#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.

[stellavesperis]

Can we talk about Maglor for a second? Because I love this idiot. He canonically takes the most difficult territory to defend against Morgoth, and places himself in between the forces of evil and his brothers. He commanded the cavalry. He was probably a horse girl. He was said to be most like his mother in temperament. He is so loyal he immediately kills the man who was about to backstab Maedhros. He killed a bunch of Teleri, and then wrote a song about how it was the Noldor who truly fell that day. He burnt the ships. He was glad that Eärendil could be seen by all and everyone could share in the Silmaril's beauty. (He probably would have broken them to save Aman, too). He loves Elrond and Elros. He fights against his last brother in an attempt to return to the Valar he had defied. His loyalty leads him to defer. He chooses to live on. His voice was said to be like the ocean that he wanders beside. The last son of fire was lost to the sea.

[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]

[sadsilmarilsoup]

This would so be me 😂

If anyone knows who the artist is please speak up!

[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?

[camille-lachenille]

My toxic trait is that when I encounter the ‘Fëanorian lisp’ in a fanfiction I’ll go check the root of the word to make sure it was originally written with a Þ and it is not a linguistic abomination. For example: Þauron is correct since the archaic form is Thaurond, but saying Þilmaril would send Fëanor in a fiery fit of anger.

[i-did-not-mean-to]

Cursed Cards - Part I

So, on this blessed day (birthday of my beloved husband and wedding of an author I SO admire), I offer you a little gift.

Here's a commission by @sauroff for my very favourite boys!!! At the end of the small ficlet I've written for it, you'll find the extra Fingon-reaction-panel and the mini-comic I got (I am still screaming) on which I've based the last part of the story!!!

Cursed cards

Words: 1,21 k

Warnings: Russingon (which is a half-cousin-incest ship)

Context: This might be read as a snippet out of my many Modern!AU stories. Either way, Maedhros and Fingon did not know each other well when they were younger because of their fathers' strife.

“Ai Russo,” Fingon called from the door. “You won’t believe what just arrived.”

As he re-entered the room, he was brandishing a small rectangular piece of cardboard triumphantly; from his perch on the sofa, all Maedhros could make out was a cramped block of handwritten text followed by an eerily familiar, sprawling collection of signatures though.

“What do you have there?” he asked cautiously, craning his long, slender neck to get a better look at what he now clearly identified as a postcard of sorts. 

“Your mother has sent me a Christmas card!” Fingon whooped and threw himself on the sofa, the newly-obtained treasure protectively clasped against his broad chest. “And it is the best card anyone has ever received.”

At first, Maedhros was so elated to see his beloved brimming and gleaming with happiness at receiving a missive from Nerdanel that he almost forgot how mischievous his mother could be.

After a few seconds of Fingon cradling his precious card without making any move to share its excellence with him though, Maedhros was overcome by doubt and a terrible suspicion.

“What kind of card is it, darling?” he asked calmly, battling the frown that wanted to crease his smooth, pale brow.

“It’s a family picture,” Fingon said, his voice strained with the effort to suppress a merry guffaw. His eyes were glinting with boundless glee as if he was pondering an excellent joke his lover was not yet privy to.

Instantly, the smile on Maedhros’ face froze into a grimace of pure dread. She wouldn’t do that; his mother knew how much Fingon meant to him. She would never have risked exposing her oldest son to ridicule by digging out the worst holiday picture any family had ever taken.

“Show me!” he demanded shakily and gave a small cry when his worst fears came true. “Oh, no!”

As he tried to snatch the card away, Fingon threw himself around, shielding it with his very body and all but baring his teeth in a territorial frenzy. “No,” he grumbled, “you shall not have it.”

Just by the look on Maedhros’ face, he could tell that he’d destroy the missive if he could.

“Oh, how could she?” Maedhros exclaimed and curled up on himself. “We thought, we really believed, that we had destroyed every last copy of that accursed picture!”

“Why?” Fingon asked cautiously, still keeping his prized possession out of the reach of those terribly nimble and strong hands he so loved to feel on his skin. “It’s an adorable photograph…and you look glorious in it!”

“I…what?” Maedhros combed his fingers through his hair nervously; he was mortified at the mere thought of his dishevelled hair and the awful sweaters his parents had made them wear, so he didn’t so much as glance in the direction of the picture Fingon stared at as if it held every truth of the universe. 

“The twins were in the process of strangling me and scalping Káno,” he informed reproachfully. “Moreover, we had to take Moryo to the hospital. It was an awful night!”

Immediately, Fingon’s huge eyes turned compassionate, and Maedhros’ discontent was mellowed by the earnest empathy he read in them. “How come?”

“Moryo tried to wrench himself free and Tyelko toppled backwards over Curvo…” Maedhros rubbed his forehead with a long-fingered hand; in hindsight, he could appreciate how ludicrous this sounded and cringed. “Either way, Moryo then refused to let us see his hand, Tyelko had hit his head against the edge of a table, Curvo was no longer cackling but wailing. Even the twins stilled in their mayhem upon witnessing the chain reaction of disaster.”

When Fingon merely blinked, Maedhros sighed deeply. “They all still have the scars and, apparently, my parents do not think that reason enough to annihilate the incriminating evidence!”

Fingon had started caressing the picture with a tender fingertip, tracing those noble, gorgeous features he saw every time he closed his eyes; he was, of course, sorry that Fëanor’s children had paid this work of art with blood and tears, but he could not bring himself to truly regret their sacrifice.

“It’s fascinating,” he whispered reverentially, “to see that you’ve all made good on the promises of your childhood days.”

“I guess,” Maedhros agreed grumpily, “I am still awkward, Moryo is still ill-tempered, Tyelko is a savage still, and Curvo never stopped being a sneering pest.”

“I was thinking more along the lines of the prodigious beauty, valour, and strength of your line, but suit yourself,” Fingon laughed and nudged his head against the other’s sharp, bony shoulder. “I wish we had known each other back then!”

“I am glad we didn’t.” Maedhros grimaced in deepfelt embarrassment; he was convinced that his unusual complexion had not done him any favours back in the day. 

Nevertheless, his face softened as he finally looked upon the round, chubby faces of the brothers he thought of constantly – with equal measures of love and exasperation – and found that the memories of their younger days made him smile wistfully.

“I love it,” Fingon swore perfervidly, “and I love you!”

What else could Maedhros do but sling his arm around Fingon and press a kiss against that temple behind which his beloved would keep the memory of that darned picture forevermore, even if he managed to wrench the card from him and throw it into the fire?

“Don’t let Maglor see it though,” he mumbled insistently, “or Moryo. They hate it with a passion!”

All too soon, Maedhros understood that he might as well have saved his breath though as Fingon proceeded to carry the card on his person all the time.

More than once, Maedhros was fooled into believing that his lover had found some rare new treasure upon finding him gaping at something – evidently immensely precious by the look on his face – clasped in his hands, only to discover that it was the vexatious Christmas picture all over again.

Unfortunately, all his earnest endeavours to take it from Fingon ended in bitter defeats though.

“No way,” Fingon grinned as they companionably stood in Maglor’s living room, “I’m sending this to Ingoldo!”

With his impeccable sense of comedic – or tragic, depending on whom you asked – timing, Maglor suddenly appeared at their side to see Fingon gauchely trying to snap a picture of a postcard while swatting away Maedhros’ hand. 

“Nelyo,” Maglor squawked in a melodramatic voice, “please tell me it’s not that photo again!”

He recognised the colour scheme and the chaotic composition even without getting a good look at the object Fingon so ferociously defended from Maedhros’ half-hearted attempts at theft.

“The very same,” Maedhros huffed, “and – if we cannot dissuade him – Finno will make sure everyone with eyes to see will be made aware of our shame!”

Maglor pondered this for a second and then shrugged. “I look somewhat cute in it,” he declared in a regal act of grace, “and it’s – oh, so much – worse for the others, so…I shall condone the propagation of the monstrosity.”

Astounded, Maedhros merely blinked at this utterance; he had just lost a valuable ally.

“Also,” Maglor continued, his eyes glinting sharply, “I shall have my revenge. Charming a middle-aged lady into handing over pictures of her beloved children should be child’s play!”

Here are the promised extra artworks:

I hope you've all liked this, please give @sauroff a big round of applause for being delightful, generous, and absolutely lovely to work with.

As always, lots of love from my little person!

A hooray to love, to friendship, and to happiness. May December be good to you all!!!

-> Part 2

[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)

[inthehouseoffinwe]

The Nice One - Maglor? Just Nice? I know he comes across as more gentle but this dude successfully protected one of the most difficult parts of Beleriand for centuries, was part of every major battle of the First Age, three Kinslayings, whatever that fourth thing was, and managed to survive it all. He clearly has some *insane* skill and emotional and physical resilience. Not to mention a ruthlessness that kept him alive through all of Morgoth’s scheming and subsequent betrayals.

A lil tidbit about Mags’ design. I gave him a kind of sci-fi bluetooth half crown as foreshadowing of sorts. I hc Fëanor had an impression or foresight of each of his sons when he was forging various items for them. In Kano’s case, what should’ve been his circlet became a very unique statement piece.

None of the other Finwëans have a half crown like this. I think it’d be fun to see Mags in the far future with a microphone/speaker thing in the same shape as his crown. Think Star Trek or Star Wars.

[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.

[stellavesperis]

Do you think for a moment, before the Silmarils burned, that Maedhros and Maglor felt like they were home?

That light was the light of Aman, all that was left of the Two Trees (aside from the distant sun and moon). It was the same light that they had seen their father shape into gems when they were young. I sometimes forget that there was a time when the Silmarils really were theirs, when they didn’t burn their hands at the touch, when Fëanor wore them openly about and let his sons behold them too.

And then, all these years later, when they were finally in possession of their father’s gems, their eyes were filled once more with the same light that had illuminated Valinor before its darkening.

Do you think, for a moment, they felt like they were home?