#fingolfin wingolfin

[lamemaster]

Marred Music

Request: @liar-anubiass-blogGood day🫶🏻 I hope you are feeling well, congratulations on the upcoming holidays 🎊 Fingolfin/Maiyar reader Ulmo. Timeline before Nolofinae's courtship of Anaire, everyone was just waiting for it to happen, but there had been some kind of strange pause for a long time. And then at one of the dinners where Finwe's entire family was present, Fingolfin finally takes the floor and informs everyone that he is breaking the agreement and will not court Anaire. He says that his heart and mind belong to another. When Finwe wants to object, Fingolfin says that he has already explained to Anaire that he loves another. Everyone is shocked. And then in the silence, the intrigued Feanor (who is delighted with the prospect of conflict) laughs and asks for whom he is trying so hard. Plus or minus so. I hope you can extract something worthwhile from this😅maybe a little drama? Nolofinwe deserves to get a cool Maiar wife and wipe Feanor's nose with this)))

Genre: Drama & angst

Pairing: Fingolfin x Maia Reader

Summary: When he looked up, however, another pair of golden eyes met his own, your eyes. Bright, sharp, and unblinking, they regarded him with an intensity that made him freeze. Startled, he let out a squeal unbecoming of his dignity and very ungracefully tumbled from the tree.

AN: Thank you for requesting this! I love your ask! And Fingolfin over Feanor any day but this one turned out very different (I'm so sorry). But once I started writing there was no stopping so please expect some more chapter ig. First time writing Fingolfin yee-haw

Chapter 1| Chapter 2|

Reader POV

“It is not your fate to be with the second eldest of Finwe,” Namo declares, his voice cold yet resolute, echoing through the desolate halls of his domain. The restless winds swirl around him.

You lower your gaze to the ground. The rippling waves of the lake lap softly at your feet, their touch tender, almost reverent, as though the waters themselves grieve with you for what cannot be undone.

“I understand,” you whisper, though your voice trembles under the weight of the words. Fragile, hollow, they carry a sorrow that coils deep within you. A void left by something Namo has stripped from your soul.

An act you must obey from the words of your lord. An act that was done for the betterment of Arda. Yet, the pain grasps your heart and flows from your eyes. 

How wretched was such affection that had weakened you to a weeping mess. Why had tales of Melian and Elwe not warned you of such an end? Why had you not looked for the tale of Miriel instead? Then perhaps you would have held your heart closer. Away from this misery. 

In the vast, cold expanse of the valley, the only warmth comes from Namo’s hand as it rests lightly on the top of your head. The touch is solemn, neither cruel nor kind, offering comfort even as it deepens the ache in your chest.

You feel your composure unravel, the fragile mask you wore dissolving into a raw sob. A sound that echoes through the stillness, as acute as any note in Ilúvatar’s song.

You sink to your knees, the waters rising to embrace you. Their cool caress mingles with your tears, which fall freely, carried away into the depths.

“What am I to do? What music is this?” The cry bursts forth, anguished and pleading, your voice breaking against the unyielding silence.

Fingolfin POV

He had been but thirty loar of age when he first met you—an ellon barely beyond the years of growth, still enchanted by the orchards of Ingwe, his maternal uncle who ruled the Vanyar.

It had been during one such visit, a special occasion meant to introduce the newborn Findis to the court of the Vanyar. It was a tradition Indis upheld diligently, just as she had for Nolofinwe, and Lalwen before.

Escaping his sister’s relentless questions, Nolofinwe had wandered off, eventually finding himself climbing a peach tree to marvel at a tiny nest perched on the topmost branch.

The cool winds of Taniquetil whispered through the air, mingling with the waning light of Laurelin. Enthralled, he studied the intricate weave of the sparrows’ nest, snugly cradling two eggs amidst scraps of fabric.

When he looked up, however, another pair of golden eyes met his own, your eyes. Bright, sharp, and unblinking, they regarded him with an intensity that made him freeze. Startled, he let out a squeal unbecoming of his dignity and very ungracefully tumbled from the tree.

The fall might have been disastrous. One that would have left his brother Curufinwe in fits of laughter for weeks, had it not been for you. Swiftly, with a fluidity that reminded him of a hawk diving for prey, you caught him mid-fall, your movements swift and precise.

“Stealing younglings is hardly moral,” you chirped. Your head tilted sharply as you studied him, your movements sudden yet graceful, and your golden eyes narrowing in brief suspicion before softening with curiosity.

Nolofinwe barely registered your words. Now that his feet were on the ground, he could only stare at you in wonder.

You stood tall, radiating the ethereal presence of the Ainur. The golden light of Laurelin seemed drawn to you, pooling around your form. To his awestruck eyes, you were wondrously fair, your back graced by wings of a great eagle, folded neatly yet trembling slightly, as though ready to spread and take flight at any moment.

Your sharp nose and piercing gaze of your features- similar to that of the maiar of Manwe. The curious tilt of your head became more pronounced as you stepped closer, your gaze darting over him with a quick, assessing flicker.

“Second-born of Finwe,” you trilled, as though testing the sound. Then, almost imperceptibly, you ruffled your wings, an instinctive motion that made Nolofinwe flinch as though he were being considered for retribution for disturbing the nest.

A newfound interest lit your eyes, the same fascination with which one might observe a fledgling testing its wings. And then without a word you were gone. As if done assessing that Nolofinwe, indeed did not hold any intention to harm the eggs.

From that day forth, eagles became his most cherished beings. A sudden, fervent love for birds blossomed within him. A devotion his maternal uncle wholeheartedly approved, though he never fully grasped its origin.

Beside his bed, a small basket of peaches always rested, their soft fragrance weaving through his room like a whisper of memory. Each breath carried him back to the moments he could not forget the gentle music of your voice, the warmth of your touch, and the majesty of your wings.

To Indis’s great curiosity, peaches became her son’s most beloved fruit. What had once been a passing taste grew into a quiet obsession.

Even the peach orchards of Valinor, which he had rarely noticed before, became his frequent sanctuary, a place where the scent of the trees and the murmur of the breeze spoke to a longing he could never quite explain.

Reader POV

“How is it that Melian came to love Elwe?” you ask Eonwe, who stands vigilant beside you. Your brother, ever steadfast, serves your Vala, the King of Arda, Manwe Sulimo, as you do.

A gentle breeze stirs the air in the halls, coaxing the wayward vines to release their blooms, which fall like whispers to the ground. You watch their descent, lost in thought, as the question lingers between you.

Eonwe turns his gaze toward you, a hint of puzzlement crossing his features. His attention shifts, now entirely on you. He has little fondness for the songs and tales of the Children of Iluvatar, yet even he cannot deny that this particular tale weighs heavy on the memory of most Maiar.

Melian, the first among your kind to forsake the blessed lands of Aman. Hers was a path followed by many, though few remained in Middle-earth as she did.

“Iluvatar revealed a purpose for Melian,” Eonwe replies at last, his voice steady, though touched with reverence. “Their love is woven into the fate of Arda itself. A union that will bring forth the rest of Iluvatar’s music in the days to come.”

“Does Melian love the Firstborn King as we love our lord?” you ask softly, turning to meet his gaze. “Or is hers a love like that of our Lord and Lady? An eternal love.”

Resting his spear against a column of intricately carved marble, Eonwe exhales, his eyes distant as they wander eastward. “Much sorrow will this love cost her,” he murmurs, his tone heavy with foreknowledge. “Yet joy, too, she will find—this, our lord believes. Love in Arda Marred comes with a price.”

Your thoughts drift unbidden, carried away like the falling petals. You think of the elf from weeks past. The elfling from ages ago who had once climbed a tree to peer into Yellen’s nest. A chance meeting so simple, yet one that lingered through the passing years.

Through letters, through feasts, through fleeting encounters too brief to satisfy, and through the careful delivery of trinkets now hidden away in your room, far from prying eyes.

Nolofinwe. His name sings to you in every moment of Laurelin’s light and Telperion’s shadow.

It is a love distinct from your devotion to your lord. A tenderness set apart from the bond you share with your brother.

You have hidden it well, shielding it from the omnipresent song of Arda, whose marred melody seems to reach for all things pure, twisting them into its discordant strains.

But had you forgotten? Forgotten that he, your beloved, is a part of that same melody? That no matter how you might try, you cannot shield him from the song of which he is an inseparable note?

The mercy Iluvatar bestowed upon Melian to love Elwe was hers alone. It was never yours to claim.

Fingolfin POV

“My mother named me Aracáno,” Nolofinwe explains, his tone thoughtful. “It means ‘the high chieftain.’” He blushes faintly, the memory of childhood teasing surfacing unbidden. “Though as a child, I didn’t think much of it. My brother Feanaro often mocked me, calling me the chieftain of snotty elflings.”

He chuckles softly at the recollection, his hand holding yours in a snug grasp. Hidden away from the rowdy feast of rains, Nolofinwe has finally stolen a moment with you, away from prying eyes and curious ears.

It had been no small feat to slip away, especially with your brother. Eonwe, the mighty Chieftain of the Maiar, ever watchful. For days, Nolofinwe had been haunted by uneasy dreams of spears and falcons, as if even the thought of drawing close to you invited his disapproval. Yet here you were, close enough to touch, and for this moment, all those fears seemed inconsequential.

Clad in the luminous bloom of Telperion’s light, you were a vision he could not bear to miss. And as always, in your presence, the words spilled freely from him, unguarded and sincere, a rarity even among those he trusted.

“And then I let Arafinwe cho—” He falters mid-sentence, his words dissolving into silence as your wing extends, wrapping gently around him. The soft, downy warmth envelops him, and for a moment, Nolofinwe can only look up at you, pleasantly dumbfounded.

You tilt your head slightly, your golden eyes studying him. “Is it too warm?” you ask, already beginning to fold your wing back.

But Nolofinwe shifts closer, leaning into the embrace with a soft sigh. “It is pleasant,” he murmurs, his voice low and content. His hand lifts instinctively to comb through your feathers, his touch reverent and light.

The story he’d been telling fades entirely from his thoughts. All that remains is this quiet moment, the warmth of your wing around him, and the quiet peace he finds in your presence.

Feanor POV

A Maia?

Curufinwe nearly laughs aloud at the sheer absurdity of it. Surely this is some elaborate jest, another one of Nolofinwe’s ill-advised attempts to outshine him.

Beside him, Nerdanel discreetly stomps on his foot, a warning meant to temper his reaction. But it does little to dissuade him. The sight before him is far too amusing to ignore.

Seated beside a straight-backed Maia, with magnificent wings slightly fluffed in what Curufinwe assumes is either nervousness or pride, sits his brother, Nolofinwe.

Feanaro had every intention of interrogating you later about the beads woven into your feathers. How they managed not to hinder your flight was a mystery worth solving but for now, his attention is wholly consumed by the scene before him. A pair indeed. A couple of trolls.

“So… this is your suitor?” he asks, his voice laced with poorly masked amusement. The effort to suppress his laughter is futile; from the glowering look on Nolofinwe’s face, it’s clear he’s failed spectacularly.

You, however, remain utterly unbothered, your posture as straight and vigilant as a guard on duty.

“Yes, I reckon I am indeed the one your brother courts, Crown Prince Curufinwe,” you reply, your tone cool and precise, as though delivering a patrol report.

For a fleeting moment, Curufinwe is struck by the urge to test you—to see if the obedience typical of Manwe’s Maia extends to you. Would you follow his orders with the same unflinching diligence?

The thought alone is nearly enough to make him laugh again, but Nerdanel’s second, more forceful stomp ensures he stays (relatively) composed.

From the prideful look in Nolofinwe’s eyes, Curufinwe can practically see him preening, as if to say, Look at this marvel I’ve claimed.

The Maia beside him, however, seems to be fighting a very different battle. Your gaze flickers just barely toward the chandelier above the table, a glittering temptation. You try valiantly not to let your eyes linger, but the effort is almost painful to watch.

A preening peacock and a gullible eagle. What a pair indeed, Curufinwe muses with a ghastly bout of fondness he absolutely refuses to acknowledge.

[lamemaster]

We focus a lot on the strong bond between Fëanor and his seven sons, their oath, their loyalty, their sacrifice.

But can we pause for just a second and also take a look at Fingolfin and Fingon?

Fingolfin who "marched against his wisdom, because Fingon his son so urged him." Who stands by his eldest son even after he has spilled blood at Alqualondë. Fingolfin who assigns Dor-lómin to Fingon's lordship, the closest lands to the fortress of the King.

And Fingon, who in turn stays beside his father through the fire of dragons and Morgoth's volcanoes even after Turgon and Aredhel are long gone to Gondolin. Who gives up those same lands of Dor-lómin to the Hadorians and moves to live with his father. Fingon who upon Fingolfin's death "in sorrow took the lordship of the house of Fingolfin and the kingdom of the Noldor."

The co-dependency is so real, and I live for it.

[lamemaster]

Marred Music (Chapter 2)

Genre: Drama & angst (hurt no comfort)

Pairing: Fingolfin x Maia Reader

Summary: When he looked up, however, another pair of golden eyes met his own, your eyes. Bright, sharp, and unblinking, they regarded him with an intensity that made him freeze. Startled, he let out a squeal unbecoming of his dignity and very ungracefully tumbled from the tree.

AN: Second part and the last one

Chapter 1| Chapter 2

Reader POV

“The sons of Finwë are destined to perform valiant deeds in the days to come. Their fate is woven into the very melody of Arda. That fate does not rest with you,” Mandos declares, his voice a commanding force that pins you to the spot, unyielding and absolute.

What began as a simple errand to the Halls of Mandos has transformed into a reckoning of your own truth. How he came to know of your tryst with Nolofinwe remains a mystery. Was it your brother who discovered it? Your lord Manwe? Or was it the Vala’s foresight?

Before you can summon the courage to speak, the Vala continues: “Your beloved will wed another elleth. His fate, and the fate of his children, is sealed. There is little you can alter. Should you attempt to change it by force, the consequences will ripple through many lives in the days to come.”

The overwhelming power of the Vala’s presence weighs down upon you, and your response is meek, your voice trembling: “Would harm come to him in my presence?”

“No one may know what is to come,” Mandos replies, his tone measured yet unyielding. “Yet, blurred lines of fate point to a future apart from you. Something that won't be certain with your presence next to him. A future shrouded in dark is out of our hands,” He pauses, his next words cold and resolute, echoing through the desolate halls. “It is not your fate to be with the second eldest of Finwë.”

You lower your gaze, unable to meet his piercing eyes. The rippling waves of the lake lap gently at your feet, their touch tender, almost reverent, as though the waters themselves mourn with you for what has been taken away.

“I understand,” you whisper, though your voice falters beneath the weight of the words. Fragile and hollow, they carry a sorrow that burrows deep into your soul, a void left by something Namo has stripped from you.

His decree must be obeyed, for it is for the betterment of Arda. Yet, the ache in your heart remains, an unrelenting pain that spills silently from your eyes, flowing like the waters at your feet.

Nolofinwe POV

Nolofinwe yearned for another meeting. He sought out every familiar nook and hidden haunt from the past, yet no matter where he ventured, he failed to catch a glimpse of you.

As a final resort, he turned to the kingdom of his uncle’s people. Perhaps there, among the branches of a great tree, you might be found tending to hatchlings in their parents’ absence, fulfilling your quiet duty.

Or so he had hoped.

But you were gone.

You, who once came at his first call, who crossed lands with such swiftness just to see him, now remained silent.

Had he erred? Had he hurt you in some way? Had someone else hurt you? 

Nolofinwe did not know.

Desperation drove him to seek Eonwe, the fair and noble herald of Manwe. Surely, Eonwe would provide him with answers, some clue to where you might be.

But even Eonwe was gone. The court of Manwe stood vacant of his presence. An absence so unprecedented, so unthinkable, that Nolofinwe was left stunned.

For the first time, he felt truly lost.

And then it came—the ache in his heart. It was unlike the debilitating sickness that afflicted other heartbroken elves. He did not crumble as his father had at the mere mention of Míriel. He did not waste away, nor lose his appetite, nor forget how to smile.

Yet, something lingered in his fea. A shadowed sorrow that remained hidden most days, only to surface at the edges of memory. It struck during feasts, at the sight of peaches, or when a song reminded him of you.

He thought of you every time he saw his elder brother. Birds stopping mid-flight would halt him in his path, their wings stirring a faint memory of you.

But after decades of waiting, Nolofinwe stopped. He stopped seeking. Stopped allowing your name to pass his lips. Stopped searching for Eonwe. Stopped loving you or so he told himself. And in the silence of that lie, he agreed to a marriage with Anaire.

He loved Anaire, he told himself. Truly, he did. Feanaro disagreed, of course, but Nolofinwe no longer sought his approval.

The Eldar wed in love, after all. His was a marriage of love, Nolofinwe insisted. A happy union that blessed him with his children.

Findekano, the most cheerful of toddlers. Turukano, the most responsible of young ones. Irsse, the wild and free-spirited daughter. And Arkano, the youngest and beloved of all.

He was happy. Nolofinwe truly was.

But just the sight of you unraveled him all over again. One fleeting glimpse, and he lost the strength to breathe. Perhaps it was partly due to the fatal wound Melkor had just dealt him but in truth, Nolofinwe no longer cared.

On the bloodied soil of Middle-earth, he saw you once more. A meeting so profound that only songs could hope to capture it. With your wings spread wide against the bleak sky, your descent carried a grace that made even the wind bow in reverence.

In that moment, he knew. He still loved you.

The ache he had buried for decades surged to the surface, and Nolofinwe—now Fingolfin, gasped, blood spilling from his lips.

“Do not move,” you whispered, your voice trembling with urgency. Your hands reached for him, drawing him into your arms with a gentleness so familiar, he barely felt the touch.

He struggled to form your name with his lips, but no sound emerged. His crushed throat refused him even this final plea.

Yet the words remained in his mind, pressing against yours in desperate thought.

“Forgive me. I love you still. I never stopped. I was wrong.”

In the trembling whispers of your healing chants, he catches the glimmer of your tears. Pearls that seem more noble than the Silmarils themselves.

“Let me take you back,” you murmur, your hand tenderly caressing his bloodied cheek. “Please, Nolo,” you beg, your lips trembling, the plea heavy with desperation.

With his broken body and a soul on the edge of departure, he hears the last of your prayers carried into the wind.

“You promised no hurt would come to him…” you whisper, a note of anguish bordering on madness, as you prepare to carry him to the camp, to his sons.

But his breaths falter, and his vision dims. He clings only to the final sight of your tear-streaked face, the anguish etched into every corner of your being.

In your arms, chieftain of the eagles, dies Nolofinwe, Fingolfin. The most noble of the line of Finwe.

Reader POV

You loved him in the blessed lands of Arda. You loved him from the distant shores of Middle-earth. Yet, that love had always been sweetly unfulfilled. From the glimpses you had stolen of his life, you saw your beloved at peace.

His adorable elflings bore so much of him. Their father’s steadfast heart and their gentle mother’s grace.

Namo had been right. Your absence had allowed Nolofinwe to flourish. And that knowledge, bittersweet as it was, had been enough to sustain you through the eternity of the Timeless Halls.

Your brother, however, had been different. Eonwe had protested your decision with a fervor you had never seen in him before. For the first time in his existence, he argued with your lord.

He had begged for you to remain in the Blessed Realm, his cries forlorn, his thoughts tangled in the pain of separation. But the years softened even Eonwe. Eventually, he found it easier to visit you in Middle-earth than to remain at odds with Manwë.

Those visits became your solace. Soaring together through the skies of Middle-earth, you found fleeting joy in the treasured moments shared with your brother.

And so you were content. Heeding Namo’s words, trusting the promise that your beloved’s joy would flourish without you, you found peace.

Until now.

Now, you held him in your arms, cradling what little remained of him. His broken body, fragile and bloodied, rested against you as your wings unfurled to shield him, as though they could still guard him from a fate long sealed.

“You were supposed to prosper,” you murmured, your voice trembling under the weight of your sorrow. “Namo said… next to her, you were supposed to live.”

Your words vanished into the void, unheard by the one who needed them most.

“What use was leaving?” you whispered bitterly, your tears falling unchecked. A sob escaped your lips, quiet yet suffused with anguish. “You absolute fool… How am I to exist after this sight?”

Bringing him to his sons became your labor, a task you bore with unyeilding sense of duty to him. Your pain was your repentance, for leaving him, for allowing him to endure such suffering, and for the heartbreak you could not undo.

To his eldest, the one who carried glimpses of his mother and so much of Nolofinwe’s spirit, you came bearing their father.

Years later, you heard that voice again. The voice of his bloodline accompanied by harp, calling out across time, summoning you. And you came. To Fingon for the rescue of Feanor’s eldest. 

Every time his descendants called, you answered. At every summon of his kin, you arrived, steadfast and unyielding. Yet, the weariness of time began to gnaw at your music, the weight of eternity dragging you down as you gave what little remained of yourself.

Yet, love failed to wither.

Because beyond time, beyond separation or union, beyond pain and pleasure- is where love lies. Far from where it can come to an end or fade away from existence.

[lamemaster]

Fingolfin = Wingolfin is the hill I die on.

(He is amazing. Most of the time.)

[lamemaster]

Ooh...Fingon's golden ribbons make sense.

Feanor (Wearing minimum jewelery, perhaps only a bracelet)

Vs

Fingolfin (Wearing every piece of jewelry he finds)