorifinwe]

Maglor: You have my sword

Aragorn: Thank you

Maglor: Don't thank me, tell me how did you got it.

Aragorn: What–

based on one of my fav hc that fëanor made narþil for maglor, then he gave it away to elros before war of wrath and he to his ancestors one by one

[moosalicious]

[morvith]

Headcanon born from a conversation with @wings-of-indigo

Maedhros as a child went through the "why" phase.

Fëanor and Nerdanel absolutely indulged him, and did their best to answer all his questions.

Then Maglor was born. And there came the "arguing against the rules to benefit Baby Brother" phase.

Also known as the "Yes, but" phase.

That one was... harder.

Example:

Fëanor: and I don't want to hear another "Yes but" out of you.

Maedhros: ...yes, however...

[edennill]

We laugh at Sauron for not realising a golden-haired Aman elf with the audacity to challenge a fallen Maia with song can only be Finrod at this point, and conclude that Finrod's spell must have worked in part -- but I've never heard anyone ask how on earth did he never come up with the idea that Celebrimbor might have given the three rings to his three remaining family members!

Who made the spell this time?

[inthehouseoffinwe]

Ok a lil hc for why Curufin is so close to Fëanor and why the twins went to Beleriand.

So idk how many of you have seen twin pregnancies, and no doubt many of you will know more than me. But the ones I have seen were *exhausting* for the mother. Constantly tired, unable to do a whole lot, usually in some kind of pain be it back, ribs from the kicking babies, legs, hips, you name it. Not to mention the nausea. Nerdanel would have been absolutely shattered for most of her pregnancy, but by this point Fëanor is confident enough (has been reassured by Nerdanel over the last five pregnancies) that he’s ok leaving her to her own devices.

What this means though is Nerdanel doesn’t have a lot of energy to spare looking after her other children. Caranthir is old enough to happily stick with his brothers or sit with his embroidery, but little Curvo is around 5/6 equivalent and is very attached to his parents. Nerdanel suddenly not being able to do much creates a distance, neither of their faults, in which Fëanor steps in. This time spent with his father shapes Curufin’s interests and personality to make him embody his mother name. Atarinkë indeed, in more than just looks.

Now this temporary distance that should’ve started to close by the time Ambarussa were two or three is furthered because now is when Fëanor and Nerdanel start getting into arguments. At this point they’re small spats at most, nothing too serious, but Curufin who’s very attached to his now primary caregiver and distanced from the other, immediately takes Fëanor’s side. Again at this point both parents are still trying to get him close to his mother again, but it’s not going well and with how heated both parents get, it’s difficult to keep disagreements behind closed doors.

Then Curvo becomes a teen and it’s his father above all else. The time for change is passing, Fëanor and Nerdanel have started to spend days apart, days in which Maedhros and Maglor often take care of the twins so their mother can have a break, and Curufin sees this as another sign his mother isn’t worthy of their family. By the time we get to the banishment to Formenos, Curvo refuses to speak to Nerdanel, and whilst his brothers still send letters and occasionally go out to meet her, he burns the letters as soon as they come.

On a side note, the twins end up very very close to their oldest brothers because of this. It’s why they decide to go to Beleriand: their brothers, their primary caregivers, are all going. So they are too. They don’t know their mother well enough to stay.

Disclaimer: I adore Nerdanel and think she’s absolutely brilliant. You have to have some guts to not only marry Fëanaro Curufinwë, but then stick to your guns and refuse to follow him. And successfully wrangle seven very skilled, very opinionated sons. She’s the best and was no doubt an amazing mother, but the way things turned out just didn’t work in anyone’s favour.

Also to still be known as ‘the wise’ after marrying Fëanor and everything he did? Insane.

Fëanor was also a great father ok. At least until Morgoth really got in his head towards the end of their time in Aman. There’s a reason all his kids followed him to Beleriand.

[stellavesperis]

Maglor and Celegorm.

They grew up bickering and fighting with each other nonstop, being close enough in age to keep their ridiculous arguments going for months at a time. Tyelko would track dirt all over Makalaurë’s sheet music he’d left on the floor. Mysteriously, Tyelko’s arrows would be missing. Then Káno’s harp. Then Tyelko’s latest pet. Pure, unbridled, unintelligent Cain instinct would reign until Maedhros or a parent stepped in.

Maglor and Celegorm.

Not usually the two brothers you see paired together, but they’re still thick as thieves. They hate each other. They would murder anyone who hurt the other. Celegorm is single handedly responsible for depleting Maglor’s brain cells. Maglor barely managed to attach a leash to Celegorm’s gremlin whims.

Maglor and Celegorm.

When Maedhros is captured, Maglor freezes inside his head. Celegorm is the only one who can get him to snap out of it. He doesn’t have patience for it, and Maglor is High King, and there’s no time for patience anyway. Celegorm resents his brother for refusing to let him seek after Maedhros, and Maglor resents him for reminding him of this, and their squabbles are the only thing that brought a sense of normalcy and stability during that time. Celegorm kept him tethered.

Maglor and Celegorm.

Something about the way that the two of them fought with and for each other, about the way their relationship must have changed over the years and yet remain so stubbornly the same. They know each other far too well for their own good.

I know not everyone sees them as close, but I can’t help but feel that the two of them are an underrated pairing of sibling chaos.

[i-did-not-mean-to]

Cursed Cards - Part 3

So, here is the last part of this...

It was an honour and a pleasure to collaborate with @sauroff on this silly slice of pure happiness.

Thank you for all those who were with me on this ride.

-> Part 1 -> Part 2

Fingon's POV ⬇️

Maedhros' POV ⬇️

Cursed Cards - Part 3

Words: 3,2 k

Warnings: Russingon (still half-cousin incest in canon)

Context: Continuation and final instalment of this!

As promised, Maglor organised a merry get-together soon after. His allegiance to his oldest brother, as it turned out, was only too easily undermined by the chance to kill two birds with one stone.

Hence why he sat, smug and trembling with anticipation, on Fingolfin’s very own armchair and waited for the avalanche of haphazard greetings to ebb off. He was particularly proud to have gotten his whole family – minus his indisposed father – to visit Fingon’s in a post-Christmas massacre of warmed-up leftovers and piping hot gossip.

“Oh, mum,” Fingon squeaked upon seeing the picture he had entrusted to his mother in confidence prominently displayed on the dining room table. “Russo won’t like it.”

He was right; Maedhros blanched at the sight and backed away into Caranthir to bar his way and – if possible – his line of sight on the offending cliché.

“But…” Anairë started, seeking Nerdanel’s gaze and then whirling around to stare at Maglor who – in turn – only grinned and shrugged lightly.

Ever the showman, the second-born son of the suspicious mother of seven who was now also narrowing her eyes at him had evidently not been able to resist a dramatic reveal of the photograph he had secured through charm and graceful nagging.

“It’s so nice that you and the children could come,” Anairë chirped; she didn’t comment on Fëanor’s absence though and waved Nerdanel into her living room enthusiastically.

“It was ever so good of you to invite us,” Nerdanel replied in the same cheerful tone. “Few people are willing nowadays to put up with all seven of my bra…erm, sons.” She winked.

“You’re family after all,” the other woman said good-humouredly and handed Nerdanel an elegant glass filled with a bubbly, sweet-smelling cocktail. “My husband’s latest concoction,” she explained with a fond smile thrown at the man standing in a corner as if he was surrounded by rabid dogs.

“What is he up to?” Nerdanel muttered under her breath as her eyes were inexorably drawn back to Maglor; she knew her children well and could always tell when one of them was about to cause a ruckus. “That smile never bodes well.”

“Oh Nelyo, brother mine,” Maglor called in a singsong voice across the room when he realised that he had to act quickly before his mother could somehow foil his great master plan. “Come over here; I have a gift for you, my dearest sibling.”

Maedhros flinched violently; being dubbed Maglor’s favourite brother always meant that one was his next victim. A quick glance at the others only confirmed this: Moryo was backing away slowly while Tyelko drew nearer with a bloodthirsty smile.

“You’re done,” one of the twins hooted and then both went to perch on the armrests of Maglor’s throne to be certain they’d have front-row seats to whatever bloodbath was about to take place.

“What is going on?” Turgon – still hovering by the door as if ready to take off at the drop of a hat – asked warily. “’Rissë?”

“Hey! I’ve got nothing to do with this, I think, do I?” She turned to her mother who merely gave her an encouraging, indulgent smile.

Anairë would not have said so out loud, but she did enjoy the tremulous anticipation in the room.

“Ah, you do me wrong and wound me deeply,” Maglor exclaimed and put the back of his hand to his brow in a gesture of mental torment. “It is a token of my love and respect that I am about to hand over to my esteemed older brother.”

As the last notes of his dramatic speech echoed in the sudden silence, he whipped out a little piece of paper and extended it to Maedhros who was advancing cautiously towards that outstretched hand.

If Maglor had expected amusement or even mockery from him, he was sorely disappointed though for Maedhros’ eyes grew round and glassy with some deep, unspoken emotion.

“What is it?” Fingon stepped up behind him; unlike his boyfriend, he immediately broke into merry chuckles. “Oh yes, I remember that one. Don’t be fooled by the picture, Argon is a biter and my sister is actually having the time of her life.”

Maedhros’ eyes flitted over to Aredhel who had schooled her face into a mien of perfectly innocent maidenhood.

“Finno, my love,” he then whispered, “why did you not try to restrain your siblings? I dare say Turgon was not enjoying himself!”

Fingon’s face scrunched up in concentration as he tried to cast his mind back to the exact moment that picture had been taken; he remembered his mother’s sundress and the smell of the forest as if it had been yesterday, but other details were slower in returning to him.

“I must have seen something,” he muttered, gazing into his own eyes – huge in a face he barely recognised as his – as if to find the truth in their shining febrility.

“It was that boy,” Turgon grunted acidly from his vantage point. “Tallish kid, kept mostly to himself…We all saw you stealing glances at him whenever you got the chance. You are not discreet, Fin.”

A pensive, shrewd light came into his eyes as his own sharp mind raced back through time.

“Wait a minute,” he whispered and stepped closer to the group huddled around a smirking Maglor and looked from Fingon to Maedhros meditatively.

“I don’t remember,” Argon said quickly; he didn’t like the way his two older brothers were staring at each other intensely. Whatever mischief they had buried in the past, he wanted no part in it.

“’Rissë had taken away Argon’s bow and they were fighting,” Fingon started to reconstruct the scene in the picture. “I can hear their laughter and the threatening clacking of their teeth in my mind.”

His mind was piecing together the fragments of memory diluted and washed away in the ocean of time and his brow creased in concentration; this had been an important summer for him, he knew, but the specifics escaped his fumbling brain stubbornly.

“I was elbowed by that creature pretending to be our sister,” Turgon supplied readily, tapping his finger at his own pained face in the photo. “And you were staring at that other kid. I remember thinking that he was a most unfortunate-looking creature on account of his complexion. He was also…”

“Covered in kids,” Fingon finished his sentence in a hiss. “He was a rare sight because he was running after other kids all the time. Did he work there?”

“No,” Maglor cut in with a feline grin. “He was the oldest of 7. His complexion is still deplorable, as is his fashion sense.”

Ever since getting the picture, he had talked to both his own mother and Anairë in search of the reason for Fingon’s obvious distractedness. Moreover, he had stared at it in private as well, trying to remember these children.

The crux of the matter had finally come to him in a dream; he had at least seen Fingon before, usually standing at the edge of his field of vision whenever Maedhros had come to hound him about one thing or the other.

“What?” Fingon exclaimed in alarm and amazement.

“Tall, skinny dude, copper-haired, milk-skinned, always dragging around at least one feral youngster, ring any bells?” Maglor enumerated complacently, ticking off his arguments on his fingers. “The red shirts, the haunted look in his eyes, the overabundance of clinking jewellery he didn’t take care of half as well as he should have? No? Nothing?”

Fingon turned his face up to Maedhros, his eyes huge and wet. “You…YOU? My first real crush? My first heartbreak?”

As his eyes closed in slow-motion, everything rushed back like a deluge of colour and sound.

“Of course,” he croaked. “I had never seen anyone half as beautiful; you were the very picture of poise and consummate grace.”

Maedhros guffawed, thus breaking the spell of Fingon’s tender recollections.

“I remember this day as well,” he admitted. “I was everything but graceful.” He shot a withering stare at his youngest brothers and – touching his fingertips to Fingon’s hip as if to make sure he was really there – he gave a deep, heartfelt sigh of embarrassment.

“Go on, dear,” Anairë prompted; after all the sleuthing she had done with Maglor, she couldn’t deny that she was curious as to how that scene she and her husband had laughed about privately many a time over the years had looked like from the other side. “Tell us!”

Shoulders slumping in defeat, Maedhros banned his brothers from Maglor’s armchair and sat down heavily himself.

“It was family day, as we have established,” he then started narrating in a strained voice, “and I had lost the twins. In my defence, I had managed to get all the others somewhat clean and ready, but the twins were nowhere to be found. Your kind nature deceives you, Finno my love, for I was running around like a headless chicken – sweating, dishevelled, and blotchy with stress – in search of that demon spawn, forgive me, mother.”

He shot a pleading, apologetic look at Nerdanel and passed a pale hand over his gorgeous face at the memory of his helpless turmoil.

“My father even reprimanded me later for looking so badly put together,” Maedhros went on, seeking his mother’s eyes for confirmation.

“We’re sorry, Nelyo,” the twins chimed unisono. “We were still young and thought it was funny.”

“You’d still think it funny,” Maglor murmured under his voice but didn’t interrupt his eldest brother in his reminiscence of the chaotic past.

Fingon’s eyes were wide and open as he took in the man he loved and his wicked brothers arrayed around him like guardian angels or hungry wolf pups.

“No wonder you never noticed me,” he joked in what he wanted to be a light tone, but a sliver of pain still stabbed through the airy cloth of his melodious voice.

“Oh,” Maedhros groaned, “I did.”

“You did?” Fingon almost yelled, elbowing Celegorm out of the way – a perfect imitation of his sister’s childhood crime – to kneel by Maedhros’ feet and look up at him, spellbound by the confessions that might well heal his heart.

“Of course I did,” Maedhros laughed, a little strained. “You hung around a lot, you know? Thrice I wanted to go talk to you.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“The first time, as I had brushed my hair and tucked my shirt into my shorts to look less like the gangly ghost I apparently was, Tyelko decided to throw Moryo’s best clothes into the lake.” Maedhros grimaced.

“Oh…” Fingon could not see why that would have kept Maedhros from pursuing his own plans.

“I was wearing said clothes when they took their fatal dip,” Caranthir supplied in a dangerously flat voice.

Nerdanel sucked her teeth disapprovingly at that; she then nodded at her oldest to go on ratting his brothers out.

“You were bullied a tad that summer, I remember…” Maglor interjected in mellow accents of casual empathy.

“Thank you for reminding me, yes,” Maedhros stage-whispered and jabbed his long, narrow index into his brother’s ribs with punitive force. “I was led to believe that my looks were cause for considerable distress amongst my fellow campers; hence why I endeavoured earnestly to present myself in a soigné fashion. Not that I could hold up that state of neatness for any prolonged period of time, thanks to some people in this very room.”

“The next time,” he then returned resolutely to his tale of woe, “this one screamed bloody murder. Turns out, his harp string had snapped, and he was out of new ones. That was all. I raced across the compound in a blind panic to find that ass lamenting one of five instruments he had brought.” Another vicious poke followed which Maglor accepted magnanimously.

“In the end,” the so-blighted musician then added his own dramatic conclusion to his part in this sordid recounting, “I just played on the strings left to me.”

Fingon was enthralled by the developments and revelations unfurling before him; he barely dared to breathe for fear of disrupting the magic.

“After thus being called names by other campers all summer long,” Maedhros picked up his tale again when Maglor had finished his aside, “I understandably took special pains to look as nice as I could in hopes of making a new friend. And then there was a fire in Curvo’s hall.”

“Good dramatic pacing,” Maglor praised under his breath.

“It was,” Maedhros continued in an imitation of old taletellers’ ominous voices, “Curvo’s fire. He had set his own building aflame.”

“Oh no,” Fingon squeaked.

“What?” Nerdanel expostulated.

“Ooops,” Curufin breathed and immediately started mobilising his puppy eyes to disarm his mother’s ire.

“By the time family day rolled around, I had given up on making new friends,” Maedhros finished and bowed his head to his mother. “I commend you, mother, for I spent that summer dirty, unkempt, and constantly miserable on account of those creatures you claim as your progeny.”

Nerdanel gave a little chuckle and stepped forward to cup his flaming cheek lovingly. “You’ve done well, my beautiful boy,” she whispered as she kissed the top of his head, “and both your father and I are so thankful to you.”

Maedhros’ eyes returned to the photograph in his lap and his tense mien relaxed into boundless fondness.

“I shall cherish this,” he sighed, “thank you Káno for getting it.”

“Auntie and I have done our best.” Maglor crooned, basking in his victory.

“Auntie?” several people exclaimed.

“My brother’s mother-in-law,” Maglor smiled suavely, “is almost my auntie, no?”

“A pleasure, I am sure,” Anairë reassured him, ignoring the choked sputter coming from her husband’s fortification in the far corner. If Fingolfin decided to retreat even further, he’d end up stuck behind the armoire, she was quite sure, but there were too many children in the room for her to worry about her spouse on top of everything.

“I am sorry that we didn’t get to be friends that summer,” Maedhros then said softly to Fingon. “I am now sure that we would have gotten along splendidly.”

He got up and pulled his beloved to his feet as well.

“You were so very handsome too,” he breathed into Fingon’s ear, darkened with embarrassment and emotion. “I quite enjoyed your joyful attire and bright smile. I still do. The crocs are a very nice touch, I dare say!”

Fingon groaned and tried to snatch the picture out of Maedhros’ hands; unfortunately, his own attempts at petty thievery had schooled and honed Maedhros’ skills and he turned around in a flash of copper and red.

Burying his face in that broad, strong back he had seen once too often during that accursed summer, Fingon let the shame wash over him. Not only had Turgon – and probably Aredhel – been aware of his crush, but it had also been revealed tonight that he had inadvertently ended up dating the very same boy he had not even dared approach back then.

"Was I very foolish? Following you around like a lost pup?” he mumbled into the thick, fragrant sweater of his one true love.

“Not at all,” Maedhros swore, his eyes drinking in every detail of the photograph still. “You were tantalisingly out of reach.”

He felt a mix of humility and deep tenderness at the sight of that young boy, staring wistfully into the distance; those expressive eyes and the curve of that sensual mouth – quick to smile and delicious to kiss – were as familiar as his own face to him and yet, this photograph seemed an invaluable treasure, a slice of an irretrievable past, which he’d honour and guard forever.

“I should have known,” Fingon groaned.

“I…did not make the connection either,” Maedhros admitted, “until I saw the picture and it all came back to me.”

Louder then, he called Maglor out for staging a whole production and exposing them to ridicule and familial jeering.

“It would have been less funny if we couldn’t witness the moment the extent of your combined idiocy dawns on you,” Maglor replied, unabashed and not in the least contrite.

“We’re the prisoners of these creatures,” Maedhros sighed. “Until my dying day, I shall keep, defend, and amuse them, it seems.”

“You and me both,” Fingon said gently, slinging his strong arms around Maedhros’ waist and giving him a comforting, strengthening squeeze.

“Actually,” Caranthir said after clearing his throat and exchanging a cold, efficient gaze with Turgon, “we have another Christmas gift for you.”

Wary, Maedhros and Fingon spun around, still holding on to each other tightly, to face the catalysts of chaos and mayhem that were their collective siblings.

“As we have ruined Christmas,” Celegorm jumped in.

“And Summer Camp,” Aredhel chirped.

“Family Day,” Argon muttered.

“Several dates,” Curufin added with a perfect imitation of repentant innocence.

“Most of your carefree days, I admit,” Maglor cut in; he was an accomplished, compelling orator and loved to hear himself sway an audience. “We thought we’d make it up to you.”

“Also, nobody really wants to see you two in shorts ever again,” Turgon commented, sharp-tongued but not without affection.

An envelope was handed to Maedhros who opened it with trembling fingers and gasped.

“Having that many siblings has its perks,” Maglor babbled with uncontained enthusiasm. “It means that we could all chip in and buy you a truly nice holiday to a destination far, far away. A week at the beach, without any of us, doesn’t that sound nice?”

Spluttering, Maedhros burst into laughter as he and Fingon were overwhelmed with frantic hugs and sloppy kisses from their siblings.

“Happy Holidays!”

“You deserve it!”

“Ey,” Aredhel smirked, “we do like you two fools, you know that, right?”

“Don’t miss us too much,” Maglor grinned as he bathed in the light of his brother’s boundless joy. “You’ve done much for us, Nelyo, and we are aware of it. Take this with our compliments; dive into your memories in the privacy of a beach cabana or so.”

“Wear those terrible clothes where nobody can connect you to us,” Caranthir hissed, reaping an approving nod from Turgon.

“That’s incredible, thanks gang!” Fingon was the first to thaw out of his shock; he had never resented his siblings for their natures and needs and so, he was deeply touched by their secret collaboration with his in-laws to come up with such a beautiful gift.

Maedhros’ arms were solid and warm around his shoulders, and he could barely wait to feel them skin-on-skin in the blazing sun of a tropical island while they swam in a deep, blue ocean.

It would be wonderful, he was sure.

“Hmmm, what a surprise,” Maedhros whispered into his ear; he was flushed with wonder and happiness and looked so much more like the boy Fingon only dimly remembered. Past, present, and future blended into a kaleidoscope of red and blue, of copper and black, of marble and ebony and Fingon was afraid he’d burst if he tried to contain the sheer beatitude thrumming in his chest.

“We’ll miss them though, won’t we?” he asked under his breath.

“Just a little,” Maedhros replied and kissed his brow in a rare moment of impulsive tenderness that promptly elicited hoots and groans from the brood of their younger, truly childish siblings.

“Son,” Nerdanel interrupted the brouhaha of thanks and jibes, “send us some pictures, yes? For the next Christmas!”

So, that was that! Thank you for indulging me and make sure to show @sauroff your love and appreciation.

Best wishes for the end of 2022 and - of course - for 2023 as well!

Lots of love!

[balrogballs]

Yet another day of illustrating moments from my fic instead of editing the last two chapters and posting them like a normal person might do 😇✨

(this is a fun little sequence where Maglor is pouring his heart out into a lament to a tragedy in the general Fëanorian past, as he tends to, whilst the adolescent Estel, aka Elros II — the bane of Maedhros' re-embodied life, smells a business opportunity and starts selling overpriced tickets to local children)

[middle-earth-press]

A breakdown of Tirion's newspapers & political affiliations btw:

The Tirion Chronicle. Oldest of them all, connected with the library and archives. Tries to be neutral, starts off mildly pro-Fëanorian, switches to mildly pro-Nolofinwëan after Fëanor begins to grow markedly more difficult. Not harsh on the Valar, but allows itself to criticise them. Information from all venues of life, most of it very day-to-day, because Valinor.

Fëanorian Quarter Courier. What it says on the tin, I guess, although it's not as bellicose as one might suspect, just has a Fëanorian slant.

The Eight-pointed Star. If the Courier is Fëanorian... then the Star is far-Fëanorian. Its most involved readers would protest at the paper being described as aggressive, but that word is a pretty mild one for it. Everyone suspects Morgoth submitted something anonymously at least once and it's a bit disconcerting that no one can agree which article of many it could be. (He might have submitted things anywhere else tbh, but the Star was always more belligerent than the others, so it's the one people suspect most. For what it's worth it was also most welcoming of people outside its editorial office writing things for it)

Tirion Review. The name doesn't give it away, but it's markedly pro-Nolofinwëan. Often engages in dramatic back-and-forths with the two above that can last for years.

Journal of the Student Association. A serious publication remarkable for being written and redacted entirely by minors. The Free Journal of Noldorin Youth splits off from it once tensions grow unbearable, and what remains acquires a Nolofinwëan bias.

Independent Monthly. Popularly (and unfairly) known as 'Independent Complaints' because it's main position seems to be "Please stop fighting. Can't we get on with eachother?". Finarfin is rumoured to be a contributor.

Not counting the dozens of scientific journals which probably have a wider readership lol.

[mahtariel-of-himring]

In the early ages of Valinor there was a festival celebrated by the Noldor. It was very secretive and secluded ceremony so that not many outsiders knew a lot about it.

It was called the starlight festival, a ceremony in celebration of their first guides. The stars.

The first elves were born underneath starlight and lived under it for many years, the stars were their guiding light for long, before they came to Valinor.

The tradition was started by Queen Míriel, who loved the stars most of all her people, for her own hair shone like them and made her feel a special connection to the lights in the night sky.

Traditionally the Noldor wore pure white gowns with detailed silver embroidery which where very light and easy to move in to make it easier to the dance.

The embroidery was personalized for every single elf, making every piece uniquely fitted and decorated to represent said elf.

It showed whatever represented them most and was often connected to their craft.

A mariner or fisher would wear some type of waves, a weaver string and needle, a smith, depending on his specialty, gems, jewelry or whatnot. Those who took to other physical labor would often wear their tools, modeled after the real thing.

Additional to the white robes a flower crown made of pure white flowers was worn atop the head or, if someone wished, braided into the hair.

The flowers used to make them were unique and shone like the light of the stars themselves. Of great beauty and with soft, silky petals. They came in all sizes so it wasn’t uncommon for someone to have dainty small ones and another large ones that came down into their face.

The festival happened under the first clear night of the year, all light would be put out so the stars could be seen particularly well and the Noldor would dance beneath the sky that first welcomed them into the world.

After Queen Míriel died the tradition was largely abandoned due to King Finwë being unable to handle the grief of being reminded of his late wife.

Years later during Fëanor‘s exile to Formenos he brought the starlight festival back to life, teaching his son‘s and wife the traditional dances, helping them design their robes and make their flower crowns.

After the flight of the Noldor the tradition was lost a second time. Thought the son‘s of Fëanor carried on with it the war made it as good as impossible.

As battle and bloodshed slowly took over Beleriand they took to making flower crowns out of paper if they could or had the time for it, if not they simply thought of it, remembering the peace and quiet of the near sacred night their people used to celebrate and longed for the flowing robes and soft crowns.

When Elrond and Elros were kidnapped from Sirion Maedhros made an effort of making sure they knew of this tradition, in fear that if Maglor and he died no one would remember it any longer, and their grandmother’s legacy would fade.

After Maedhros died and Maglor disappeared the world seemed to have forgotten about the starlight festival, the great joy of Queen Míriel of the Noldor, who‘s hair shone like the light of the sky and who loved the nightly glow above all others.

But if you visited Lindon in the second age, and were around at the right time, looking out your window at the correct moment, you might saw a figure, dancing on the rooftops of the elves city, dressed in white, with flowers atop their head and gaze turned towards the stars.

[crownedwithstars]

Hot Takes and Conspiracy Theories About the Silm by Fourth Age Gondorians

(this post stemmed from the idea of the Silm as a part of some very ancient manuscripts Tolkien was just translating, and how it may compare to real world epics like Edda - stories that may have started as poems and songs written down centuries after the fact in a completely different mode and by someone with very different cultural background than the original context of the poems and possibly with motives about promoting himself or his ancestors. so what if this was how Fourth Age Gondorians regarded the Silm as well and had schools of thought and self-taught enthusiasts debating what the stories actually mean? what kind of takes would they come up with?)

The Two Trees

Valinor did not have some special light-emanating trees and they did not actually die, it's just a nature myth that metaphorically talks about a period when the sky literally darkened; this was caused by some unknown natural disaster (like the explosion of a supervolcano).

references to Tree-light and Elves being enhanced by it is just Noldorin propaganda. 

The Silmarils were not real. At least not as they are portrayed in the Silm. 

there are various theories as to what they really were (religious artifacts? some mandate of rulership? just really pretty jewels and everybody exaggerated how special they were? some kind of a super weapon?), but also more philosophical suggestions that the Silmarils are the elements of air, water and earth itself (hint hint that's why they eventually become part of these), and the struggle over them represents the struggle over rulership of Beleriand/Middle-earth. that in the end the Silmarils aren't really possessed by anyone reflects how all kingdoms eventually fall and nobody under Eru can be a master of the world. 

Fëanor was not a real guy and the sons of Fëanor were not actually related to one another.

like who even is that great and perfect?

he's probably just some kind of a bogeyman made up by the Sindar

did anyone in Beleriand ever even see him? CONVENIENT that he spontaneously combusted almost immediately after he came to Beleriand

also who names their kid "the spirit of fire"??? what if it's not a personal name of any elf but more like a title? or a name associated with some entity that had religious following in Valinor?

there's a clue to this in how Fëanor's supposed sons are mostly referred to as "the sons of Fëanor" or "Fëanorians": it bears thinking that they were not actually related to one another, but "Fëanorian" was a title in a same way that "Fëanor" was a title. It doesn't mean an ACTUAL son to a guy named Fëanor but a devotee to whatever the entity or title named Fëanor represented. 

(they couldn't be real brothers because there just can't be that many hair colours in one family.)

MAYBE FËANORIANS WERE SOME KIND OF A CULT

it was probably some kind of a death cult obsessed with blood and murder, considering their body count 

also because of this they were kicked out of Valinor and all stories about how they WANTED to leave are propaganda. 

Celeborn was at least three or four different guys.

How else do you explain the different versions about who he was?

the one who fathered Celebrían was Galadriel's real true love, but he died in obscure circumstances

this theory you don't really want to talk about much, because you don't want to insult Queen Arwen. Also the current Celeborn may come after you. 

Beren did not actually die and come back

his first death is a symbolic one: he had been estranged from his relatives and people, but by marrying Lúthien he completely leaves behind that life and "dies" as a member of the House of Bëor to become a part of the House of Elwe

he did not come again among Men after marrying Lúthien, in other words he was dead to his original society

the sequence in Mandos where Lúthien pleads for pity was originally a description of a courting scene that got bastardised along the way; she had to go to the remaining members of the House of Bëor and ask for Beren's hand in marriage. They would not agree unless Beren gave up his claim to the title of chieftain, i. e. he has symbolically died. 

Melian was actually Ungoliant

that's why Doriath lasted so long, Morgoth was still scared shitless of her and didn't dare go anywhere near her

Nan Dunghortheb was literally her backyard!!!

why else Lúthien would be able to weave weird dream cloaks???

Húan wasn't a dog, he was an Elf

the idea that he was a dog came from: 

he was the best tracker in Aman, so in Beleriand he was called "The Hound of Valinor". Later generations thought this literally meant he was a dog.  

whoever wrote down the legends about him was a wishful idiot who loved dogs and wanted them to be able to talk (understandable)

Something Weird Was Going On With Maeglin

aside from the obvious, of course

were Aredhel and Eöl really his parents though? was Aredhel even married to Eöl? 

maybe Maeglin was a thrall of Morgoth, or was born in captivity and brainwashed to be loyal, and his task from the beginning was to bring Gondolin down

Aredhel did leave Gondolin like the Silm says, but stuff did not go down like the story tells. 

-during her wanderings, Aredhel somehow found Maeglin and saw him as her shot to stage a coup in Gondolin by claiming he was her son (and male heir for the kingdom). Eöl never existed. Or if he did, he was a random guy Aredhel met and used to her own ends. 

Turgon found out about Aredhel's plans (but not about Maeglin) and he was the one who actually killed her.

maybe she was a Fëanorian cult member in secret and was trying to take over Gondolin for them

Túrin son of Húrin, Mormegil, Turambar and the other aliases associated with The Children of Húrin were actually all different guys

nobody can get up to that much weird shit

the real Túrin probably died in Doriath and Melian covered it up

Elured and Elurin survived. They changed their names and became Elrond and Elros. 

Maglor is the Bigfoot of Middle-earth. There is a dedicated fanclub that keeps track of sightings (which are as obscure and bonkers as you could imagine). 

if you subscribe to "Fëanorians were a death cult" theory, then Maglor is actually an ominous cryptid that foretells misfortunes. 

Thingol is alive and lives as a hermit somewhere in Mirkwood.

Thranduil is aware of it and in fact he has helped to keep it secret all this time.

There are also hot takes about Eärendil and Elwing and whether they were real people. 

Eärendil is a half-elf, actual Star and God's favourite little guy. He has a flying ship and travels in space. He keeps an eye on Satan himself. His birth was foretold, he fought and killed the biggest dragon in history in a massive air battle that caused an entire mountain to collapse, and he may have killed Ungoliant. No real person is that special. 

Elwing wouldn't do what bunch of men (who were maybe in a death cult) told her, she's obviously a villain if she existed. She can't die (was directly prevented by divine powers when she tried to) and chose to be immortal. Also being God's favourite little gal and having the ability to turn into a bird? Very suspicious. 

Silmarien and her descendants were the true heirs of Númenor and if they had ruled, Númenor would still exist

the ruling line had many problematic characters that were not well suited to the role

it also culminated in Ar-Pharazon and all the tragedy that his actions brought

Silmarien inherited some of the most important heirlooms from the First Age, which proves that even her father thought she was the true heir

also Silmarien's descendants survived to maintain was what left of the culture and wisdom of Númenor; further proof of Silmarien's right.