#also with this i really just sealed in like you know what maedhros learned a lot of his love and communication about trauma

[mai-sau]

“Please don’t hide from me.” for Russigon (also welcome to the server!)

THANK U FOR WAITING THIS LONG THIS TOOK A WHOLE FOREVER AND A HALF AFHUJKGHNWISGHNLK I had a lot of fun writing this one!! Thank you for prompting (and thank you for the welcome!!), and I hope you enjoy!

Prompt: “Please don’t hide from me.”

It had started out simple enough, really. Maedhros had been resting in Mithrim for a time; his wounds healed as best they would, his kingship passed over to Fingolfin as smoothly as it could, and he was back to attending to business as often as he should. Which is to say: at all hours of the day.

And life went on. It was laughably simple, how easily the days passed. Here, time did not eke out like a sluggish wound for the sheer malice of such a thing. Elves rushed by him in their daily duties, councils convened and dismissed, and the dawns came and went. And Maedhros oversaw these elves, participated in those councils, and welcomed the dawns in the shadow of nightmares.

It was simple enough, really.

Throughout it all, Fingon was a blessing. During the day, he offered both precious wells of laughter and quiet companionship. When he wasn’t off conducting his own duties, he would come find Maedhros in the library (as he often was in his free time, the fuzzy silence of wooden shelves and crisp pages a balm to his nerves) and they would pass hours leafing through tomes, chatting in hushed tones, or simply gazing out the arching windows to the city below. 

Maedhros liked staring into the lake most of all, content to watch the sunset gleam and glimmer across its surface. Maedhros thought he was quite adept at the art of staring and mind-wandering, after decades chained up on that accursed cliff, or left waiting for the next torture as his body smeared a stone cold floor ruddy red -

Well. It was simple enough.

And at nights, Fingon would hold him close through his bitter nightmares, whispering sweet assurances that he was safe, he was in Hithlum, he was cherished. Occasionally it was Maedhros who did the holding, his beloved awaking with a terrible shiver that would not cease until long after the sun warmed the skies. Those nights were far worse, in Maedhros’ opinion.

But they went on, and they kept living, and the days kept passing by. It was easy.

Until it wasn’t.

It started with a simple touch. An act of comfort even, which made Maedhros all the more sickened by his own foul reaction. In one of their councils, someone had mentioned the pressing need to discuss the captive elves of Angband, their mind turning, and what it meant for Hithlum’s defenses to have such lethal weapons hidden as friendly faces; under the table, Fingon reached out a hand to grasp Maedhros’ own. 

Why he did Maedhros could not entirely say, perhaps it was to ease any distress at the mention of captivity, perhaps it was to soften the blow of indirect suspicion. All he did know was that as soon as Fingon’s hand - the same hand that had stroked his shaking side on the back of Thorondor, had steadied his spoon when Maedhros was still early and frail in his healing, had flipped the worn pages of their books for the evening - closed around his own, Maedhros was repulsed. 

He tamped the feeling down as swiftly as possible, trying to ignore the prickle of panic that raced through his veins pulsing out from that one point of contact. Nonetheless, for all his effort he could not relax the sudden tension in his body. Fingon had surely felt it, hand in his own. He gave him a concerned glance before squeezing even tighter, likely assuming Maedhros’ distress sprung from the topic of conversation. Maedhros felt the vague urge to vomit.

Afterwards, he was furious with himself. How dare he be disgusted with Fingon’s touch? Fingon, who had done nothing at all to warrant such distress. 

Nothing, except - Maedhros considered, before banishing the thought with such grief and guilt that for the rest of the day he carried around the heavy burden of tears not allowed to fall. He would not allow them to. How dare he weep over such ungrateful self pity - there were far greater things -

But it kept happening: whether a squeezed hand at another council meeting, a gentle hand in his as they made their way to dinner, or even a soft hand laid over his own in the silence of the library, Maedhros felt the same rapid revulsion flood his senses. 

To make matters more confusing, he did not feel like this at every touch he received; perhaps he could have reasoned to himself it was only a shadow of the pain endured in Angband. But Maedhros realized with growing dismay that it was only Fingon’s touch, and only upon his hand.

You know, a treacherous, sad voice reminded him. You know why.

I do, Maedhros thought with no small amount of self loathing. And that is why I must do better.

Fingon, clever as he was, caught on quickly enough.

“Nelyo?” he asked, after another ruined attempt at comfort in the library. He had reached out his hand to rub his thumb across the back of Maedhros’, only for Maedhros to tense as taut as a bowstring once again. And once again, Fingon slowly drew his hand back, brow furrowing as he turned to face Maedhros fully.

“Yes?”

Fingon seemed hesitant, unsure. “Are you okay?”

“Of course I am. I’m here, aren’t I?” Maedhros tried to tease with a grin he knew was half-hearted at best.

“Yes, it’s just…” Fingon bit his lip, before something set in his eyes, and he continued on without hesitation. “Sometimes, you seem to recoil at my touch. Would you prefer I not, from now on? Touch you, that is. It’s alright if you do.”

“No!” Maedhros blurted. Immediately, he quieted his voice at Fingon’s widened eyes and the sound of his own harsh echo through the library - empty as it was - but the nervous twinge remained in his tone. “No, I adore your touch. Losing it - I could not bear such a thing.”

“But Maedhros,” Fingon said. “When I do, you tense so horribly and get the most strained look on your face. Please, I don’t wish to cause you harm or remind you of anything unpleasant.”

“You’re not,” Maedhros lied. “It’s just me. My body endured many… stresses, in Angband. These are just the shadows of the Enemy, nothing more.”

Fingon was silent for a moment. Eventually, he dropped his gaze to the table between them, its surface laden with books of all shapes and sizes that they had been exploring together. With a start, Maedhros saw his eyes begin to glisten, and he looked ashamed. 

“Are you sure,” Fingon said, voice thick. “That it is only the shadows of the Enemy you feel?”

“What do you mean?” Maedhros asked wearily, knowing damn well what he meant.

“Nelyo,” Fingon choked out. “You only hurt when I touch your hand.”

And with this, Fingon burst into tears. Flushed with an entirely new panic at the sight, Maedhros rushed to embrace him. Enveloped in his arms, voice low despite their solitude in the library at this time of the evening, Fingon cried tender apologies into his shoulder.

“I’m so sorry Nelyo, I’m so sorry, if there were any other way, if I could have just broken those damn chains, I’m so sorry -”

Maedhros shushed him, though he felt his own throat grow tight. Guilt crept up his chest.  “Shh, love, you did everything you could. I would be dead if not for your wise decision. You saved me. You brought me home. I love you, and do not blame you one bit. It’s just my own body’s confusion - I am the one who should be sorry, to be so ungrateful -”

Fingon hiccuped and drew back. “Ungrateful?” He asked, incredulous. “Nelyo, I cut off your hand.”

“To save my life!” Maedhros cried. “If it weren’t for you, I would be dead. I begged you to kill me, and still you saved me.”

Fingon’s eyes softened. “Dearest, that doesn’t change the fact that you were hurt.”

“But I understand why,” Maedhros insisted, the frustration of these past weeks spilling out of him. “I understand why, and it was the kindest hurt given to me in those wretched mountains, so why do I only suffer their shadow in dreams, but my body can’t accept the one person who hurt me to help me?”

Wiping at his stinging eyes, Maedhros trembled. He felt wetness on his knuckles, rushing down his cheeks. “I don’t understand why!”

It was Fingon’s turn to reach out as if to embrace him, before his arms faltered midair. “Nelyo - I - can I hold you?”

“Yes,” Maedhros sobbed. “Just please don’t touch my hand I’m so sorry.”

“Of course,” Fingon murmured, and wrapped him tight in a hug. Slow as honey, he stroked Maedhros’ hair, letting his fingernails glide across his scalp and spine. How long they stayed like this Maedhros couldn’t tell, but after a while his tears began to dry and his body became his own again.

“My dear Nelyo,” Fingon said, long after he had quieted. He still ran his hand soothingly through his hair, down his back, and up again. “You are allowed to feel this way, as awful as I imagine it must be. I know you are loving, and grateful, and trying your best. I still hurt you, in a very permanent way at that, and it’s natural for your body to recognize it. It’s ok to be afraid.”

Maedhros breathed in deep, once, twice, like he would during heavy nights. He sighed against Fingon’s shoulder, clad in the smooth cerulean silks of his evening robes. There was a wet patch staining the silk. “This body can be such a bastard.”

“But it is your body, so I love it all the same.” Fingon assured. Slowly, Maedhros drew back, and saw a smile twitch at the corners of his lips. “As I love the bastard that inhabits it.” he teased.

Maedhros snorted. “As always, dearest, I regret to inform you of your dreadful taste.”

Fingon broke into a full grin. “Why, of course. And I regret to inform you that I simply do not care.” 

His face grew solemn again, and he reached a hand up to caress his cheek. Maedhros leaned into the touch. He let his eyes flutter shut. 

“I do love you, you know?” He heard Fingon’s quiet voice. “Love you as the kind, resilient ner you are. You are more than precious to me.”

Maedhros opened his eyes, locking his gaze with the dark eyes of his beloved. “I know. As I love the bravest ner I’ve ever met. So full of courage, to love so wholly.” Saying this, he kissed his palm.

Fingon smiled, radiant and warm. Rising from his seat at the table, he began to gather the books into organized piles. “Well then, it’s getting quite late. I’d say it’s about time for bed, wouldn’t you?”

“Of course,” Maedhros said, and rose to tidy up their books with him. “Oh, can we take this one on gardening back to our room? There was a bit on lissuin I wanted to finish before I forget.” 

“Certainly,” Fingon said, and set it aside. “Nelyo?”

“Yes?”

“I know it doesn’t happen all the time, but… would it be okay if I asked, before I touched you? And if you ever would feel more comfortable if I did not touch you at all, you can always tell me, even if it’s just certain areas or - or -” Fingon paused in his book arrangements, grasping for words. “Just - please don’t hide from me, love. I want you to tell me. I want you to get what you need, even if it’s space.”

Maedhros felt his throat tighten again, though his heart was far brighter this time. “Of course,” he answered. “Thank you.”

The slow, content smile returned to Fingon’s face. Together, they finished organizing the books and gathered them up in their arms to return at the reshelving cart by the great entrance doors.

“There now,” Maedhros said, dropping the hefty tomes down on the cart. “That was simple enough, wasn’t it?”

[ruthlesslistener]

the hollow knight~!

How I feel about this character

-BABY!!! BAAAABY. Babyyyyy. Sad poor soul. But mostly I just love them. They’ve been my favorite since I saw the city of tears cutscene and they still are to this day. They remind me very strongly of a kinder, sadder Maedhros Feanorian, with their dad taking up the status of war criminal instead of them. Apart from all the little details they share, they also were the two eldest children of mad scientist kings who were tortured for ages by the gods their dad pissed off, lost an arm, and fought a losing war against said angry god, at the cost of hundreds of thousands of lives, only to eventually die by their own hand as a torn-apart failure. I love them

All the people I ship romantically with this character

-None, actually. Though I headcanon them to be romantic and to love romance stories, I just could never get behind them actually being in a romantic relationship. They’re closer to what we’d call aromantic- definatly more typical to their wyrm ancestry than their father, ironically enough

My non-romantic OTP for this character

-Hollow and Quirrel!! They’re morails. Never expected to ship it because this is like peak obscure crack ship but after jokingly bringing it up over discord I ended up getting really invested in it. I hc them to be pretty much the same age, with Quirrel being taken in by Monomon as a teenager when Hollow was also a teen (and deemed pure enough to start interacting with people other than the Pale King and the Great Knights) and just...hanging out in the library together while the adults talked. Quirrel was allowed to interact with them on the basis that he could teach (’program them’, in the Pale King’s words) things that he himself considered too easy to explain, like the basics of glyph works in soul magics, and then it just spiraled from there. From Quirrel’s perspective, it’s kind of like getting overly attached to a roomba and then realizing a shitton of years later that the roomba loved you back, which is a...fun time once he gets over the amnesia

My unpopular opinion about this character

-Hmm, not quite an unpopular opinion per se, but I feel like on some level they chose to take up the fight to protect Hallownest themselves? Like, they had no choice in the matter, technically, but the Pale King showed them the beauty of Hallownest and all the little things he wanted to save by using their life and passed on his love for the place. They are a god, after all, by birthright and probably ascension- they want to care for the people under their wings, both by choice and instinct. I also feel like though they in no way grew up in a healthy or safe household, they were one of the few people who was able to read him well, and that they themselves influenced him a bit, albeit subconsciously. Their ability to pass as pure was half from everyone assuming they were beings of void that couldn’t fathom emotion, yeah, but another part was that they learned to seal gods from entering or exiting their mind and to whisper spells of silence to whoever tried to enter or sense their thoughts. They are, after all, the only boss who can’t be dreamnailed to any capacity, something that can be done to the Lost Kin/Broken Vessel, another creature of void (though it doesn’t work on them bc well...void is the opposite of dream)

I’m also pretty sure they met Hornet at some point. There’s just no way that there wasn’t some overlap with her birth and them being designated an ideal vessel- Herrah does not strike me as the kind to sacrifice herself unless she thinks that the odds are good

One thing I wish would happen / had happened with this character in canon.

-MORE CONTENT. M o r e  c o n t e n t. We get more of them in Godmaster than the base game but I want to know how they were raised, or at least the moment that they realized they were impure. At the very least, I hope we get a baby Hollow plush next, bc goddamn I am going to cling to every last scrap of their character that we get. Love the big gentle sad sacrificial lamb knight with the stupid-large horns

Send me a character and I’ll break their ass down 

[jane-ways]

Scion of Kings, Chapter 4

Well, this is it! The last chapter (for now...I don't think I'll be able to put away this Gil for good). I know this is a quick turnaround, but I knew what I wanted to write and the plot bunny wouldn't leave me alone (and I wanted to finish the story before going on vacation). Special thanks to @ecthvlion for betareading.

Lastly, my very talented friend Ian was kind enough to take a commission of my Gil! I think he looks very handsome - check it out and give it a reblog here!

Thank you all for joining me on this journey! This was my first ever fic, and it's been so wonderful to read all your comments and get your support. You guys make this worth doing :)

Read it on the Silmarillion Writers’ Guild and AO3.

Maedhros sat at his old desk, made for him when he reached the age of ascension and became, according to the laws and customs of the Eldar, an adult. He had always been tall, and even then, when he still had a few inches left to grow, the desk had been a little short for him. But like all things of one’s youth, it had become part of the fabric of life, the slight stoop it forced him into as natural a part of writing as breathing.

But how does one pick up the threads of an old life, its pattern no longer familiar to the fingertips? In Himring, Maedhros had commissioned a new desk, more suited to his height and station in life. It was the desk of a king, a warrior, fit for sealing and stamping and making the fate of the world, not of a boy-prince composing treatises on rhetoric in the warmth of his mother’s house. He no longer knew the stoop he had forced his shoulders into, sitting at his old desk in a life he no longer recognized.

No muscle memory to weave this new world, then.

Maedhros sighed. He rolled his shoulders in discomfort, and organized all he would need: several sheaves of paper, an inkwell, a quill, a nib sharpener. Laying them all out in a neat grid before him, he considered his options. He had to tell the lad, of course—he laughed at himself, then, breaking his own train of thought. “‘Lad’ indeed,” he said to himself. “He’s High King and here I am calling him a lad.”

The last time Maedhros had seen him, of course, he really had still been a lad, small and cold and frightened. But even then, there had a been a strength in the boy’s eyes, a steady burning—not of hatred, or even judgment, but of the will to live. (Secretly in his heart of hearts Maedhros had envied that fire even then.)

He had held the boy close, wrapped him in his cloak and rubbed feeling back into his limbs. An unexpected surge of affection had coursed through him, then, the memory of many brothers and cousins who as children long ages ago had cried in his arms. Briefly, he had considered taking the child with him. But how could he have damned a child to such a life as that? How could he have been so selfish as to risk more violence—a last retribution against the heir of Dior from his fallen brothers’ followers?

So Maedhros had let him go—called him Starlight after the fire in his eyes and sent him to the last place in Beleriand the boy might be safe. He had thought of Gil-galad often, especially after the twins had come into his life, wondered what sort of man he was growing into, what sort of education he was receiving. If he was happy.

It all fell into place, then. Maedhros had never been one for over-deliberation; once the path cleared before him, he followed it with as little to-do as possible. The words already laying themselves out in his mind’s eye, he set pen to paper.

To Gil-Galad, from Maedhros.

Greetings, my lord. I thank you kindly for your letter, and am glad to learn of Elrond’s success in court, and in friendship. You seem like a good sort of person, and he speaks very fondly of you. In another life, I think, had had things been different, I would have been very fond of you as well.

It does me great honor to know that you hold me in such regard. I am not sure what I have done to deserve it—

‘No,’ Maedhros firmly reminded himself. No self-pity, no guilt. These were, as his mother often reminded him, unhelpful emotions. And he knew this; he remembered the cocoon of loathing he had once tangled himself in. In a fit of exasperation, Fingon had once yelled at him, “It’s not good enough to just stand there and say, ‘I’m sorry, I’m terrible;’ you have to do something about it! You have to stop being terrible and actually start making amends!” He had been right, Maedhros supposed, although it was a feat easier said than done. But what was this strange second life if not a chance to rid oneself of the easy familiarity we all have with the more unpleasant parts of ourselves?

“Here’s to mending,” Maedhros murmured, lifting his quill in a mock salute.

—but it is welcome nonetheless. There is no delicate way to put this, and so I shall say it right out: being your father would bring me no end of pride, but the honor is not mine.

You doubtless wish to know the story, and although I have debated with myself over the potential harm telling you may do, you seem a man of steady constitution, and I believe it is your right to know. I will try to relate the matter as factually as I can, but I beg of you to forgive whatever bias remains.

You were born Eluréd. Dior was your father and Nimloth was your mother and Doriath was your home. You had a twin brother, Elurín, and a sister, Elwing. You know what became of her. And so Elrond your dear friend is also your nephew and your heir, a fact which I hope may bring you some measure of peace. Of you and your brother I shall now relate.

When my brothers and I sent word asking for—well, I suppose demanding is really the correct word—the return of the Silmaril and heard nothing in return, I hoped that Dior would at least expect an attack and evacuate Menegroth. This was not to be, and when Dior slew my brother Celegorm, a few of his followers, blinded by hate and rage, retaliated in the cruelest way they knew how. They took you and your brother—Elwing they could not find—and left you in the woods. Your intended fate you can imagine.

When I heard what they had done, I slew them and went searching for you. It was the dead of winter, and the woods were treacherous with snow and ice and things that are not spoken of in the Blessed Realm. When I found you, you were huddled in the hollow of a dead tree, barely alive and crying for your brother. He lay at the bottom of a nearby ravine with his neck at an angle. He was surely dead, and you would have soon joined him had I not found you then. I warmed you, garbed you in my own cloak, and sent you to the one place I hoped would remain safe. I told no one but the messenger I sent you with, a woman long in my service and whom I had trusted with my own life more than once. She died at Sirion, and thus with me our secret passed beyond knowledge into the West.

Maedhros paused there, releasing a deep breath he felt he’d been holding for thousands of years. So now he had explained that facts. But how could he ever explain? How could he justify the panic that had gripped him, covered in his little brothers’ blood, as Gil-galad’s tiny, half-frozen body curled in tight against his own? In that moment he had been pierced by the distinct feeling, as cold and clear as the winter sun above, that seeing this child to safety was the only important thing in the whole of Arda. What other justification was there, besides—“I did what any father would have done”?

Forgive me for what I did. You have, it seems, forgiven me for Sirion, but if you cannot find it in your heart to forgive me for Doriath, at least forgive me for concealing your identity. I feared for your life if my brothers’ followers learned that you lived. I feared they would try to complete what their compatriots had started, either before you reached Círdan or when you reached manhood. I feared, I suppose, that if they knew, if you were found out, you would be running all your life. I sometimes wondered if I made the right decision.

But when Gondolin fell, and the mantle of High King passed to you, I knew there was no going back. I could not risk open rebellion while your reign was still young and fragile. Then—

Then the Oath had awoken again, and Sirion was burning before Maedhros knew what he was doing. In Elrond and Elros, despite his initial reticence to keep them, he had recognized the chance to start over, to do things right this time. To repair a little of the damage he had done. But all too soon came war like even Maedhros had never known before, and the Oath clawed at him, shredding him apart until it was there was nothing left of himself and the Oath was all that remained. Of the end he remembered little but a pain so strong it numbed and a gaping maw in the earth to match what he felt in his heart.

—it was too late. But I do not think there is any harm done by a small reinterpretation of the truth that heals instead of harms. Perhaps it was fate, a little tweak in the fabric of history, or perhaps Námo really does have a sense of humor. You were born to be king, after all. And as it so happened, we Noldor had need of one. It seems you have done a good job of it. Were I your sire, I could not be prouder.

Here Maedhros stopped again, making to sign the letter. But it still felt incomplete. He turned Fingon’s old words over in his mind anew—it’s not enough to say you’re sorry. You have to make amends. Maedhros thought of the little boy he had once cradled in his arms. It had been the first time he’d held a child in centuries. What choice would he make now, if he had to do it all over again, knowing what he knew?

I have been told that guilt without action is a selfish emotion. That it turns our thoughts inwards, rather than out towards the world we must seek to repair. I think, when I found you, for a brief moment I was able to transcend that guilt. I saw clearly that the duty of your protection fell to me, and me alone. I felt then what I felt for my own foster-sons when I sent them to stay with Círdan—I wanted to spare you the doom we had wrought for ourselves. Perhaps it is a strange sentiment, but not, it seems, unwelcome by you.      I was good with children, you know, what with so many little brothers and cousins to look after. I think I was not so bad with my own sons. You are grown now, but I think perhaps there is still a chance to do right by you, as I did by them.

Besides, there are not so many kings of the Noldor from whom you could have inherited that silver hair.

I wish you every happiness to be found in Middle-Earth—would that I could have known your new world, and shared those joys with you. If you will have me, it would be my honor to be called

Your father,

Maedhros