#elenwe looks more chill

[thelien-art]

Walking through the streets of Tirion~

Turgon is talking about architecture and Elenwe just found him and ran up to him, because they love each other

[dialux]

It is not a dream, whatever they say afterwards.

...

She is born at the stroke of midnight, on the hottest day of the year. Anaire sweats and curses through the last week of her pregnancy. Fingolfin claims to have hauled blocks of ice down the Calacirya for his wife’s comfort, balanced on his broad shoulders.

But none of it matters, because the moment that little Aredhel, blood-slicked and howling, slips from her mother’s body, lightning flashes, thunder claps, and the heavens open up around her.

...

She is born in rain. She is born into a tempest that shatters trees and warps stone. She is born into the kind of elemental fury that cannot be taught, only experienced.

...

“There is not only joy to be had in life,” says her mother, once, tending to cuts on Aredhel’s back that were carved by a bear that Aredhel had attacked, armed with nothing more than a knife and her own courage. “There is duty as well, my little girl. Duty and kindness and love.”

Aredhel laughs instead of screaming. “The day I find love shall be the day of my death.”

“Do not say that!”

“I have seen it.”

“Aredhel!”

“Wish freedom for me, if you must offer me something,” says Aredhel, and rises, ignoring the blood staining her gown and the pain. “But not love, and certainly not duty!”

...

The gown had been white before it was ruined. Aredhel washes it in her own bathroom, scrubs and scrubs until her blood and the bear’s blood finally fade, until the sun has bleached the stains to nothingness.

Then she wears it again, braids her hair out of the way, and stalks into the forest.

She doesn’t return until she has tamed the bear into friendship.

...

Forever after, she wears white.

...

It is a reminder: life is a stain. It might begin clean, but it shall never end that way. The only thing to do is to wash it out, and to scrub until one’s arms ache, and to let the cloth dry out before being stained once more.

Aredhel learns many, many tricks to removing the stains.

...

I will have vengeance, or I shall have death, Feanor had snarled in the courtyard of Tirion.

Anaire does not ask any of her sons to remain. She does not even speak to Fingolfin. But she is in Aredhel’s rooms when she returns, sitting in the silent darkness.

“Do not go,” she whispers.

Aredhel remembers bears and blood and bitterness on her tongue. Her life in Aman has been a cage, glittering and golden, and if the world outside it shall be dangerous- well, she has a knife, and her own rage, and the knowledge to scrub out stains.

“Do not try to stop me.”

“Have you no love for a mother?”

“I will have freedom,” says Aredhel levelly, and watches her mother’s face crumple, and refuses to feel guilty for it. “I will have freedom, or I shall have death.”

...

(She does not tell that story to her father. The one time he asks- they all know where Anaire was, that last night in Tirion- Aredhel looks at him, steadily, until he turns away.)

...

There are unforgivable things. Those boats- well, Aredhel has never been a forgiving person, and she does not wish to become one now.

...

There are immense storms on the Helcaraxe. Aredhel hears, sometimes, Lalwen laughing so loud it sounds like a scream. She does not weep: she has not wept for many, many years. Even as her people- those she trusted, those who trusted her- fall like flies, Aredhel does not falter.

The tears would freeze on her face, and she has no time to brush it off.

...

When Elenwe dies, Aredhel allows her brother one night to mourn. She holds little Idril in her arms, soothing the shudders away, and doesn’t release her to anyone else. Her brothers are with Turgon; her father is tending to their people. What Idril needs is someone who remembers her.

The next morning, Aredhel wakes Idril, and she brushes the little girl’s hair out until it shines, casting more wood than strictly necessary to ensure it doesn’t freeze. Aredhel’s fingers are not nimble enough for the proper braids, but she manages a reasonable enough facsimile for her niece.

Then she takes her to Turgon’s tent.

“Get up,” she says coldly.

Argon is curled around Turgon, trying to keep him from fading through sheer force of will. He sits up when he sees Aredhel, eyes wide, and she bares her teeth.

“Get him up,” she says flatly.

“I don’t think that’s...”

“Get out, then,” says Aredhel, and doesn’t watch him scuttle out. Argon will bring someone- either Fingon, or her father- and all that means is that she doesn’t have too much time. She glances down at Idril. “Watch.”

It is four steps from the entrance of the tent to the bed. Aredhel takes the steel knife she once used to attack a bear with- the knife she’d left deliberately exposed to the elements- and places the flat very cleanly against Turgon’s throat.

Turgon jerks at the chill. Aredhel goes with him, fluid as water, so she doesn’t cut his throat but keeps the knife against his skin.

He is stronger than her. Aredhel lets him finally throw her off- though it takes longer than she’d expected- and waits, because Turgon’s  thrashing has finally led him to catch sight of his daughter, his little daughter with her braids done in the Vanya style, looking like the miniature of her mother. The grief in his eyes is simply awful.

Aredhel waits.

And when he finally draws himself around Idril, sobbing but not the terrible, bone-chilling silence of an elf on the verge of fading, Aredhel leaves.

...

“You cannot save anyone,” Aredhel tells Idril, when Turgon finally allows her out of his sight. “But you can offer them a path back. Whether they take it or not is their choice.”

“The Burners,” says Idril, then- that’s what she calls the Feanorians, precocious child that she is- “will you give them a path back, then?”

Aredhel had loved Celegorm, and Curufin, and the twins, too. But she is not a forgiving person.

“If someone burns their bridges,” she says finally, “you do not owe them more tinder.”

...

(That is a lie.)

...

It is not that she is unforgiving.

It is that she does not wish to be forgiving.

...

When Fingon saves Maedhros, Aredhel visits the healer’s tent in the dead of night. She watches the agony of her cousin’s hroa, etched into his skin, and she does not feel triumph.

If she sees Celegorm again, she will fall into his arms, and she will forgive him everything.

But Argon is dead, and so is Elenwe, and so had they all come through the ice, embittered and betrayed. It is not that Aredhel does not want to forgive her cousins; it is that she fears what will happen if she does. She cannot spend her life waiting for a knife in the back.

Turgon wants nothing to do with them.

Fingon will not leave them behind.

And Aredhel does not wish to see another brother dead. She kisses Fingon, and she kisses Fingolfin, and she kisses Finrod and all his siblings, and then she disappears into the night with Turgon, having not spoken to any of her Feanorian cousins since before the Helcaraxe.

...

“Freedom is not a dream,” she tells her mother, once. “I don’t want it. I need it.”

“If what you wish for is total freedom,” Anaire had replied, “you will never have it.”

Aredhel thinks about her mother, who had loved to dance but been forbidden from it by her grandfather; she thinks about how beautifully Anaire dances in the privacy of their home. She thinks about the way Anaire has chained herself down to the thunder and fury of the House of Finwe, and she laughs.

“You would say that,” Aredhel tells her.

...

She builds Gondolin and she leaves Gondolin and she returns to Gondolin.

The day she finds love- the day she knows she finds love- is when she takes a spear meant for her son. It all cracks open and bleeds away, all the rage seething beneath her breastbone, all the fury she’s spent centuries tending to, all the anger that she’s never known the beginning or ending of, and Aredhel is burning with it, blazing, bright as the father who would soon ride to his death and the brother who would collapse under betrayal and the gods she’d once rejected.

She dies from it, of course, but Aredhel has never feared flame.

...

She is set free upon the river, her corpse dressed in the hands of the niece that she’d once cradled so tightly, her hair braided by the brother she chose to follow. To her son she has given her hairclasps; to Idril she has given the knife that once saved Turgon from fading.

(They say steam rose from her body, so great it enveloped all of Gondolin in a great fog for weeks to come.)

...

That knife- that trusty, small little knife- saves Idril and Earendil from Maeglin, atop the wind-battered tower of Gondolin, when Morgoth finally attacks.

...

Later- years later- Ages later- Aredhel falls into her mother’s arms once more. She is a mother now herself, and she has watched and walked beside and touched and loved dark things, and she is not the girl who’d walked into a forest to conquer her fear with not even a knife to defend herself. She was born in rain and died in a river, a High Lady of the Noldor. She was not felled by Morgoth. Poison took her at the end; not hatred, and not blood, and not flame.

She is the first of her family to be reborn.

“Was it worth it?” asks Anaire, once and only once. “Your dreams of freedom- was any of it worth it?”

Aredhel tosses her hair, bares her teeth.

Smiles.

“It was,” she says, “necessary.”

[hrivetar]

“Breathe, just breathe! Cone on Turucano! Breathe! Atar! It’s not helping!” Irisse screamed at him. Her voice betraying her terror that she would lose her brother like they lost his wife.

Nolofinwe finished tucking Itarille into Findarato's arms then rejoined his children. Turucano was laying limply in Findecano's arms staring blankly at the sky, his breathing shallow yet laboured as though even those soft breaths were fighting against a heavy weight to enter his body. The image was so like what Nolofinwe had seen of his father that a chill that had nothing to do with the cold tore through him.

"Irisse go make sure the tent is as warm as possible. Aracano, go with her. Findecano hand him here." Nolofinwe instructed, his youngest children raced to their tent to do as instructed.

Findecano looked vaguely mutinous at the order he was given but handed his brother over. Lifting Turucano into his arms Nolofinwe followed the path Irisse and Aracano took. Behind him he could hear his nephew and son's footsteps as well as the voices of Laurefindel and the others who had taken charge of things for them, yet in his arms Turucano remained a cold weight. This wasn't the first couple with a full bond that had lost one of the pair though, and if it was like the others Turucano would die within days.

"Atar, please. Please-" Findecano's voice broke, but Nolofinwe understood what he was asking.

"If I can. I promise Finno, if I can save your brother I will."

"Uncle... we cannot lose you either." Findarato reminded gently.

With a quick glance Nolofinwe saw that someone, possibly Artanis, had tucked some furs around Itarille who was sleeping in Findarato's arms now. While he hoped he was wrong Nolofinwe wondered if she had Seen what would happen to her mother, it would explain her being clingy but it would break Turucano's heart to know his daughter had seen it but said nothing. In his arms Turucano's breathing became softer still.

Determined Nolofinwe sped up and ducked into the tent. The warm air was like a wall and it was almost too much after so long in the cold especially with the water he was drenched in from his son's plunge to try rescuing his wife. May Elenwe find her way to the Halls.

Lowering Turucano to the ground Nolofinwe started stripping off the soaked layers of clothing. Once that was done he picked him up and bundled him in his own blanket and cloak. Closing his eyes Nolofinwe prayed to Este and to Nienna hoping beyond hope that they would hear him and spare his family more grief, but with the bond being damaged even if Turucano survived he would never properly recover in this life. Low singing brought him from his anguished musings and Nolofinwe looked to see Artanis was cradling Itarille now, similarly to how he held Turucano, and both she and Findarato were singing.

It had been a long time since he had tried Healing anything, but seeing the terrified looks and devastation hiding in the eyes of his family he decided to try.

"Day to night, dark to light, like a star in the sky darkness cannot reach you. Light the night, joy is light, let the darkness pass away it cannot keep you. Come to the light, see it bright a thousand shinning fragments ablaze. Turn away from that beckoning night, find the day once more."

Once his voice faded there was silence in the tend for a long moment. Only the soft quiet sound of breathing was heard and for one long moment Nolofinwe couldn't feel any movement beneath his hand. He closed his eyes in anguish then he felt Findecano's hand on his shoulder and looked at him.

Findecano was looking down at Turucano though, his expression hopeful and relieved. Following his gaze Nolofinwe saw Turucano looking up at him exhausted but aware again.

"Atya?" Turucano asked looking startled.

"Shh, you are here. Itarille is safe. We will make it, okay? I promise you we will make it."

Turucano nodded but still watched him. That was when Nolofinwe realized he was crying. Smiling weakly he leaned down and rested his forehead against his son's.

"Please, do not do that again. I was afraid I would lose you too, and I would give anything to keep you all safe."

".... together. We will make it together." Turucano replied, his voice holding the solemness of a vow.

Nolofinwe nodded slightly, they would make it off this ice together. Straightening up he met the eyes of everyone awake in the tent and saw them all making that same vow. Maybe they wouldn't but they all agreed to try their best to make it, and for now that was enough.

"I think... we should get some rest. It has been a long day."

[madtomedgar]

Your favorite Maedhros/Fingon headcanons? Canon or AU, doesn't matter. Thanks!

Ok these are almost all really sad and I feel bad for all my followers that I can’t put them under a cut but :/

1) You know what’s boring as fuck? elf society being homophobic! you know what’s more fun than that other than literally anything? Two households, both alike in dignity, in fair tirion upon tuna where we lay our scene! The impediments for these two young lovebirds are not Gender or even Relatedness (though that’s. Wierd.) but their dads and their dads’ lack of anything resembling chill.

1.5) Maedhros has Cassandra-like foresight, in that he only recieves the Gift once it’s too late to stop the thing from being set in motion (so like, only Foresees what the oath will bring after he’s sworn it, etc). This is a #problem.

2) I like the idea of mating for life that involves soul-bonding or some mental/emotional link plus physiological/chemical thing because I am Boring and Unoriginal. I do not like how both the canon implies and most people run with the idea that this involves penetrative sex. Fuck that. I have decided that this idea arose from vaguely phrased stuff in Laws and Customs, and it probably said something like “when the two are united in their love, their spirits and their bodies become joined.” This could mean sex, but it could also mean a lot of other things. As our intrepid young heroes learn to great dismay when they have a very sappy feelings conversation and then start happily making out, safe in the belief that Nothing Will Happen as long as they don’t Go Too Far and then

BLAMO

Marriaged

Cue mutual cries of “DAD IS GONNA FLIP!” followed by a very frantic trip to the library and some awkward anonymous letters to a loremaster.

3) Because “Dad Is Gonna Flip,” they do not tell anyone. Turgon, of course, figures it out by taking One Look at Fingon and he Disapproves Heavily. (THERE ARE PLENTY OF HOT RED HEADS IN VALINOR BROTHER DID YOU HAVE TO PICK THE LITERAL WORST ONE???). Once Turgon is convinced that sex did not even occur (!!!!scandal!!!!) and realizes that one can in fact become marriaged accidentally, he spends the next 10 years avoiding Elenwe. It’s not that he doesn’t want to marry Elenwe, but these things must be done Properly, you understand.

4) Maedhros is Completely Convinced that if Feanor finds out, he’s going to kill Fingon, then Fingolfin, then him, then himself. In that order. This is of course very upsetting.

5) When Maedhros is in Angband, Sauron keeps trying to convince him they’ve captured and/or killed/corrupted Fingon. He gets Fingon’s image too perfect the first time he tries (shoutout to @fidelishaereticus for this) like a too shiny photoshopped version, and, because of that and the nature of their bond, Maedhros never believes him after that. Which pisses Sauron off no end. No matter how convincing the attempt, Fingon is cold, so cold, and it’s not cold here, so it can’t be him. There’s one time where it alllllllmost works. Sauron manages a pretty good mock-up of a mutilated Fingon corpse. As luck would have it, Fingon has fallen through the ice. He’d been pulled out, but despite the best efforts of everyone to warm him, he’s fallen asleep and his soul has elbow room and the Halls are warm but right as he’s about to slip away Maedhros, frantic, reaches out  desperately along their bond for him and pulls him back. They never speak of this. Turgon gets sick awful little brother satisfaction out of punching Fingon in the face every time the ice gets unbareable (so, all the time) because at least this way ONE Feanorian will suffer! Maedhros, of course, is being tortured, so he literally doesn’t notice.

6) After his rescue, Maedhros starts relying more and more on seeing himself and feeling joy through Fingon. This is Healthy (no it’s not). Fingon, meanwhile, has a Gift to be able to see both what is, and what what is could or should be, and he loves both the reality and the possibility, as both exist for him at once. He loves Maedhros’s determination, his unbreakability (different than strength) and stubbornness, his skill in managing others and his cool authority. He adores how those fronts crumble before him into a giddy and eager vulnerability, and he adores Maedhros’s adoration and devotion. (Camera Obscura’s “I love how you love me” line springs to mind here.)

7) Ereinion is their majik baby. Finrod made them an enchantment baby from a mandrake root and starlight and their blood and hair. They both wanted him, but Maedhros gets Foresight once he’s a toddler that he will become bound up in the Oath and the Doom, and so decides that to protect Ereinion he must remove himself as an influencer on the child. Fingon’s heart looks like this: 3.This is why he’s raised at Hithlum, eventually sent to the Havens, and has only one (1) parent.

8) Maedhros dies of grief when he feels Fingon’s death. He had built up such a dependence on Fingon for hope, for purpose, for joy, and so Fingon’s death is the death of those things and he cannot survive that. But the Oath won’t let his soul escape, because dying of grief is a choice, of sorts, and he cannot choose to abandon it. So he winds up with a dead soul trapped in his body, decaying, poisoning everything else, necrotic tissue. He’s cut off from walking in his memories of Fingon (which I take to mean reliving in the most intense sensory sense, so touch/smell/taste/everything just as sharp as when it happened) in as real a sense as Frodo is cut off from memories of joy by the ring. By the time he makes it to the Halls, his spirit is a putrid, rotten, monstrous thing with two little green seedlings growing from it (the twins!).

Sorry for the length and the quality.