#fingon is the goat

[molteasee]

Silmarillion Noldor Kings summed up pretty accurately 😂

Fëanor

Maehdros

Fingon (imo the last of the great kings)

Fingolfin

Maglor

Finwë

Turgon

Gil-Galad

Elrond

[welcomingdisaster]

Many Sentences Monday!

i was tagged by @meadowlarkx & @thelordofgifs to share some fic! i'm super self indulgent, so here's the first scene of a "maglor comes to aman" fic with a twist.

1: The Pipe.

The little room is not decorated how he would expect. 

Though of course it is exactly as it should be. There are the many intricately woven banisters, hung along the walls, clearly Maedhros’ choices, his style. There are the gouache paintings of leaping long-legged horses, their features exaggerated by movement, so dynamic they seem almost birdlike, painted plainly by Fingon’s hand. There’s the huge padded armchair in a tasteful shade of forest-green—Maedhros—and the short coat of brilliant crimson slung over its back—Fingon—and the tangle of vines outside the windows and the short-legged hound on the duvet and the tabby cats outside and the ornate teal-and-lilac service set on the counter, certainly gifted because neither of them would pick it, and the open easternmost window and the smell of roasting garlic. 

It is the things which are not there, which he has come to expect. 

It is the outhouse, the lack of indoor plumbing, the candle-gems set into the walls, look of slight confusion on the face of the servant when he turns to feel for the light switch. It is the realization that he cannot call; cannot send a telegram; that is had not occurred to him to pack a typewriter and so all his correspondence and his writing will again be hand; that his poems, should they ever again be published in this land, will need to be painstakingly copied, word by word, onto the parchment. 

It ought to be easy to fall back into it. He had missed it, he tries to remember. He had thought the world noisy and overwhelming. He had wanted to run from it. He’d seen soot stains on trees that had once been virginal, had once been white, and his head had spun with it. He had watched the factory-smoke rise and thought it unlovely and unworthy of living for. He had stared at the monstrous bulk of a locomotive, had tasted its bitter smoke on his tongue, and felt the awfulness and sublimity of invention as he had at the gates of Angband. 

And yet he is happy that he has taken along his gramophone. 

No one had expected him. 

News of the boats do not come; gossip travels through word of mouth and webs of osanwë across the city and into the countryside, but his hosts are out hunting. There are two servants only in the house; a quiet young maiden, barely seventy, there to mind the horses and the goats, and a man who had clearly once been a soldier, watching the house in the owners’ absence. 

They speak to him in Sindarin, faintly accented with entirely different accents. The maiden, Cinnogil, lives there full-time, though mostly with the animals; she is responsible for the horses’ training and upkeep, and to this duty she dedicates herself with a fierce passion. He does not ask what brings her out of her house so young, as he would have asked in another life. 

The man, Singdan, is there only some of the time. He lives close by, he says. He comes and helps with the cooking and the cleaning, at times, in exchange for gems and for fresh cuts of hart and for legal work, now and again. 

But really it can barely be called an estate. 

“They keep a room for you, I think,” Singdan tells him, as he helps him unload his mule and stack his luggage in a jumbled heap in the mud room. The short-legged dog weaves around their ankles when make their way down the hall, lit by sparkling silver gems, the walls decorated with rugs far too warm and too heavy for the climate. “They have for as long as I have known them.” 

The room—his room—is at the end of the hall. His eyes trace the walls; the simpler, more elegant decorations in silver, the blue and white bedspread, the lyre and the flute, the inkwell, the bottle of aged rum with the books on the bookshelf, the ceramic horses on the writing table. Someone has hung a change of clothes for him in the corner closet. 

There is no dust, no trace of disuse. Only one thing out of place—the mahogany pipe on the windowsill. 

He crosses the room and picks it up, holding it up to the light. It is well-used. Warm from the sun streaming in through the glass, streaked slightly on the inside. 

Out of them three only Maedhros smokes. Likely he had sat here, and had the window open. 

(Why is there so much guilt, with that thought?) 

“Shall you come and dine,” Singdan asks, “while we wait?” 

Thank you. He is not hungry. 

---

tagging @eilinelsghost @outofangband @melestasflight @polutrope @grey-gazania @that-angry-noldo @searchingforserendipity25 & @polutrope @jouissants anyone else who hasn't done it yet and wants in!

[grey-gazania]

Tagged by @welcomingdisaster and @thelordofgifs to share the first line of my ten most recently posted/updated stories and analyze them to see if there's a pattern:

Elrond opened the door to his chambers with nothing but bed on his mind; it had been a long day and he was ready for a good night’s sleep. (Ill News)

It was an unfortunate conjunction of events when Ianneth tripped on the stairs and broke her ankle two days before Maedhros was due to arrive in Hithlum, and at first Fingon thought it would put paid to his camping trip with Maedhros. (Chaperone)

"Bedtime, mírë ," Fingon said, scooping his daughter up and resting her on his hip. (Home Is Behind)

Winter had come early to the south of Beleriand, and though it had yet to snow, the air was cold and wet. (The Kids Are All Right)

Maedhros knelt beside Amrod's body, his clothes and face streaked with dirt and blood - some Amrod's and some his own, but most belonging to the dead, both Sindar and Noldor, whose bodies lay where they had fallen on the trampled earth of the Havens. (And They Looked Up and Saw a Star)

She’s going into battle. (White Stars on a Deep Blue Field)

We had been on the shores of Lake Mithrim for years now, trading with the local people and tending to our hurts, trying to rebuild as best we could from all that we had lost on the Helcaraxë. (Maps)

Gil-galad blinked up at the stars, or what she could glimpse of them through the rustling leaves above her, and slowly sat up, delighting in the feeling of soft, cool grass against her skin - even more than that, delighting in having skin again. (A Return Is Not a Homecoming)

When Morgoth’s forces broke through the walls of Eglarest, they broke through with a suddenness and ferocity that Ereiniel had never before seen. (The Light of the Sun)

I was 12 years old when the rains rolled down from the North — old enough to guard the goats but too young to wed. (Loyalty)

I guess the main pattern I see is that I like to start my stories with a sentence that sets the scene.

Tagging @that-angry-noldo, @vidumavi, @melestasflight, @cuarthol, @swanhild, @leucisticpuffin, @emyn-arnens, @polutrope, @swanmaids, @sallysavestheday, @zealouswerewolfcollector, @hhimring, @elfscribe

[dalliansss]

You know I’m in love with you. It’s not just convenient. I love you.”

nice things to say to people

context: [a wedding]

"You know I'm in love with you. It's not just convenient. I love you."

Fingon looks up from where he had been studying his fingers. After everything has been said and done, and the initial shock had ebbed following the lucidity afforded by the sobering tea, here they sit, in his chambers, by the balcony. This particular balcony faced away from the grand courtyard and instead looked out at the vegetable garden he had tended himself for years now, during his quiet idyllic days of freedom. A few white goats roamed around nearby, nibbling on grass.

He looks up at Aegnor. Aegnor, standing before him, panic in his eyes and mingled with worry and concern. Through their freshly-minted bond, he feels those emotions, and perhaps they help echo his own, though his own set of emotions are well-controlled in comparison. But they share common ones: panic, concern -- perhaps a tinge of fear.

For his part, Fingon-- how is he supposed to explain this? That right after the feast honoring Hador Lórindol, he gets into this kind of unprecedented trouble? There was not even a feast for betrothal first. No formal proposal. No ceremony expected of him as the High Prince of the Noldor. Worse, this was a match that the Valar themselves forbade in Aman, even though they are in Beleriand and the cultures of the Sindar and Avari proved otherwise.

How is he supposed to even begin to explain to his father the High King what exactly happened, between him and Aegnor?

"Did you wed me because you were threatened by Hador?" Fingon asks, his voice soft, but he could have brandished a sword at Aegnor, for the way the bigger, taller elf flinches and a frisson of hurt shoots through their bond.

"Finno, that's not--" Egg cries out, sinking into his knees and grasping his hands. "This-- I love you, Finno. I always have! I realized this not long ago-- I admit-- I'm not the best with feelings, or how to truly, properly articulate them-- and I don't deny that I've been flip-flopping around like grounded fish, so many years, even in Valinor--!"

"Yes," Fingon says, not pulling his hands away. "Even in Valinor. You ran to me after every heart break, every failure. Was your heart break with Andreth so great, you had to do this to me? Was your fear of Hador Lórindol so insurmountable? You imagine a mere adan could threaten you?"

Hurt flares across the bond. Aegnor's tears spill over from his eyes and he pulls back, dropping his hands. Fingon clenches them into twin fists, though his gaze never left Aegnor's face.

"There are consequences, Aegnor," he continues. "We are princes of the Noldor. There were a great many expectations for us, regarding these things, and we have flouted them all. You can't run from these consequences now. We face them, or..."

Or what?

"What makes you think I wouldn't?" Aegnor says, and through their bond Fingon feels the beginnings of the other's anger.

"How you treated me over the years of our friendship speaks otherwise," says Fingon. "You will excuse my small doubts. You have no choice but to do so."

The door opens. Fingon's chamberlain, Vorosanya, lets himself in. The ellon bows to them, concern in his gray eyes.

"The High King is looking for you both. I cannot delay, my lords," says Vorosanya.

Fingon stands. "Then we will go meet my father for the breaking of the fast. I'm sure he will excuse me and my....spouse...for the tardiness."

He exits the room first. Aegnor follows, silent, and Vorosanya trails after them both.

[doodle-pops]

Just got a crazy idea... how’d the elves react to a reader who freestyle climbs mountains? If you don’t know about that it’s when a climber doesn’t have a rope or anything attached to them and just climb up ridiculous heights with their bare hands. One wrong move and... you are a pancake.

You asked this and one elf came to mind...FINGON. He'd be so down for that. Welp, I'm terrified of heights so nope, I like to eat pancakes not become one

Terrified. Worried. Dying on the inside. Mother-hen. "Come down from there or so help me I'll will bring you down. Why aren't you wearing a harness? Where is your rope? Meleth, don't you dare fall...co – come down this instant!!" That's just the first stage of worrying, wait till you actually come down on the ground, a hovering bird. Touches your face, hands, legs, arms, back, anywhere else without a second thought because, "You could have injured yourself my love!" If you thought about trying that again, I suggest doing it secretly.

- MAEDHROS, MAGLOR, CARANTHIR, CURUFIN CELEBRIMBOR, FINGOLFIN, TURGON, FINARFIN, GLORFINDEL, ECTHELION, GALDOR, ROG, ELROND, ELROHIR

Being outdoors is a part of their life, thus, doing death defying stunts follows. They would cheer you on from down below and even take it upon themselves to join you. Not really the type to race since it was a dangerous activity, but still, they'd compete with you sometimes. "You're not as bad as I thought you to be. Are you sure you're not a mountain goat? You move like one," last words before you smacked them and they fell off (jk jk).

- CELEGORM, AMROD, AMRAS, FINGON, FINROD, MAEGLIN, Egalmoth, Elladan

[fuckingfinwions]

A/B/O AU where Feanor and all his sons are alphas

Maglor was certain that his eldest brother was up to something. For one thing, there was that smug look on his face. But also, Maedhros had been asking their brothers for various things. None of the rest had put it to together, but Maglor made a habit of watching his older brother. As the two eldest alphas they were natural rivals, and with Maglor's gift for song and Maedhros's for convincing speech they competed in public opinion as well.

Maedhros had been careful, asking for one or two things at a time. He'd gotten rope that Amrod wove, supposedly for making a new lead for his horse "So nothing that will scrape up my hands if he pulls." He'd asked Maglor if his practice room was really that good at preventing sound from escaping, and Maglor had demonstrated (with Maedhros outside to note the quiet and so he couldn't trap Maglor, Maglor was no idiot.) Amras had a herd of goats that he had caught from the wild himself, and had asked for tips on how to get a dumb animal to relax around you. (Celegorm rather cheated, being able to speak to them.) Maedhros had gotten sturdy leather gloves from Celegorm, and tips on how to tie up a lover without injuring them from Caranthir, and finally a ring gag from Curufin.

The last item was what made the conclusion unavoidable. Maglor had asked Curufin if he had any reluctance over fashioning such a device, but Curufin had shrugged and said, "He gave his word not to use it on me. I suppose it's tough luck for whoever he has his fun with."

Maglor confronted Maedhros the next day, on a terrace where they could be seen but not easily overheard. "You're going to bitch someone."

Maedhros didn't deny it. "I want an omega, and you know there aren't enough."

It was true; born omega males were rare. So much so that some people thought them fake, and anyone claiming to be so was a bitched omega who had run away from his alpha. Most alphas married females, never getting to experience the rut triggered by an omega's heat, or remained alone.

"So you plan to kidnap some poor random elf and keep him in my music room for a month?"

"Don't worry, I have a plan to make it faster. An I already have someone in mind."

"An alpha you'll need to tie up and force his mouth his open?" Maglor wasn't surprised that no one had volunteered to have their body and emotions so thoroughly rewritten, but there were practicalities.

"Yes. He's worth it."

"They're going to miss his absence at court, you know."

"Hardly, he never attends."

"Nolofinwe will still notice his son's absence, and I'm not going to cover for you."

"Nolofinwe - you think I'm planning to bitch Fingon? I've told you a dozen times, we're just friends."

Maglor sighed. "Well, whoever else it is, Father will be happy about that at least."

Maedhros smirked. "He may be afterwards, but not at first. I'll enjoy his reactions very much, though."

Maglor was stunned. "Are you serious - he's our father!"

"He'll be improving the lives of his sons, it's very appropriate. And he appreciates it when all of us work together for one cause, it's very appropriate."

"You getting an omega by tricking the rest of us into giving you supplies isn't very much like cooperation."

"No, which is why we can all share him."

"Does that even work? If you bitch him, he'll be too repulsed by my scent to suck on my knot."

"Omegas hate the scent of strange alphas. If we have seven alphas bitching him, he'll recognize all of us as his mates even if he hates it."

"Curufin will never go along with doing anything against Father."

"Perhaps, but if we show him Father already fucked out and horny, he won't want to be left out."

Maglor hummed as he thought this over. "So, what's our plan?"

Maedhros hid his amusement at how quickly Maglor had gotten on board with the idea. "The two of us and Celegorm the first night - you and I will come up with a reason for Father to go in the music room, and Celegorm will need little convincing. I'll bring Caranthir and the twins the next morning, once he's too worn out to fight as much."

"It would take a lot for Father to be too exhausted to fight."

"True, but with seven of us to keep him busy, he'll have at least one cock knotted in his holes for days straight. That much alpha cum should bitch him within a week, and send him straight into heat as well."

Maglor paused a moment to enjoy the mental image of his father - his future omega - sweaty and covered in cum and still desperate for more. "I suppose as eldest, you're going to demand some special privilege over him?"

"Just that I'm the first one to fuck his new pussy when that opens up. You all can take turns after, and I don't care who sires our father's grandchildren."

[ladygavroche]

Some random headcanons about Fëanorions and domesticated animals in Beleriand

(These are partly based on canon, partly on fanon, as well as stuff I made up on my own)

Himring is too cold for most animals to prosper. The fortress does have stables, which house enough war horses for a small but efficient cavalry. The people of Himring also raise goats, who are well suited to the mountain and its climate, for their milk or even for their meat. This is mainly intended as a last resort resource, however. In times of peace, Maedhros relies on his brothers to provide him with meat, wool, leather and other animal-based products. 

Maedhros also raises various birds of prey, for hunting and to carry messages safely, and also because they fit his aesthetic. He has managed to domesticate a couple of great condors, of which he is very proud. They are used only for his most important correspondence (i.e. letters to Fingon), because even if Morgoth has many spies among birds, most would think twice before approaching a beast with a ten-feet wingspan.  

Maglor had many song birds in Valinor; he even tried to bring his favorite parrot to Middle-Earth (the one that best imitated his voice), but it died of stress during the crossing on the ships. He had not found any satisfactory replacement in Beleriand.

The Gap is renowned for its horses; its cavalry is the key of its defence, and the defence of the lands beyond. Maglor’s Gap, however, is also quite suited to cattle farming, because of its large flat meadows. All through the land, large cow herds can be found, looked after by Maglor’s people on horseback (did I say Elf-cowboys? You decide).

Celegorm, of course, has massive kennels for his dogs, as well as a number of falcons and other hunting birds; he also has decent stables, although most of his horses originally come from the Gap and are often sent back there for mating. Himlad is surrounded by wooded areas, with an abundance of game (Celegorm makes sure no Orc is hunting on his lands). It is thus unsuited for cattle, unlike the Gap. However, Celegorm is also raising a number of pigs, which can provide his dogs with the necessary meat, during the winter, and can be sent over to Maedhros as supplies (salted pork keeps well and is very nourishing). The pigs are also used to find truffles in the woods.

Curufin and Celebrimbor have no particular interest in animal husbandry; even if Curufin recognizes the importance of having decent horses and the advantages of pig farming, he wants nothing to do with it and is too happy to leave it to his brother. Celebrimbor likes to play with Huan from time to time, but that’s about it. In any case, their forges are barred to anything that walks on more than two legs (and even those on two legs, if they happen to be Celegorm; he has a reputation for clumsiness around the fires…).

Thargelion has a great number of sheeps (and other similar animals) that are raised for their wool. There are many skilled smiths and metal workers in Beleriand, both among Dwarves and Elves, but Caranthir is playing on his strengths, and his lands have become not only a crossroad for trade, but a major center for textile. He even has silkworms, which were discovered and given to him originally by Amrod. 

Thargelion’s storehouses are always full of wool, fabric or grains, and that of course attracts rodents, so Caranthir keeps many cats to hunt them out. The problem is that he is too fond of them and always spoils them by giving them treats and leftovers from his own plate. As a result, the cats are usually not very interested in prowling the storehouses and prefer to hang around their master. Caranthir bemoans this state of thing but does not change his behaviour at all. 

The twin’s lands are also famous for their horses, though not quite as good as Maglor’s Gap in that respect. Amras is very traditional in his interests: like a good elvish princeling, he likes horses as well as dogs and falcons for the hunt. Amrod is a bit more unusual: he has an interest in all kinds of bugs, and he often experiments with them. He discovered the properties of the silkworms and gave them to Caranthir (since he lacked the skills to do anything with the silk himself). He has a great number of bee hives, which he tends to himself. He has figured out the bees have a language and is trying to find a way to use that for spying and for sending secret messages.

[avantegarda]

More ideas for musical genres...

…because your post had me struggling not to laugh out loud while at work.

- Valar/Maiar

- Melkor and Sauron and other dark forces

- Petty dwarves

- Sons of Fëanor (pretty, pretty pleeaaazzzee)

- City of Gondolin

- Numenor

Also, now I wanna know which genre Fingon sang when rescuing Maedhros… Or Finrod when he met the first Men…

Your post has been the highlight of my day! :)

My friend, your submission is the highlight of MY day. I am happy to provide you with a few more folk tunes because I really don’t want to do my homework.

Some Ainur folk music genres:

We Love All The Children of Eru, Elves and (reads smudged writing on hand) All the Rest

Creating the Universe is Hard Work, So We Invented Alcohol

Melkor Ruined Everything, But At Least He’s in Jail Now

Flowers and Birds and More Flowers

God is Our Dad

Angband folk music genres:

We Love Our Boss (He’ll Kill Us if We Don’t)

Here Are Some Cool Weapons We Have

Dragons are Fun and Fabulous

Werewolves are Equally Fun and Fabulous

The Army of Darkness is the Place for Me (Drum Solo)

Dwarven folk music genres:

This Mountain is My Dad

My Wife’s Beard is Effing Beautiful

I Drank Too Much Whiskey and Regret Nothing

Look At All These Cool Rocks

We’re Working Hard in the Forge and We’ll Sing About It

The Elves are Assholes Except the Ones I Do Business With

Gondolin folk music genres:

I Hope All My Relatives Who Didn’t Come Here Are Okay

I Am A Very Fancy Man with a Very Fancy Helmet

We Are Completely Safe and Very Cool

All Our Lords are Stylish as Fuck

The King’s Daughter is Extremely Hot

That Fountain is a Metaphor for Love (And Probably Also Sex)

Numenorean Folk Music Genres:

Welcome to Party Island (Ukulele Solo)

We are Just as Good as, if Not Better Than, All the Elves

My Husband Left Me to Sail the Seas, So I Will Drink

I Own A Whole Bunch of Goats; Their Milk is Amazing

Human Sacrifice is Metal as Fuck

Now, the Feanorians obviously are a subset of my previously mentioned Noldorin folk genres, but they really are a whole mood unto themselves. Therefore I present to you:

Genres of Songs Maglor has Written (in chronological order, Valinor to End of 1st Age)

I Am the Most Talented Person In This Family

Harvest Time is Best Time (It Gives Me an Excuse to Drink and Show Off)

Please Marry Me, I Have Very Nice Hair

Oh Shit We Fucked Up We Fucked Up

Don’t Fucking Touch Our Stuff

My Family is Very Badass and Will Destroy Satan

Oh Shit We Fucked Up We Fucked Up (Reprise)

I Love My Kidnapdopted Children

All My Friends Are Either Dead or Seagulls

I hope this has been educational.

[irrealisms]

the magmae a/b/oh no fic, for the ask game?

what do you think? :p ...okay, serious answer, i was originally really torn on how to write it? i knew i wanted to write terrible post-sirion maemags heatfic, but i was desperately torn between “they’re all sharp edges cutting each other and generally very No Children by The Mountain Goats” and “Maedhros gets so out of it that he thinks he’s back with Fingon, and Maglor doesn’t have the heart to correct him, just fucks him through it”. and, well, then I realized I could have both. so. that turning point, between them spitting hatred at each other and the terrible softness that is a lie? that’s very much what the fic got written around.

[cycas]

Arg!  Why do I do this to myself.?? This thing I am drawing currently has five elves, a dwarf, three horses, a goat, three orcs and a landscape.  I need to add at least one more elf, two more dwarves, two more goats, and a distant army. 

why did I not just draw Fingon wearing a hat.  That would have been fine. It could have been delightful. 

[erotetica]

fingolfin + passive aggression

‘all his speaking parts’ is a cop out, so

Aman has cryptids. Specific ones for each kindred, based on actual Cuivienen night terrors. Anyway the Noldor have like a Babadook, and though neither of them remember the inciting incident Fingolfin and Lalwen hide a cardboard cutout of one in places when they get in fights. It isn’t really ‘passive’ or ‘aggressive’, and they never really get into ‘fights’, but Lalwen brings out most of the unproblematic extraness in Fingolfin so. It’s indicative. It’s like the Olympics after a while, Finwe stops them when it ends up on a turret, because ‘that thing will give someone war flashbacks.’ (it was him. he wasn’t looking at it squarely when he found it.)

He dudgeon-chews, at banquets, when people have bad opinions. Like a goat. It’s subconscious in that it’s his go-to stress response, and totally on purpose in that Feanor has a mastication skeeve. Fingolfin’s gotten him to up and leave seven events, twice while the person sitting next to him was mid-sentence. 

He was REALLY INELEGANT about it when he was little, when a kid who’d wronged him got wronged themselves, or like, fell, or got a papercut or whatever, he’d look at them. Vindication in his face and satisfaction lifting his ears. Indis was really worried about it. Finwe had flashbacks of Feanor and Findis telling living, breathing, actual adults to fuck off and just took it as a win. Or like. Acceptable losses. (I swear this house knew no FUCKING PEACE till Finarfin. Lalwen was alkaline, but blithely so; effervescent. A handful. Finarfin, you could actually tell to sit and he would.)

He proposed to Anaire three Valian years later than he wanted to, because every time either of their parents asked when he was going to, he had to delay it, on principle, because yes he was going to anyway but that’s not how it looks, 

When his kids were little they slammed the screen door. Once, they locked themselves out in the yard when it was raining. He didn’t notice for ten minutes. He was drinking coffee near an open window.

I feel like now’s a good time to mention that a lot of his stunts are obvious only to him, they bring no outward vindication or satisfaction, some people go their whole lives thinking he’s a polite guy.

When Fingon comes out, and admits that yes, he is into one of the hellspawn, he invites Maedhros over for dinner. Feanor invites Fingon back. It escalates until they co-throw a family reunion. They abscond ten minutes in and get winedrunk in their old treehouse. They’re found later at the base of the tree–among wood, because old lumber and adult weight do not mix–having saved their bottle. Melkor is released after that and it’s the last nice thing they ever do together. 

Anaire is more obviously bitter but The Same. They met in logic college. 

I know Everybody Loves Raymond is a stupidly specific thing to reference but “don’t let a suitcase filled with cheese be your big fork and spoon” is a thing that happened in their marriage at least once. more than once.

During the Unrest he gets up on a soapbox about Indwion political legitimacy, yes, but also about Indis. Which he had never really bothered to do, that being more Findis’ wheelhouse. Actually at one point he’d validated Feanor’s worldview a little. Indis notices, both times.

As far as Finwion divorces: Feanor and Nerdanel’s is as explosive as you’d think, Findis and her wife haven’t answered the phone in eight years, Lalwen is ace and really superior about it in context, and Fingolfin and Anaire’s is mostly. “…..n ice traveling robes.” “Do you need any.” “Can’t think why.” “rEally. CoOl. How Nice For You.”

All of his conversations with regent-Maglor count.

He’s nice about Feanor after he dies, almost zealously, and he has no idea if it’s genuine or sarcastic. 

When he’s reembodied he tries to be cool about things, and train himself off passive aggression as, like, a habit, and Finarfin fucking. owns his ass. burns he’s saved for years just zing on home.

[dalliansss]

prompt: Terrible excuses. Cringe-worthy, awful excuses.

Secret Dating Things

Angrod surveys his younger brother move about, packing loaves of bread in a hardy cloth. Egg is pretending to not notice his scrutiny; the tall, tanned, muscular and flaxen-curled elf moves about, whistling merrily even, as he surveys jars of jam, decides on orange and strawberry, and adds those to the basket.

"Do we have goat cheese?" Aegnor asks, turning to him, cheery, perhaps overly cheery. Angrod narrows his eyes. "Yes. In the pantry."

Egg snaps his fingers, turns heel, and skips off toward the pantry. To Angrod, the nightmare of the year past where Egg and Finrod had their most terrible quarrel seemed inexistent. He remembers it still, how he and Edhellos were hard-put, panicking, unable to know which brother to pacify first: Egg, who was shouting vitriol and words of hatred toward their eldest brother -- or Finrod, who has never raised a voice against each one of their siblings, but on that day only fury was on his face, distorting his visage even.

I will never grant you that blessing even if you crawl for it! Finrod had screamed, and it was terrible to behold. Angrod might not have been the object of his ire, but this was Finrod, who never got angry with them, whose patience extended as infinitely as strands of Varda's starlight hair.

But now, one year later. Egg is here, unnaturally cheerful, hoarding food...for what?

When Egg emerges from the pantry with the cheeses, Angrod clears his throat. "Where are you going, Aikanár?"

Egg freezes, still clutching the cheeses. He looks at Angrod like a deer caught in torchlight, smile frozen on his tanned face.

"Picnic," Egg says, smile still stiff and contrived. Of all of Finarfin's children, Aikanár was the most hopeless of them when it came to lying. "I'm going on a picnic...I eat a lot...and I like cheese."

"Huh. And where are you taking this picnic? You won't need that much if you just want to sit by the shores of the Aeluin," Angrod points out.

That smile gets tense. "I'm gonna...." Egg gestures vaguely. Angrod could see him scrambling all of his brain cells for an excuse. "I'm gonna ride a bit. Ladros, you know? See some of my friends from Bëor's-- yes."

"I thought you avoided Bëor's people after the--." Now it is Angrod's turn to gesture.

"Huh? I did? Haha!" Aegnor's smile hitches up, blindingly brilliant, and he hurriedly shoves the cheeses into his loaded basket. "Erm. And then I'll uh, ride west!"

"West...?" Angrod repeats.

"I'm going to picnic with Artaresto, and so there! Stop asking questions! I'm a grown Elf!" Aegnor cries out. Taking advantage of Angrod's surprise at the vehemence, Egg quickly snatches his basket and escapes the kitchen.

Somewhere, a rooster crows outside.

Angrod relaxes in his seat. He sips another mouthful of coffee. Huh. But he does have an idea where Egg might be going. Dor-lómin. A journey that is only five days on horse, really, but Egg will get lost, and the journey will take 8 days, maybe 10. So the food is more for him, really, than a picnic. Though Angrod knows the cheese will go to a cousin of theirs, named Fingon.

A slow smile appears on Angrod's lips. Eru. Finally.

[july-19th-club]

five songs from the playlist of my ultra-specific unwriteable silmarillion modern everyone lives AU which is fingon-centric and by the nature of its setup something im not qualified to execute but lives in my brain along with a framed photo of booboo stewart (who plays him in the au) in more or less order of narrative chronology:

1. Folk Hero by Loamlands

2. Thunder Road by Bruce Springsteen

3. Every Rose Has its Thorn by Poison

4. Jenny by the Mountain Goats

5. Ke Sakihitin Awasis by Buffy Sainte-Marie

[dalliansss]

🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰 egg and Finno 20?

aegnor/fingon + 20 = …on a scar.

@skaelds

When Aegnor heard that Fingon had finally been released from the Halls of Mandos, he had wanted nothing more than to take a horse and ride to the Halls, even if he was not the one who received the Summons from the maiar of Námo. Instead it had been Arakáno, Argon, who received the Summons. It would have been an exercise in futility; only those who received the Summons could find the Road of the Dead, and therefore find the one Re-embodied and take them home.

So Argon had gone to pick up his brother, and there had been no welcome afterward. No news, no invitations to any gala of any sort. None of the celebration and fanfare that Arafinwë organized for each and every Re-embodied and Returned, a sort of welcome back to society. Fingon had returned, and the world waited, but Fingon remained silent.

His own welcome he had refused. Egg, who had since paid much store on his physical beauty, had come back from the Halls not fully healed. His back still bore the distorted skin of one who had been burned alive, and there is a dark spot on his throat which he hides with necklaces, where the last arrow that killed him had lodged.

But he will not be withheld from Fingon. Not when their bond had re-kindled upon his return.

So Egg left Tirion and sought out Argon's house. A journey that would have taken two days, but for Egg, as usual, took ten. But when he got there, Argon told him his hanno had left. He gave directions to a settlement town by the foothills of the Pelóri, between Formenos and Tirion.

To Egg's relief, Argon agreed to go with him.

They journeyed a month. Argon had the foresight to seek accommodations at an inn, leaving Aegnor two days to spend alone with Fingon.

Fingon lived in a small, modest house at the northern outskirt of the town, surrounded by a vegetable garden. There were three goats tethered nearby.

Egg felt a heavy lump in his throat. Melda, I am here. Will you not see me?

He left his boots by the side of the doorway and went into the humble house. It was lived in, mildly cluttered. Fingon had not taken back his servants despite their desire to serve him again. Vorosanya, Egg knew, lived nearby with Nemmirile, just in case Fingon needed them again.

Egg enters the house further. He finds Fingon with his back to him, minding a dish. And Egg saw it was his favorite dish. The lump in his throat felt heavier.

"Melda...will you not see me? Do you not love me anymore?" "I planned to. I was taking my time. Going back to life is disconcerting," comes Fingon's voice. "I wanted to face you when I was fully ready."

Egg dropped his gaze, tears clouding his eyes. "Oh."

"But you're here now."

He looked up. Fingon wore no gold ribbons now, Argon told him. Everything was the same, and yet not. For a gruesome scar ran across Fingon's face, starting from his right temple, cutting right across his face, to his left jaw. The scar cut across his left eye, which was milky white (blind?).

"What, you delayed returning to me your husband because of this?" Egg says. He crosses the threshold, and engulfs Fingon in a hug. The tears come. He kisses him -- over the scar, over the eyelid of the now-blind eye. Kisses him like no tomorrow. "Finno. I said it before, I say it again. You are the loveliest Elf who ever lived. I do not take my words back."

Their bond thrummed with joy and sorrow both. He felt Fingon's hands ball fistfuls of his tunic's fabric.

"I have not quite forgiven you," said Fingon. "For dying ahead of me. How dare you." His voice was quiet.

Egg simply hugs him closer. "I'm sorry, my love. I'm sorry. I'm here now. We're here. And you won't lose me again."

[dalliansss]

friends don't say stuff like that. - egg/Finno

“I ACCIDENTALLY TOLD YOU I LOVED YOU AND NOW WE’RE FINALLY TALKING ABOUT IT” PROMPTS

It was raining in Dor-lomin that day. Aikanár, Egg, had finally reached Fingon's realm after a journey that took the younger elf some two weeks longer than it should have. As always, Egg announced his arrival with a loud laugh, promptly followed by the endless complaining about how hard it was to travel and navigate on-land than it was on the sea -- where the stars were surer in directions, because they stayed fixed and didn't change or lose leaves for autumn. Fingon was used to this; everybody in the family was used to this. He listened patiently as Vorosanya tended to Egg, and once his cousin had exhausted his complaints, Finno conducted him into the receiving area of his great hall.

There, Egg is given a chance to relax upon one of the couches near the fireplace. Finno poured the hot, mulled wine himself.

Egg often made these visits, up to four times a year. While Fingon held Angrod and Aegnor closely and counted them as among his very few closest friends, Egg held the place of bestest friend and confidant for a long, long time.

Egg had been in Dor-lomin for a week, and it was still raining, and they sit down together by the hearth fire, Fingon nursing his mulled wine. Earlier that day he had gone out to inspect his small plot of land that he'd turned into a farm, and checked on his goats, made sure every animal was warm and comfy and properly sheltered from the inclement weather. Egg stubbornly remained indoors.

The log in the fire crackled merrily, and Fingon felt Egg poke his cheek. His cousin's fingertip was a bit cold, still.

"Ai, Finno, you are still unwed, and if you keep this up and if I come back here next time and still find you bereft of the great love affair I had always dreamed for you, I will wed you myself," Egg sighed dramatically.

Fingon frowned softly, and turned a contemplative gaze to his best friend. Egg had often and has always declared his fondness for him for as long as they could both remember -- as soon as Egg could string words together and after he first met Fingon, in fact. It had become such a routine, something so ordinary, that to perhaps perceive something underneath the normally understood meaning was doing it all injustice.

"You know, Aikanár, friends do not really utter things like that," says Fingon. He kept his tone light, teasing. Egg may be an adult elf and had not been an elfling for centuries, but sometimes, his emotional side still surfaced. He was aptly named so: fell-fire -- sudden surges of emotion, raging, but then quickly gone, to be replaced by his perpetual cheer.

"I'll say it and keep saying it, because it is so, and really, Finno, if you don't get a move on, I'll snatch you from all the eligible elleth of Hithlum and Dor-lomin, and they will all be sadder for it!" Egg chirped.

Fingon shook his head. He downed the rest of his wine, and stretched out his legs, and he leaned into Egg's side instead. Egg promptly had an arm around him, and he felt his cousin bury his nose into his gold-braided hair.

Perhaps. But why am I noticing this now, and out of the blue, too?

@skaelds