#he was fingone too soon

[feanors-mom]

As a follow-up to my prior post, I present:

Top 10 Characters in the Tolkien Legendarium who are so psychologically healthy my broken ass finds them difficult to relate to but nonetheless is inspired by.

10) Gandalf: if it weren’t for the pipe-weed dependency he’d rank higher. But he’s late for Council meetings and annoys Galadriel, who has better things to do. Yeah I know he’s on the other list too, but I am large, I contain multitudes.

9) Celeborn: not a jealous bone in his body, content to be a background wifeguy who somehow wasn’t even a little bit annoying. Utterly unrelatable

8) Nerdanel: Literally the only reason Fëanor didn’t go off the rails sooner. If those 7 little shits were still minors you can BET she would’ve been granted full custody.

7) Sam: only crime was loving too much (see: Frodo, potatoes)

6) Legolas: a literal prince content to risk his life for a cause bigger than himself. Also a silly boy.

5) Fingon: did what even Maedhros’ nuclear family couldn’t (or wouldn’t), now he soaks in Bubble Bath and sips miruvor in the Undying Lands

4) Glorfindel: could have rested on his Balrog Blaster laurels but willingly went back to a shitstorm. Sort of regretted it as soon as he landed but shrugged and just did what needed to be done.

3) Miriel: the human one (the elf one is as broken as they come, but damn I love her for it) . She tried her best but just couldn’t win against Tar-Patriarchy.

2) Aragorn: head on straight. But yeah, completely unrelatable

1) Finrod: so good Mandos just fist-bumped him back into a body

[erendur]

Maedhros needs a hug.

I think we all agree (well, most of us at least), that Maedhros needs a hug, at the very least.

So I was thinking, what if he was adopted by a group of lesser fire spirits after he threw himself in the chasm (I could bet good money on the fact that a fanfic has already been written based on that idea, but am too lazy to check).

The chasm he threw himself in is probably a major, big-ass one - he’s a Fëanorian after all, I think he would leave in style. So there were bound to be at least a few lesser fire spirits hanging out there, with not much to do. Corrupted evil spirits have plenty to do, what with torturing people, murdering them or creating monsters, but the non-corrupted ones probably have plenty of time on their hands.

So suddenly, there's this gorgeous Elf throwing himself in their chasm. And they’re super thrilled, because the Ainu of Valinor get plenty of pretty elves hanging around them, but the lesser spirits of Middle-Earth, not so much. Plus, when they get closer, they notice that it’s not just any Elf, but a Fëanorian, a super-fiery one, one they’ve probably sneakily had a look at when he was in his Father’s forge at some point (I’m convinced fire spirits regularly sneaked into Fëanor’s forge fire to have a good look at him and his family of fiery hotties).

I’m imagining a kind of Monthy Python’s Holy Grail’s Castle Anthrax situation there : they all jump on his fëa as fast as they can, to make sure he doesn’t escape towards Mandos’s halls or any funny business like that, and of course Maedhros doesn’t put up much of a fight given that :

He’s super tired, even in disembodied fëa form ;

He very much does NOT want to go to Mandos and, as far as he had planned ahead, was determined to give him the slip. He’s already been imprisoned once, thank you very much, he’s not doing it again.

So when Mandos finally comes looking for him, the fire spirits hide him in under a fire blanket and pile of throw pillows or whatever the equivalent would be in a fiery chasm, put on their most innocent look, and say they’ve seen nothing.

“An Elf ? Why would there be an Elf in a fiery chasm ? We haven’t seen any Elves around here. And even if we had, they’d been gone by now. In this direction, yes, over there. Nothing to see here, no Sir, certainly no murderous fiery Elf.”

Mandos doesn’t press the matter too much, because he’s got a group of Avari Elves that have eaten poison berries to take care of, and he already feels the start of a headache coming.

Maedhros spends the next age or so being absolutely pampered by the fire spirits, who can’t believe their luck. They braid his fëa hair and make him fiery buttered crumpets. They chill on the fiery sofa and they make him laugh by telling mean jokes about the water spirits and making funny impersonations of Ulmö. I’m picturing an Odysseus/Calypso situation there. He’s having a nice time. He’s got no one to manage, he’s not in charge of any siblings, he’s got no hopeless war to fight and no Oath to fulfil. He can finally relax with his fire spirit pals.

Eventually, someone spills the beans to Mandos. Of course, it’s a water spirit. They’ve been eyeing Maglor for an age, holding their breath as he gets closer and closer to the water, hoping - surely, this time he’ll go in !- but he never does, so since they can’t get their hot pet Elf, it’s unfair that the other ones do.

Mandos decides to kill two birds with one stone on this one, and sends Fingon to get him. He’s been trying to get rid of Fingon for almost as soon as he’d arrived - “You did a magical rescue ! Manwë sent you his eagle ! You waged a war against Evil ! You died a heroe’s death ! You have nothing to do here !” - but Fingon has always stubbornly refused to be reembodied until Maedhros had at least arrived. He’s got five other Fëanorians plus a bunch of their followers who also refuse to leave for the same reason. He thinks he’s finally got a solution.

So by the time Fingon arrives in the fiery chasm, Maedhros has chilled and relaxed enough that he is able to consider the whole atone for his sins in Mandos thing in a more sanguine way. It will be mostly fine. He did some terrible things. He won’t be tortured. He’ll be ok. Fingon will be there. So he only puts up the bare minimum of a fuss before following Finno.

“I can’t go back, I’m an accursed kinslayer. Everybody there reviles me. There is no hell so profound that is sufficient to punish the tenth part of my sins…” (He has spent hundred of years hanging out with Maglor, who has some serious Drama-Queen tendencies, and also came up with that last line before Marguerite de Navarre).

“Come on, Mae, not everyone reviles you, there are many people who are waiting for you there, and you’ll get reembodied eventually…”

“Do not insist, dear friend, I am the most accursed of the accursed, I’ll never finish atoning for my sins, I'll be cast aside, universally hated, like I deserve…”

“Maitimo Nelyafinwë ! Stop it this instant ! You’re going to Mandos now, and you’re going to be reembodied, and you’ll give a kiss to your Mom you’ve been waiting for you all this time !”

So he leaves, much to the chagrin of the fire spirits. Well, at least, they all had a good time.

[kitcat22]

There is a crib in the topmost tower of Himring.

The wood it is made of is polished and has elegant designs carves into it, small birds taking flight, flowers blossoming, the stars and the two trees all engraved. It truly is a fine piece, Feanor would have nothing less for his first child.

This was not the first time Fingon had seen it. He had first laid eyes upon it after being shoved into a storage closet in Feanor and Nerdanel’s townhouse in central Tirion after Maitimo’s parents had returned early from their date. The second time it had been in use by a small infant Tyelpe who was swaddled in blankets and pillows and attempted to pull on Fingon’s braids.

Seeing the crib again was would not be all that unusual. It was a family heirloom dearly held in his half uncle’s heart, it made sense it would be taken to Middle Earth.

Except that instead of being in an old storage room collecting dust or even in Tyelpe’s possession, as the youngest member of the House of Feanor, the Crib stood tall and beautiful against the wall in the small room connected to Maedhros’ bed chambers.

He walks closer to it, slowly and carefully as though something terrible may by hiding in it. Something terrible may indeed be hiding in it if Fingon’s suspicions are correct. Rarely is the truth kind but Fingon must know. He must know. It does not matter that the very thought causes his heart to seize in pain and his stomach to shift uneasily. He came here to Himring, the only part of Beleriand to not sink to the depths of the ocean, on a mission and he will not leave until he has the answers he seeks.

The small room, no, the nursery, has been very well preserved despite its age and the thick grey dust that makes a sheet over every object. Tapestries hang from the walls depicting scenes from fairytales that Fingon remembers being read in his own youth. The windows are tall and the curtains are light and flowing. Inside the crib are several different toys, a large fabric horse with actual horse hair sewn on it. A bunny with long ears one of which stand ramrod straight and the other which flops forward. A wooden figurine that looks a lot like Feanor. There are blankets too, rich luxurious things likely worth a fortune on their own in the war torn age of their making. It is the red blanket with a name embroidered in gold that attracts his attention the most.

Ereinion Gil-galad.

Any doubt is cast from his mind and Fingon falls forward onto his knees with a cry.

He had not believed the rumours at first, had thought the boy king a liar and a fraud had wanted to confront him as soon as he was released from Mandos but the gossips had been right. Gil Galad was his son.

Not only his son though. He pictured Maedhros, miserable and grieving, watching in the mirror as his stomach grew round with a child neither of them had expected. His eyes stung with tears that would not fall.

He had a child. He had a child. He had a child.

And his child had been dead for millennia.

The tears fell.

[echo-bleu]

Noldor hair headcanons (2/4)

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | On AO3

By the time they’re settled in Beleriand, the Nolofinwëans have largely switched from elaborate styles done by someone else to (slightly) simpler self-braided styles. They’re at war now, so they turn toward practical braids that keep their hair out of their face during combat. There’s more and more of a gap between everyday styles and ceremonial styles.

The Fëanorians however are still doing things the old way. Maedhros is very unhappy that he can no longer braid people’s hair properly (especially Fingon’s) (he learns to do it one-handed eventually, but it’s never as perfect) (Fingon doesn’t mind).

The Sindar wear their hair half-up or even loose. However, they like to play with each other’s hair, and it’s not reserved for family, which is Very Weird for the Noldor to see. Galadriel has a hard time getting used to it and doesn’t let anyone touch her hair beside Celeborn, but she eventually figures out that her hair dazzles people even more when it’s loose, so she starts leaving it down.

It’s even harder to untangle as a result, and Celeborn suffers. (Galadriel is not not into hair pulling.)

Melian and Lúthien’s hair is so silky that braids just undo themselves. Elrond and Elros partly inherit that, and Elrond spends his whole life mourning that fact (he wants to do his hair like Maedhros, okay?).

Finrod is the first elf to let a Man touch his hair. He’s travelling alone and he’s touch-deprived, can you blame him? (It’s Bëor. It results in several uncomfortable conversations.)

Curufin makes himself and his brothers sharpened hairpins and various other weapons disguised as hair jewellery.

Hairstyles mingle during the Siege until, in the more cosmopolitan realms, Noldor and Sindar are no longer identifiable at first sight. Some Noldor elect to keep their hair mostly loose (though almost never entirely) while many Sindar learn the Battle Braids. They are very convenient, after all.

Avari hair customs are very different. It’s mostly about hair brushing/care being very intimate. They usually wear hairdresses or hair covering of some kind, depending on the tribe they belong to.

Gondolin has stayed highly conservative about hair, with hairstyles almost as complex as Tirion in its noontide.

Maeglin hates having his hair touched even more than his mother.

I’m tempted to make Eöl an asshole on this too, who cuts Aredhel’s hair or something, but I think she just never lets him touch her and he doesn’t care enough to try.

Maeglin grows up with his hair loose up until Aredhel takes them to Gondolin, where she remembers how Turgon is about hair, and braids Maeglin’s and her own in hopes of Looking Natural.

Maeglin’s first impression of Gondolin is that Hair Braiding Hurts (though not as much as adar’s hands). It goes downhill from there.

He’s still jealous when he catches Idril doing Tuor’s hair. Tuor doesn’t even have the decency of having beautiful Noldor hair, so it doesn’t even look that good. The next day, Idril’s braids are very wonky and Maeglin, upon seeing her, completely messes up the hair clip he was making her.

Eärendil has Tuor’s hair. It’s fine, because Elwing refuses to do Noldor braids.

Glorfindel is a Vanya and wears his hair completely loose.

We all know how that ends.

Maglor’s hair is partly burned off in Dagor Bragollach. He spends an uncomfortable few years growing it back and recovering from smoke inhalation. He revives some ridiculous hair-related ditties from his youth as voice therapy and they’re soon heard throughout Beleriand.

Finrod, badly injured and with no bodies of his brothers to bury, makes up a self-braided version of the Mourning Braids (It involves only braiding the hair from the shoulders down. That’s largely because he couldn’t raise his arms at that point, but it becomes a feature of all Mourning Braids—except Maglor’s style—for two ages to come.)

For the first time since the Ice, Fingolfin asks Fingon to do his hair, the morning after they hear of Morgoth’s victory.

He braids Rochallor’s mane and tail before setting out.

Rochallor walks back into Hithlum some days after the Eagle comes, his hair still braided. He lies down and dies with his head in Fingon’s arms.

Turgon braids his father’s hair before burying him, as he did with Elenwë, as he did with Aredhel. There is a custom that’s been developing among the Noldor of Beleriand to only give the dead a single, simple braid, so that they don’t risk being too attached to their body and miss the call from Mandos, but Turgon doesn’t know of it. No one has died in Gondolin since it was built, aside from Aredhel and Eöl.

Finrod and his Ten braid each other’s hair the night after they leave Nargothrond. Beren watches them with no understanding of the custom.

They later find out that werewolves spit out the hair when they devour someone.

It’s not a nice sight.

Beren and Lúthien do their best to clean Finrod’s beautiful golden braids of blood before they bury him, even though neither of them quite get what the braids mean to the Noldor.

Fingon’s golden ribbons are marred with blood when they find his body on the battlefield. His braids are the only way to identify him for certain.

Maedhros revives Maglor’s Mourning Braids. Mostly because Maglor does them for him. Maedhros would be fine with No One Ever Touching His Hair Again, but he’s close to catatonic.

Then the Oath awakes once more.

Celegorm’s white hunting braids and Dior’s black silky hair mingle on the blood-stained floor of Doriath’s throne room.

It takes Maglor longer to find Caranthir and Curufin. He carefully braids their hair into a single plait before they burn the bodies, in case it could help them find Mandos.

Maybe they are for the Void, but at least he feels like he’s done something.

The years up to the Third Kinslaying are awful. Maedhros and Maglor are codependent to an unhealthy degree, while the twins will barely speak to them, or each other. Maglor still does Maedhros’s hair. Maedhros doesn’t return the favour. They scream at each other daily.

Sirion is unthinkable. They attack anyway. Maedhros and Ambarussa’s braids look like bloodstains in the twilight.

Elwing’s hair floats around her as she falls.

To be continued

[nelyos-right-hand]

I've been reading post-reembodiement fics lately, and Fëanor trying to fix his relationship with his sons/ making amends for his mistakes is a pretty common occurrence in them.

Whenever that happens Curufin is almost always the first to forgive his father, and if Fëanor starts to make stupid choices again, he is often the first to support him.

And I see why many people see it that way. In the Silm, Celegorm and Curufin are their father's strongest supporters and the most ruthless when it comes to following their oath. Curufin is also described to be Fëanor Junior and they probably had a very close relationship.

But what if that changes after the first age?

Through the entire first age, Curufin continued to believe in the oath and their father. Sure, the others followed the oath as well, but I don't think that any of them did it because they actually believed in it.

Maedhros did it because Fingon was dead and he had stopped caring. Maglor, Caranthir and the Ambarussar did it because the oath was driving them. Celegorm did it because he was no longer sane and wanted revenge and bloodshed. He did it because he was hurting and now it was time for others to hurt.

But Curufin still did it for Fëanor. Because yes, right now things were looking pretty bad, but in the end everything would turn out fine. They were going to get the Silmaril, and then they were going to defeat Morgoth, fulfill their oath and make their father proud. Things were still going according to plan. Curufin himself might be unable to see it right now, but that's just because Fëanor was a genius. He had planned for this because he wouldn't have made them swear the oath if he hadn't, right? Everything was gonna be fine, all he had to do was trust his father.

But then suddenly he turned around just in time to see Dior drive his sword through Celegorm's chest. And he didn't even have time to process that because in the next moment he was hit by an arrow, and another, and another, and another.

Curufin didn't live very long after that, maybe two or three seconds. But in that time he realized something.

Things were not going according to plan. They couldn't because there was no plan. Fëanor didn't have any idea what he was doing when he swore the oath. And he most certainly didn't have his sons' welfare in mind at that moment.

They wouldn't get the Silmarils, not even one of them. They wouldn't fulfill the oath and they wouldn't defeat Morgoth. They wouldn't even survive.

Celegorm was dead and Curufin was dying and their other brothers would die soon too, and it would all be for nothing. He had spend the last five-hundred years believing in and fighting for a purpose that wasn't even a real purpose but the fantasies of a dead madman.

He had been betrayed by the person he loved most and now he would die for him.

(Hint-Celebrimbor-hint)

(Alright, so Fëanor didn't actually betray Curufin because that would mean that he did it on purpose or that he had any ill intentions towards him. That, of course, wasn't the case because Fëanor did love his sons dearly, he just, you know, went absolutely mad after Finwë's death. Curufin just feels betrayed because he is dying and stuff.)

So back in Valinor Curufin has the most trouble forgiving his father. That surprises Fëanor as much as the rest of the family cause it kind of contradicts his actions in his previous life but maybe death does that to people.

In the end he does forgive him of course, but it takes some time to fix their relationship and it takes way longer for him to trust Fëanor again then it did for the rest of his sons.

These are just some loose thoughts cause it's the middle of the night and I'm bored but I think it's interesting because it's different from what we usually see of Curufin.

[eldal0te]

He plans on building himself a cabin in the woods, away from civilization and regaining the contact with others slowly. 

If it were his decision, Maedhros would probably go on and start appearing publicly again, but it might be kinder on other people not to. He’s relearning self-control and respecting boundaries, he’s not going to leap into politics immediately. (He will get into politics again soon, that much he is sure of, just not perhaps this soon.)

The cabin in the woods sound more appalling every time he thinks about it. Too far away from people, how is he meant to re-accustom others to his presence when there are no others around?

He mentions so much to Caranthir the next time he ends up laying on his brother’s couch, smoking some suspicious leaves Amrod apparently dropped of a few weeks earlier and Moryo just laughs. 

„We have a house on Tol Eressea. My wife hates the island, but the taxes for selling property there are horrendous.”

„You’re offering I could stay there?”

„Transferring property to family is free. Promise to reimburse us sensibly once you are able and it’s yours.”

„Your wife won’t mind?”

„She’s been offering the house to every reasonable relative, you’re the first who even considers it. Trust me, she’ll be delighted”

„You know, you were always my favorite brother”

(In a hindsight, he should have probably asked why does his sister in law hate this house so much.)

The first time he saw her, Maedhros was convinced he had seen a ghost.

(She lives on this island, it’s the newest, biggest market they just opened. Why should she not be there?)

(If only he haven’t seen her on bloody a marketplace before.)

The second time it happens, Elwing sees him too and freezes. He considers approaching and apologizing, but Fingon keeps giving him the talks about giving people space, so instead he just nods and gets out of there.

(He considers mentioning that meeting to Fingon, but decides against it. They are only starting to be at ease with one another again and that would worry him too much.)

They keep running at one-another and he knows she’s uncomfortable. He is too. For a brief moment, he plans on giving up this doubtful pleasure (really, new market or not, why are there so many people there, all buying spices?) and going back to shopping on a smaller, local market but then she deliberately snatches the last pink melon from the stand after seeing him reach for it and that really pisses him off. 

(Fingon was going to visit, and considering how one flavor he always adored was that of pink Vanyarin melons, Maedhros really doesn’t think he can be blamed for his later actions.)

A week later, he overhears her talking to a woman he can only assume to be Galadriel’s daughter about needing to buy cloves for Earendil’s favorite dish and promptly makes sure to purchase all the remaining ones.

It’s a war now and there’s no knowing who will break down first.

Afterwards, it would be foolish not to expect a retaliation, so the next time Fingon visits he makes sure to get to the market extra early. He reaches the melon-seller, just to be informed that all of the fruits have already been sold out.

A seagull laughs at him.

Better person would have given in. Luckily, he really doubts that Elwing sees him as a better person.

He persuades Caranthir to help him bribe the vendor into sending the next month’s delivery of cloves directly to his house.

(In a hindsight, the unfortunate chain of the house’s ownership is to be blamed on birds. They shit on the porch constantly. Elwing really does not control the local pigeons (but will not, under any condition, ask them to stop, not while he is holding the cloves hostage). It’s not her fault he moved into this neighborhood. They even exchange a couple of semi-polite letters on this matter.)

A couple of years latter, Elrond almost gets an aneurysm after coming across his mother and Maedhros shopping together and discussing which of the vendors has the best tomatoes. 

[tanoraqui]

Lalwen caught everyone's attention by slamming a fresh wine bottle onto the center of the table.

"Alright, new game," she said. "'The Worst Thing I Ever Did To You Was...' It's like The Worst Thing I Ever Did, but it has to be specifically to someone else in this room, and you have to apologize for it. And you only get to drink if everyone else agrees that your apology was good enough."

Fingolfin raised one finger. "Point of order: what if you need to be drunker in order to apologize for something?" He didn't look at Fëanor, but his gaze was sliding around a bit, so in order to achieve this, he turned his entire head to the right.

"Tough luck," said Lalwen.

"Point of order," said Findis. "What if we don't want to play this one, either?"

"Then you have to sit here and endure it without getting to drink any more. Because - " Lalwen forestalled Fëanor's imminent query - "the door is still locked and no one is leaving until Family Game Night is over."

The boys all radiated rebellious pedantry, probably still not over how she'd lied to get them all here. But they didn't say anything, so Lalwen smiled brightly and said, "Great! I'll do an example to show you how it's done."

She retook her own chair, wobbling only a little as she moved from standing to sitting, leaned toward her youngest brother and said earnestly, "Ara, I'm sorry that I lied to you that Gil-galad was Fingon's son and your foster-great-grandson. It was politically expedient but essentially an orc move, and mostly I just did it because I was bitter at you for swanning in with all your golden armor and righteousness and optimism, when we had none of any of that. That was wrong of me. Also, obviously it fell apart as soon as he and his parents were all re-embodied."

Fëanor still had half a glass of wine from the now-lost bottle. He'd started slipping it slowly while glaring pointedly at Lalwen, to prove that he didn't need her stupid game.

He nearly spit it out.

"That's why a random half-blood became High King of the Noldor?" he demanded. "You just lied that he was part of the House of Finwë? And nobody challenged it?"

Lalwen was laughing too hard to answer. Findis was also laughing, more quietly.

"To be fair," Fingolfin offered, swallowing his own snicker in favor of loftiness, "from what the elf himself has told me, at the start of the Second Age, Galadriel, Elrond, and Celebrimbor between them could have crowned an unwoken tree High King if they'd all agreed on a candidate. Support from each of our lines, you know."

"Fëanor, how did you think Gil-galad became High King?" Finarfin asked curiously.

"I hadn't thought about it much - I've been busy, you know. I suppose I assumed he'd been elected, as we do now."

Fëanor tipped his head back to drain his glass, then rather slammed it down on the table. Yet again, the jewel-grade goblets proved themselves the right choice for the evening.

Lalwen could barely breathe for laughing. "No Noldor on either side of the Sea did that until nearly the end of the Second Age!"

Fëanor scowled.

Findis smiled serenely, and twisted the top off the new wine bottle. A melodious scent swelled forth of sweet grapes, bruised peaches, and warm summer sun.

"Well, that seems well-apologized to me." She refilled Lalwen's glass - though she paused before handing it back, and asked, "Ara?"

Finarfin nodded grandly, and for good measure took Lalwen's hand and kissed it. "We are well-reconciled, sister, and have been for many years."

"Good, good, gimme!" said Lalwen, grabbing at her well-deserved wine. "Ahh..." The Yavannandil wine was soft and soothing against her laughter-dried throat.

When she'd downed a good third of the glass, she gestured broadly and declared, "There! You see how it's done! Your turn!"

She pointed to Fëanor, then jabbed her finger at his chest. "And you're not allowed to say 'burning the ships', that's too easy."

[nighttimepatrons]

The Trial of Glorfindel

altered lyrics of The Trial of Lancelot by Heather Dale

King Turgon's lords, they lined the Counsel Hall Save for one who stood before them For once without a weapon, for once he stood in shame The trial's charge was treason and betrayal of an oath, And should his guilt be proven death would fall on traitors both; The lords would counsel Turgon's hard decision. And Glorfindel, his head held high, Said, “I'm tried for love of Erestor, My crime was love.” The first to speak was Rog with sharpest tongue, “He is an elf like any other, The word of kings command him, his heart does not obey For all his strength and boldness this lord's fea is too weak. His crime has no excuses and no favours may he seek; The laws of kings don't bend and can't be broken.” And Glorfindel, his head held high, Said, “I stand for love of Erestor, For pride in love.” “I know this lord right well,” spoke bold Ecthelion, “And he has ever stood beside me, With steel he's answered insults, defended chivalry And oft this elf contended for the honour of your spouse His actions were not proper but should not cost him his life; His service past should earn of you some mercy.”

And Glorfindel, his head held high, Said, “I fought for love of Erestor, I'll fight for love.” Sir Maeglin spoke, “I love Tuor’s dear wife. For her I gladly suffer, she is my heart's delight Idril, the one who tempts me and she for whom I'm pure, My love for her confounds me and is all of which I'm sure; I understand my comrade's contradictions.” And Glorfindel, his head held high, Said, “I cry my love for Erestor, I've cried for love.” Spoke Egalmoth, the purest of them all, “Have no fear of predilection, For though he is my father, he is my source of shame. He joined in sinful union with my unbeguiling mother, And for all his claim at virtue he has gone and bed another; The laws of Eru declare this act damnation.” And Glorfindel, his head held high, Said, “I lie in love with Erestor, I've lied for love.” As Turgon wept, he called the wrath of Ulmo On the lovers who'd betrayed him On the lord he had called brother, thought worthy of his trust On the spouse who'd hid deception yet could say he loved him still; For lost innocence and beauty And in justice for their guilt; King Turgon knew the only price for treason. And Glorfindel, his head held high, Said, “I'll die in love with Erestor. I'd die for love.”

𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝

This has been in my little document for months! I really wanted to make an animatic for this but let's be real that is never going to happen.

I've seen a few Glorestor fics where Glorfindel and Erestor meet in Gondolin, but I imagine for this they meet before the great city is founded. Though things end in Gondolin.

I adore Heather Dale and I cannot listen to her songs without thinking about my beloved elves. hehehe :)

Soon to be posted Fingon and Maedhros Thingol and Melien

[queerofthedagger]

in my cold arms

[Fingon/Maedhros | T+ | 2.5k | AO3]

Tags: Canon Era, Post-Rescue from Thangorodrim, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, Hair-Cutting as a Metaphor for frankly too many things, Light Angst

(Very belatedly) written for @feanorianweek day 1: Maedhros

Maedhros has been quiet since Fingon brought him back.

It should come as no surprise, of course, and in many ways, it is not. He sleeps a lot. He sits and watches as his brothers try not to choke or tear each other apart, caught between their relief and their guilt. He eats and drinks, slow and methodical.

It should come as no surprise, but Fingon catches himself thinking that it is. That it sits wrongly on the bruised, beautiful face—the blankness, the fissure cracks of desolation, the absence of fire.

Even sleeping as he is now, Fingon sitting beside his bed in silent vigil, he looks drawn. Fragile. As if he is only half there.

In all the years they have known each other, Maedhros has always burnt so bright that some days, Fingon could almost feel the heat of it, could sense the threat of what would happen to him if he dared come too close.

And Fingon had known that it would not be the same; had known it when he stood on the shores of the Helkaraxë, and when he learnt, later, that Maedhros had been taken. Knew it when he made the decision to find him, when he sang, when his arrow shivered on its string. More than anything, he had known it when he lifted his blade and saw the anguished resignation in Maedhros’ eyes.

He had known that it would not be the same, but Maedhros still looks at the world around him with that same anguished resignation, still looks, sometimes when he thinks Fingon isn’t watching, as if he can’t decide whether he has been rescued or condemned.

It looks wrong on him. No matter what Fingon had expected, it makes his skin crawl to see him like this. Makes him want to pick up his bow and his sword and march right back into Angband, enact his seething, bristling vengeance, claw the fire right out from beneath the accursed mountain until he can sink it back into Maedhros skin, let it warm him, make him whole.

Or perhaps that is overly arrogant. Perhaps Fingon just wishes that he could do something, something other than enduring the thick, lingering tension between them whenever Maedhros wakes. Something other than staring at the severed limb, wrought by Fingon’s own hand, whenever Maedhros sleeps.

He knows that it had been the only way. And yet.

“Stop.”

The voice makes him jolt, gaze snapping up to Maedhros face. He hadn’t noticed him waking, and there is said awkwardness, the unreadable glint in Maedhros eyes, the way that the air in the tent turns heavy with years of unspoken words.

Fingon wishes it were only Morgoth’s crimes lying between them.

“Stop what?” he asks, keeping his tone light. He does not think of how long it has been—weeks since they arrived in the camp. Years, decades since the light of Telperion washed Maedhros in glittering silver, his eyes like gems in the twilight. Since things were easy, shimmering promises hovering between them, a careful dance around a future just waiting for them to grasp it.

A lifetime, it feels, since then. Now Maedhros looks washed out and Fingon’s hands are shaking, and neither any longer knows how to talk to the other.

“Self-flagellating yourself over whatever supposed failure you are ruminating on this time,” Maedhros says, a ghost of a smile touching his mouth. It vanishes as soon as it appeared. “What troubles you, Findekáno? We live yet. We breathe. Is that not all that counts?”

There is no accusation in Maedhros' mild tone, no bitterness. It is in the deliberate absence of it that Fingon sees it regardless, the space carefully measured and side-stepped.

He wants to weep, to shout. He curls his hands into fists until his nails bite into skin.

“Is it? Do you think so?”

He should not ask, should not pose the question like this. It has been decades, but he knows Maedhros, knows the flare of his temper and the meaning of how his eyes flash in response.

It is only a flicker, now, but it is more fire than Fingon has seen in weeks, and so he cannot help but revere it, to feel an answering spark inside his chest. To want to feed the flames no matter the cost.

He restrains himself. He is not here to poke and prod at Maedhros, to merely satisfy whatever his treacherous heart still, always still, wishes for.

Maedhros lifts a brow, and despite the scars twisting across his face, despite the tangled, matted mess of his hair and the ink-deep shadows beneath his eyes, he still succeeds in making it look imperious.

“I do not wish for death, Fingon; you may all be keeping a close watch on me, but I think I am yet capable of at least closing my eyes and meeting my end if I so pleased.”

It is not that easy, Fingon wants to say, but what use is it to argue. Maedhros is sharp-edged, a glinting blade yearning for blood, and Fingon has rarely ever seen him like this, but he knows him.

So he asks, “Do you want me to leave?” and pretends that his heart is not the pulpy, open mess of a wound within his chest.

Maedhros exhales sharply and slumps back into his pillows. His arm twitches as if he wants to reach for Fingon, and then remembers that he no longer has a hand to do so.

“No,” he finally says, after a pause that feels like years on grinding ice. “No, I would rather…”

He does not finish, and Fingon does not reach for him at the words he hears despite the silence.

Stay. I would rather you stay. I want to stay.

He settles back in his chair and lets his heart settle alongside it. Says, “Whatever you need, Russo,” and pretends that it is not an oath in its own right.

---

Fingon keeps staying, day after day in the dim tent. His father stays his tongue but his eyes speak volumes, and not all of their kin are as sparse with the proclamation of their judgement.

Fingon ignores it. With that, at least, he has long years of practice. And while progress seems slow, while Maedhros’ brothers watch him without bothering for subtlety, while some nights, Fingon still lies awake and feels blood on his hands, hears Maedhros’ screams, hears him beg, well—he at least no longer wonders whether he made the right choice.

Maedhros is alive, and he is clawing his way back to something akin to living too, arduous inch by arduous inch. When it comes right down to it, that is all Fingon wants.

Today, the late September day is brisk, even in the royal tent. He has a complicated relationship with the cold these days, but he doubts that it would be taken in anything but a pointed manner if he asked for furs.

So he sits, and lets his eyes linger on the bandages around Maedhros' arm, the unkempt hair, the battered mess of him.

He has not let anyone tend to said hair yet, none of his brothers and certainly not the healers, no matter how sharp Celegorm’s remarks or Maglor’s quiet offers. How obvious his discomfort.

“You are cold,” Maedhros says, once again catching Fingon off guard. At whatever Fingon’s face is doing, he huffs, waiting until Fingon meets his eyes. “You know me, Finyo; you forget that I know you, too.”

Fingon swallows his heart as it tries to leap up his throat. Smiles. Curls his hands into fists once more, and then uncurls them again, finger after finger, when Maedhros nods towards one of his blankets.

As Fingon takes it, warmth already suffusing his chest that has nothing to do with the actual fur, Maedhros pushes himself up. He is still unsteady, his recovery happening in staggering steps that are not helped by how some days, he pushes himself too much, and others refuses to rise at all.

Today, between the blankets and the tiredness and Fingon in the midst of it, he tangles himself up, leans on his own hair, and curses in a manner so foul that Nerdanel would have washed out his mouth for it.

Fingon reaches for him instinctively, and Maedhros doesn’t flinch away when he helps him to sit. It’s progress, and Fingon gladly takes it as such; he has long since stopped mourning for things he will not get back.

There is a pause once they have sorted themselves out, Fingon back in his chair and Maedhros perched on the edge of the bed. The braziers are rustling in the middle of the tent, and outside, the muted din of voices and people moving spools on without them.

Maedhros looks at him, a determined set to his jaw that Fingon, even after everything, is intimately familiar with.

And yet, when Maedhros says, “I want to cut it off,” Fingon stares at him for a heartbeat, two, too long before the words properly register.

“You what?”

Maedhros tilts his chin up. His eyes flash. Fingon wants to weep.

“The hair; I need it off, Fingon. It’s beyond salvation, and it’s—I need it off.”

Fingon swallows, and forces himself to nod. Deep down, he understands, he thinks; or at least he can try to.

And who is he to judge? Unlike other things, the hair will grow back if Maedhros wants it to.

He makes to rise. “Of course; do you want to do it now? I’m sure I can find you a knife or—“

Maedhros fingers close around his wrist, his touch warm. It is loose enough that Fingon could pull away if he wanted to, but he doesn’t; there is little that he wants to do less than to pull away from Maedhros. Never has.

“I want you to do it.”

It lands like a punch, like the ice of Helcaraxë down his back.

“Nelyo,” he chokes, the name tripping off his tongue even though he has not used it in many, many years.

“Well, I can hardly do it myself, can I?” Maedhros says, but he is smiling, his grey eyes almost dancing with mirth.

Fingon loves him so much that it burns.

“Of course,” he says. “Do you—now?”

Maedhros nods, and gestures for Fingon to move off the chair so that he can take his place. “Do you have a knife? There is one beneath my pillow, otherwise.”

Of course there is. Fingon takes his own from its sheath and moves behind him, and then he stares down at the fiery, beloved head.

He takes a strand of hair between his fingertips, careful; it feels rough, the knots and tangles and grime within it unmistakable; he wonders at it, the strong disdain that Maedhros has for it.

“How short do you want it?” he asks, and his voice comes out hushed. They haven’t been this close since before Valinor went dark, and Fingon—

Well, Fingon had thought that he had got a little bit better about the snarled riot of love inside his chest. He had thought that months upon ice and assumed betrayal would have at least allowed him to cut off some corners of his heart and harden it.

He is a fool, of course. He had known it when he learnt that Maedhros stood aside in Losgar, and there had been no doubt when he had walked into Angband with bow and harp alone.

It is only here though, Maedhros’ head bowed with trust before him as he asks this of Fingon—of Fingon to wield a blade upon him once more, of Fingon to take this burden, of Fingon to do this deed—that it hits him, harsh and unrelenting, how there is never going to be anything but this.

“As short as needed,” Maedhros says, and he shifts, almost, almost, almost leaning into Fingon’s touch.

He doesn’t. He wouldn’t. And either way, it is not about that, and so Fingon takes the knife and ignores the way it flashes in the firelight, the memories that want to lay themselves across the scene.

Strands of hair fall red like blood upon black stone, and Fingon’s hands don’t shake the same way that Maedhros isn’t trembling. Which is to say that neither of them does, but it is a careful, arduous exercise of restraint and bitten tongues.

Fingon tries not to touch more than he needs to, but his fingers keep finding skin. Keep finding the even way of Maedhros’ skull beneath the shortening hair, and he tries to be gentle about it; after everything, he wants to be gentle. Wants, more than anything, for his hands to bring relief, not pain.

He cannot tell if this deed will do so, but Maedhros had asked, and so Fingon will answer.

Strand after strand, the infamous hair falls. It is ceremonial, almost, as if alongside it the tension gets cut away, too, a weight lifting that has been making a home between them.

The end result, regardless, is uneven and chopped, and Fingon cannot help but run his fingertips through the remains of it, trying to memorise the feel of Maedhros, calm and complacent beneath his hands.

He stops once Maedhros tips his head back, blinking up at him.

“It suits you,” Fingon says, before he can stop himself.

Maedhros smiles, relaxes a bit further. It makes him lean back against Fingon, his shorn head right to the centre of Fingon’s chest.

“Thank you, Finyo, truly,” he says, and Fingon should move away, give him space. The blade is still heavy in his hand, and Maedhros’ bandages seem stark in the dim light.

Maedhros catches his wrist before he can tear himself away, keeping him in place, easy. There is a crease between his brows, uncertainty lingering in the lines around his mouth.

“Stay?” he asks, voice low; his fingertips press against Fingon’s pulse.

His head swims. Maedhros tugs at his hand until it rests over his chest, the beating, fiery heart of him. He asks again, “Stay with me?” and Fingon finally, finally, finally relearns how to breathe.

He leans forward, presses his lips to the shorn, vulnerable head of his. Hides his smile there and drops his knife, counting the beats of their hearts—one, two, steady.

“Always,” he says, and for once it is an oath that he thinks neither of them will come to regret.

[thelordofgifs]

the fairest stars: post v

The "Beren and Lúthien steal two Silmarils" bullet point AU is into its fifth post! Masterpost with links to all previous parts on tumblr (and on AO3, although that's lagging behind) here.

Part the twenty-sixth! The problem of Dorthonion.

Maedhros sends a letter to Beren.

I know you left Dorthonion long ago, he writes. But I fear Sauron may use his position there to attack Hithlum from the south. Have you any thoughts on how we can defend ourselves?

He includes his gracious thanks to Beren for returning the Silmaril to him, too, but Beren skims over these.

It was never about the Silmaril, really.

After he has read the letter twice over he sets it down with a troubled look and goes for an hours-long walk.

"Is Beren upset?" Túrin wants to know. "He said he'd play Dagor Bragollach with me."

Lúthien does not miss how tight the skin around Morwen's eyes go, hearing that.

"I don't know, dear," she says carefully. "He should be back soon. If not, I will play with you instead, one of the games we used to play when I was a girl before the Sun first rose."

Túrin seems to accept this as a compromise. He goes off to talk to old Sador while he waits.

Lúthien glances at Morwen, who is putting away the luncheon-dishes, having politely rebuffed Lúthien's offer of help. "He does not mean to make light of it," she says. "The battle, I mean. He is only a boy."

"I know that," Morwen says, rather sharply. Then she seems to regret her tone, for she takes a breath and says, more mildly, "So Maedhros Fëanorion is interested in Dorthonion, now?"

"It seems so," says Lúthien. "It would certainly be dreadful if a land which so many people love so well were to be turned into a stronghold of the enemy."

(The memory of Tol-in-Gaurhoth haunts her yet. Finrod loved that tower, once.)

"Well, yes," says Morwen. "But it already has been, has it not?"

Lúthien looks at her in surprise. "And so we must strive to retake it, surely," she says. "It is the land of your girlhood too! Do you not wish to see it restored?"

"Dorthonion is lost just as surely as my girlhood is," Morwen says firmly. "There is no use in mourning it."

"There is a use!" Lúthien protests. "If we do not fight, then – then Morgoth wins! It is all our duty to resist him, is it not?"

"Beren gave Dorthonion up," Morwen points out. "Even he could not hold it forever."

Lúthien lifts her chin. "Beren held Dorthonion far longer than anyone could have expected of him," she says. "And he was not wrong to do so."

Morwen just looks tired. "You say you were a girl before the Sun rose," she says. "Sometimes it seems to me you still are."

Lúthien thinks this rather unfair, but to her dismay Beren agrees with his cousin when he returns from his walk – at least insofar as Dorthonion is concerned.

"Let it go, Tinúviel," he says quietly. "Dorthonion is lost."

"And can it not be reclaimed?" Lúthien presses.

But the gaze her husband turns on her is filled with enough distress that she drops it.

"Maedhros does not want to restore Dorthonion," she points out. "Only be aware of its strengths, and how they might be turned against the Noldor."

"True," Beren says, with a sigh. "I can give him that."

He writes back to Maedhros, detailing the geography of his homeland as best he remembers it, the hidden pathways in which orcs might lurk, the high points of Ladros from which attackers can be seen for miles.

"What do you think?" Maedhros asks Fingon, making little marks on one of his maps with the new information.

Fingon is leaning over his shoulder, careful not to be seen touching him.

"We do not have the forces to launch an invasion," he says, with a frown.

"No," says Maedhros; "nor do I think it possible were we to have three times the people we do at present."

Fingon glances at him. "Dorthonion is not Angband," he says. "I do not think it unassailable, at some point in the future."

"Perhaps," says Maedhros, who sounds unwilling to argue. "All the same, Beren seems to think it would be easy enough for Sauron to assault Barad Eithel from the south, should he wish to do so. It would not be wise to leave those paths unguarded."

Fingon chews his lip thoughtfully.

The Noldor of Hithlum are diminished since the Dagor Bragollach, and they can expect little help from other quarters.

He does not want to divide his forces, when the main threat is still Angband in the north.

"The thing is," says Maedhros, "if I am right that Sauron dwells in Dorthonion – or Taur-nu-Fuin, to give it its true name—"

"Dorthonion is its true name," Fingon says.

Maedhros flashes him a smile and carries on. "If I am right"—and it is plain to see that he is sure he is—"then Sauron may not actually be in communication with Morgoth at present. But he will wish to regain the favour he has lost, I am sure. So we can expect attacks on both fronts: but not necessarily coordinated ones."

"That is not a very great advantage," says Fingon.

"But something!" says Maedhros. He looks cheerful. War-talk always brightens Maedhros: he likes to have a problem to turn over. "You might set up an outpost in the Fen of Serech. Our people know those paths better than the orcs do, and they will be able to give us advance warning when the attack comes." His mouth twists wryly. "That might have been enough to save us at Himring."

Fingon sighs. "It would not, as you well know," he says. "But that is good advice, Russo."

Maedhros puts a hand on his arm, a gesture as close to a caress as he dares in this crowded hall. "It is a problem," he says. "I will think on it, and see if I can come up with any better solution."

"Please do," says Fingon; "only, you might talk your ideas over with me, too. You need not solve all our problems alone."

"All right, my King," Maedhros says, with a smile, and his bright eyes follow Fingon as he heads off to begin his duties for the day.

Beren's was not the only letter that arrived at Barad Eithel today.

Do you think, Lúthien writes to Maglor, Morgoth's corruption can never be reversed? Must Dorthonion be nothing but a wasteland full of pestilence for ever more?

I might have thought so, after the Dagor Bragollach, Maglor writes in response, for it seemed to me then that our Doom, so long-delayed, might be catching up with us, and the Valar spoke truly when they said we could avail nothing against Morgoth's might. But you and Beren cut two Silmarils from his crown – so I think there is more hope in the world than we believed.

In that case, answers Lúthien, perhaps it is worth trying to cleanse the land: if not by strength of arms, then by Song, and courage, and hope.

She does not lay the suggestion out plainly, but Lúthien has never been very subtle, and Maglor understands her meaning well enough. You forget, he warns, that even Finrod fell under the Doom of the Noldor, and all his strength in Songs of Power availed him nothing against Sauron. And I his cousin am a Kinslayer. I do not think it is within me to drive Sauron from Dorthonion.

Not alone! is Lúthien's blithe reply. But you would not be alone. Did we not come to an accord: that fate need not bind you forever?

Perhaps that is going too far. Perhaps Morwen was right, and she is just a silly girl, and to hope is childish.

But when Maglor's reply arrives, he writes, I am growing to believe my Oath can be – if not broken, at least dissolved. If we shackled ourselves with words, surely we might un-shackle ourselves the same way. But I know not how, and meanwhile we still only have one Silmaril, and it cannot be held at bay forever.

I know not how either, answers Lúthien, but I think you are right, and moreover that you do have the strength to hold it at bay until we have found a solution. You did so in Menegroth, after all. Do not lose faith.

Maglor wants, very badly, to believe her.

"You write often to Lúthien," his brother observes, one afternoon.

"I think," says Maglor, "she might be a truer friend than either of us deserve."

Maedhros squeezes his wrist affectionately. "Not you," he says. And then, "What do you write to her about?"

"Different things," Maglor says. "Dorthonion. The Oath."

Maedhros looks at him swiftly.

"You cannot deny," says Maglor, "that it is a problem."

"No," says Maedhros, with a sigh. "No, I cannot deny that." He pauses. "What has Lúthien to say about it, then?"

"Only that she does not believe we are bound for ever," Maglor says thoughtfully.

"Káno," says Maedhros, and then he pauses. "I know – you said you did not wish to – but have you thought of asking her again? If she will speak to her father—"

"I have not asked her," says Maglor. Maedhros is standing tense and pensive beside his chair. Maglor leans his head against his brother's side and tries to explain. "Lúthien left her father's kingdom for a reason, Nelyo. I know not if Thingol will even listen to her. And besides—"

"Besides?" Maedhros prompts gently, after he is quiet for a while.

Maglor stares at his fingers. "It isn't the right answer," he says. "I don't know if I can explain why. Yes, that Silmaril does not belong to Thingol, and yet..." He looks up at Maedhros. "But I will ask her, if you command it."

Maedhros takes a sharp step back, and then another. "No. No!" His face is white. He takes a breath and smiles, with noticeable effort. "I am not your lord any more, Káno. Himring is fallen. You need not take command from me."

Maglor does not like the violence of his distress, and still less how swiftly he masked it.

"It was never about Himring, Nelyo," is all he says.

"Then what?" Maedhros asks, his voice low.

Instead of answering Maglor reaches out a hand, and after a moment Maedhros hesitantly comes close enough to touch again.

Maglor twines his fingers with Maedhros' and says, "I really do think there is a way out, Nelyo."

Maedhros manages another smile, and says nothing.

While all this letter-writing is going on we must turn our attention to a city that receives no letters at all (because nobody knows where it is).

Maeglin and his force of Gondolindrim are ready to depart.

"We do not know when the attack will come," Turgon says, "so do not reveal yourselves too hastily. Perhaps you will be able to return to Gondolin unheeded, if all goes well."

Maeglin hesitates. "Of course, uncle," he says smoothly.

He understands Turgon's caution, but he wants his glory! If Turgon will not be there to witness it, he wishes at least for tales of his exploits in battle to be carried home on many admiring tongues, to have all the city saying, Lord Maeglin – no, Prince Maeglin slew a dragon, and Prince Maeglin saved the High King's life, and Prince Maeglin's quickness of mind meant none had fewer losses than the Gondolindrim—

Perhaps Idril will smile to hear them, and favour him with an admiring look.

"I may be sending you forth too soon," Turgon says, troubled. "My brother fears an attack will come, but that does not mean—"

"Father," Idril says quickly, "think of how pointless it would be if the attack came before we were there, and Glorfindel, Rog and Maeglin ended up revealing our presence after everything was already lost. Better that they go now, by the secret ways in the mountains – there is no harm in their waiting there for a time, to see whence the Enemy will attack."

Turgon cannot deny the wisdom of this.

Maeglin can, and does, later. "You just want to get rid of me," he accuses, coming across Idril in the corridors of the King's House later that day.

"I see now why you are named for your powers of perception," Idril says, coolly; "they are mighty indeed."

"I might die," Maeglin says. "Shan't you be sorry then, Idril?"

"I have nothing to be sorry to you for," Idril says.

"You won't even let me leave you something to remember me by," Maeglin says. "I could make you a new foot—"

"We have been over this," Idril says. "I don't want a new foot, or anything else. Leave me alone, Maeglin."

Maeglin looks at her mithril prosthetic with disdain. "You are too sentimental," he says. "I could make you a far better one than that old thing."

"You're arrogant, certainly," says Idril, "but for all your confidence you are not yet the equal of Celebrimbor my cousin – either in the forge or in general agreeableness. If you do come back from all your heroic deeds, try to do so a kinder person. Or, better yet, don't come back at all."

Maeglin glares at her, but Idril walks away before he can respond.

The force sets out the next morning. Turgon sends them with his blessings, and with quiet, grave words of encouragement for the three commanders.

Maeglin and his House of the Mole have been working for some weeks, while the muster progressed, on making hidden tunnels through the Encircling Mountains, leading north from Tumladen to the Fen of Serech. They are not yet finished, but the army will hollow them out further as it journeys, and with all luck they will be able to return from the battle undetected.

It seems to Turgon, now, that he is sending his people – and his sister-son, Aredhel's only legacy! – into a gaping maw of darkness, and he knows not if they will ever return.

"I should be leading them," he tells his daughter, troubled.

Idril puts a hand on his arm, a gesture both stately and affectionate. "You are not doing wrong, Father," she says.

There is a little wobble in her voice. Alarmed, Turgon glances at her to see that there are tears in her eyes. "Itaril! What is the matter?"

Idril smiles and wipes at her eyes. "Nothing," she says quickly, "nothing."

"Are you worried for your cousin?" Turgon asks. "He is very young, I know, to command a whole force."

Idril chokes out a laugh. "Worried! No, I am not worried for Maeglin."

She looks down to where the force, arrayed in shining armour, is beginning to disappear into the tunnel.

Maeglin, slight and proud and dark-haired, is just visible at its head. He pauses to look back at her.

The sun gleaming bright off her golden hair, her chin lifted, her blue cloak whipping about her in the breeze: she is a promise, thinks Maeglin, or a challenge, or a guiding star.

Don't come back at all. Well, maybe he will not – or else he will come back worthy of her.

(to be continued)

[thetempleofthemasaigoddess]

Discovering Elrond is your soulmate would involve...

Elrond x reader. This fic is dedicated to the amazing @montyc.

*****

💑 It is said that soulmates are a gift from Eru, bestowed upon the first Elves who awoke at Cuiviénen so that they might find their match and immediately start populating Middle-Earth. From then on, almost every Elf has one, meant to pair each of them with their intended mate, the one they will -or at least should- be with forever.

💑 An Elf is already paired with their soulmate when they are born, but they can only discover their bond through physical contact. When this happens, a glyph appears on both of their bodies -the same, on the same place on their skin, different from that of every other couple on Arda- which allows them to recognize each other. It can be a handshake, a hug, a kiss, but also an accidental contact or even a slap or a fist to the stomach; the moment the two bodies even just brush against each other, the glyphs materialize... even though it may take a while for an Elf to notice, which can in turn make it more difficult to find its mate, especially if it appeared on a private part of the body.

💑 Soulmates have long been a subject of study for Elves. It is known that glyphs can only appear if the two soulmates' skin touch - not through clothes, or bandages, to say nothing of armor- that they turn black on the skin of an Elf whose soulmate has died, that in rare cases they can bring together three partners instead of two and that the only way to make them disappear is for the carrier to kill their soulmate... but no one has ever known, or written, whether Half-Elves have them or not.

💑 Elrond was first told about soulmates by Maglor -who still had not found his, and secretly suspected he simply did not have one- and Maedhros -whose glyph matched Fingon's- after he had already been parted from his parents, and because of this he never had the opportunity to ask them about it. Elros never had one, but he had chosen to be counted among the Edain and had married a mortal woman, which probably meant he would not have had one in the first place since soulmates are a prerogative of Elves alone.

💑 Even though he is fully immortal, Elrond has started to suspect the same fate of his brother awaits him, since technically he was not born an Elf but instead chose to be counted among them. Most Elves meet their match early in life, not rarely even before reaching adulthood and seldom, conversely, after their second or third century of existence - a threshold he has long left behind him.

💑 That does not necessarily mean anything, let alone that he is doomed to a loveless existence, and to remain alone and unhappy for the rest of his days. Not all pairs of soulmates find happiness -some die, or are otherwise separated from their partners, or are simply too different in spirit or character to make a good match, despite having been paired by Eru Himself- which means, consequently, that is also possible to find love without having one.

💑 Maybe somewhere there is an Elf destined to never carrry a glyph, because their intended partner is Elrond, a Half-Elf - which will make it infinitely more challenging for them to find each other, but still; maybe one day he will fall in love with one of the race of Men, like his brother did, and have a happy, loving, fulfilling relationship... doomed to end soon, since his partner will die and he will not. Or maybe he will find love, just not romantic love, and he will live the rest of his life surrounded by friends, finding fulfillment in his duties at court and other interests, and while he will never marry, or raise a family, that does not mean he will never feel happy, and at peace...

💑 Years pass. Decades pass. And then, just when his already meager hopes have started fading altogether and the mere sight of a couple walking arm in arm fills his heart with melancholic solitude, he meets you. Actually, the two of you already know each other; you are one of the many warriors at the service of the King, and you could not help meeting Elrond, who is his herald. You are not exactly friends, more good acquaintances, but you have a good opinion of each other: you never treated him differently because of his Half-Elven nature, and you admire his intelligence, kindness, even in the face of his detractors, and readiness to help whoever needs it, while he appreciates your bravery, already tested in many battles, and loyalty to the King, as well as the fact that you are one of the few warriors at court who never gets involved in brawls and is capable of, and even inclined to, solve their problems with words and not with their sword.

💑 He once during a ball invited you to dance, since you were the only lady left sitting (!) and you declined, since you were not his responsability, and the two of you then spent two hours happily chatting, sitting side by side. In an occasion you helped him carry a heavy heap of books he needed to write a speech for the King; a few weeks later he found your favourite dagger where you had lost it in the gardens, and brought it back to you. You think he is very handsome, especially when he smiles. He thinks you are lovely, especially when you wear that cape that makes the colour of your eyes stand out.

💑 You think well and like each other - at a distance, well enough to exchange a nod and a smile when your paths cross and to greet each other and make small talk during social occasions. But would you have ever expected to find out Elrond is your soulmate, or he, you? No, not even in a million years. Ad yet, this is exactly what happens.

💑 An ally of the kingdom has asked for help in the face of an invading army, and Gil-Galad has answered calling for a thousand soldiers to lead to war. You were, obviously, one of the first to volunteer, but you were surprised to learn Elrond would also join the expedition, not taking care of the wounded even though you knew he is a capable healer, but taking part in the fight together with the other warriors.

💑 "I am our lord's herald after all; it is my duty to be by his side, in war as well as in peace." he points out one day when you meet in the armory and you see him choosing a blade to bring to the front; he smiles "Are you surprised? I may not be as experienced a warrior as you are, but I have been trained, and I like to think I have some skills with a blade." You apologize for having underestimated him, and admit you have no reason to think he cannot fight only because the only talents of his you were aware of are of a more peaceful nature.

💑 "Maybe we will see each other on the battlefield, (name)?" "I doubt; I will be part of the third company, which means I will be fighting from the rear." you admit ruefully; this is due to strategic decisions, not to your battle talent or lack thereof, and you do not doubt you will see as much of the battle as any other soldier, but it would have been more honourable for a warrior to fight from, and be part of, the forefront, where the King himself will be leading the troops "But I wish you good luck, Elrond, truly; may we both survive unscathed, or otherwise may we nurse our wounds side by side." This is a common wish warriors exchange before battle; Elrond seems touched, and smiles to you -he has a very beautiful smile, you cannot helo but notice- before returning the sentiment.

💑 In the end, you do meet on the battlefield, even though at first you do not realize. As usual, the complex and attentive disposal of the troops planned by the King has dissolved into chaos, and warriors of different companies, including the riders forced to dismount after their horses had been killed, fight side by side, awkwardly attempting to follow some kind of strategy but reducing themselves to simply go on, stay alive, and kill as many foes as they can; including you. Three warriors wearing the colors of the enemy seem to spring out every time you best one, you have no idea where the comrades of your troop are -dead? Wounded and unconscious? Or simply pushed to the other side of the battlefield?- and moreover a strong wind has begun to blow, rising a veritable dust storm and making it even harder to distinguish who is in front of you, apart from the colour of their armor...

💑 It is then that you see him. Elrond has just vanquished two enemies, but he paid an heavy price for it; kneeling on the ground, propped on his blood-stained sword and his arm also shedding scarlet drops, he fights to breathe, aware that still and genuflect as he is he offers an easy target to any enemy, but he cannot help it, he just needs a moment... A moment to rest...

💑 That moment is almost too much, since an enemy soldier approaches and raises a sword against him; Elrond instinctively does the same to defend himself, already aware that it is too late, but another soldier intervenes, vanquishing the enemy in a few elegant blows. That soldier is you, who were nearby, saw a comrade about to be attacked and intervened to defend him.

💑 You cannot see his face, because of the helm he is wearing; he cannot see yours, because of the dust and the blood caking it. But he knows you are smiling, with your dirty armour and torn cape, as you offer him your hand, and take his and help him raise. "Brave heart, friend." you encourage him "This is not the day we are going to die."

💑 A moment later you lose him; and then the battle is won, and there are wounded to treat -Lindon's, your allies', and your enemies equally- and it is a whole day and a night later that you are back home, and you are free to disrobe and take a bath, and it is then that you notice something on your hip, under a tiny mole you had since you were born, close but untouched by an old battle wound. It is a glyph, small but clear against the colour of your skin.

💑 You have met your soulmate.

💑 You are sure the person responsible for it is the Elf whose life you saved and who you helped on his feet during the battle; the glyph was not there when you left for the battlefield, and while you might have touched other soldiers on that very day -passing the weapons along, helping the wounded on the back of their horses... not to mention the enemy warrior who, lost their weapon but determined to best you, attempted to throttle you with their bare hands- he is the only one you remember whose skin actually pressed against yours, without the barrier of clothes or armor... and more than anything else, you feel it. You are sure of it, just like you are sure of your name, with that simple, instinctive and chaste touch you awoke a bond that had laid dormant ever since the two of you were born, waiting.

💑 You still cannot believe it; you have never felt so excited, and at the same time more nervous and uncertain than now. Love and relationships, let alone marriage, are of little interest for many warriors, more attached to their weapons than to a spouse -"Do you know why a dagger is better than a wife? They can both procure me lunch, but my dagger does not expect a gift on its nameday." is a particularly popular, albeit tasteless, saying- but it has always been different for you, ever since you were a child and you listened to the story of the first encounter of your parents, whose first physical contact happened when your mother, a healer, gave the kiss of life to your father, who had accidentally fallen in a lake and almost drown. You never thought that devoting your life to arms meant renouncing love and family, and in the privacy of your heart you had always hoped you would one day meet your other half, the partner Eru had created for you...

💑 And finally it has happened!... even though you have no idea who he is, you reflect as you lie in the tub full of hot water, brushing your fingers against the glyph on your hip and wishing it were instead a name, perfectly readable, in the runes you have been taught when you were a child. You are sure the Elf you met during the battle is a male and, given the fact he wore the same armour as you, a subject of Lindon and not of the kingdom Gil-Galad had gone to the aid of, but beyond that, you know absolutely nothing about him! He might reside at court like you, or -more probably, since you know all the warriors who serve on the King's personal guard and are almost sure you must have touched each of them at some point- conversely he might live in one of the many villages in Lindon whose soldiers answered the call, some of which lie many days ride from the palace. He could be anywhere, and you have no way to find out who he is unless you begin scouring the whole kindom and asking to meet every single soldier who was there!

💑 Is this really it?, you wonder as you cross swords in the courtyard with the other warriors or enjoy a goblet of wine at the balcony of your room, admiring the sunset; you have met your soulmate, and then you have lost him, less than a minute later, and now you are doomed to spend the rest of your life wondering what might have been had you had the chance to talk or to realize sooner what had happened? What sort of cruel joke is this? Is he also thinking about you? Has he realized his soulmate is the warrior who helped him during the battle? Is he happy about it? Is he also looking for you, even though you are almost sure in the state you were then, not even your mother could have recognized you? Or maybe he is happy, even relieved, because he is satisfied with his life as it already is, and has no interest in meeting you and discovering whether you are actually made for each other?

💑 Maybe he already has a partner. It is rare, but not unheard of, and it is known of people who found love and happiness after they lost their soulmate, whatever the reason, or even who rejected the bond to be with someone they had already met or simply because they were not happy with the person they were meant to be with. Having a soulmate does not authomatically translate to marital bliss, and not finding yours does not mean you have lost your only chance at love and happiness, but still...

💑 Still, it saddens you, and even if you do not expect to fall desperately in love as soon as you are face to face, nor to have him kneel and ask for your hand just after exchanging names, you wish you could meet him, even just once, or at least know his name...

💑 In those days you spend so deep in your thoughts you barely notice what is happening around you, you meet Elrond - once, in the library, where you have gone to fetch a book for your mother. As usual, you exchange greetings, and a smile; you are happy to see he survived the battle unscathed or almost, and he is kind enough to help you find the book you are looking for, since he knows the library like the palm of his hand. You do not reflect on the fact that since he was also on the battlefield that day and you do not remember ever touching him before, he could very well be the person you are looking for; and yet, he is.

💑 Just like you did, Elrond discovered his glyph after the battle; he had finished taking care of the wounded, he took off his tunic to bandage his arm... and then he noticed the glyph, peeking above the waistband of his trousers. Just like you, he realized the physical contact had to have happened during the battle, and the culprit was doubtlessly the warrior who had saved him during the few minutes he had spent alone, having gotten separated from the King. Just like you, he has absolutely no idea who that person is -he does not even know whether they are a male or a female, since he appreciates the company of both genders- and, as a consequence, how to find them.

💑 He should feel disheartened, even hopeless, but instead his heart is so full of excitation and enthusiasm, he can barely stay still; so what if he has to search through the whole kingdom to look for the partner Eru has chosen for him? So what if he knows absolutely nothing about them, including whether they are interested in a courtship... or already in one, or even married? He will find his soulmate, and ask for a possibility to turn that bond that had been chosen for them in a committed, voluntary relationship. And whatever happens from then on, he knows already he will not regret it.

💑 He is in luck, because he has to reflect on the best course of action only for a few days before the perfect idea hits him. Gil-Galad has decided to host a festival to celebrate the recent victory, and all the warriors who took part in the battle will be invited. Even though he is already so busy with his duties, and the task could easily be entrusted to the courts' scribes, Elrond volunteers to oversee the writing and the sending of the invitations, which he does, having them signed with his name... and with the glyph at the top of each sheet of parchment, as if it were a monogram. Soulmates glyphs are very diverse, with so many existing across all elvendom, and no one will realize what it actually is, except the soldier who carries its match on their body, and who will know that the person who drew it is Elrond! Then it will be up to the other person to act, revealing themselves or choosing not to, but still, he reflects as he sits at one of the desks in the library to begin copy the same short message over and over again, it is better than doing nothing and hope for a miracle.

💑 The next day, you are back at the library, returning the book your mother finished reading; you are in a horrible mood, since one of your dearest friends has just announced their engagement to their soulmate, who they easily found since their glyph had appeared on the back of their left hand. You are happy for your friend, but seeing them so happy and fulfilled with their soulmate has made you feel even more alone and frustrated, dejected in your desire to find your partner. You will have a few days of leave in a month, but they will not be enough to visit every village and town in the kingdom, not even a whole year would be; is your search really hopeless, doomed to fail even before you actually undertake it?

💑 You return the book to one of the librarians, and on your way out you pass next to the desk of one of the scribes, busy copying the invitations for the festival; they are an acquaintance of yours, so you stop to chat for a brief moment... and your eye is caught by the sheets of parchment on the desk - specifically, by the intricate symbol at the top of each of them.

💑 "(name)? Is something the matter?" the scribe asks, seeing you go pale in the face. You force yourself to nod and "What is this?" you ask, taking one of the sheets and pointing to the symbol; you cannot be mistaken, it is exactly the glyph that you are by now used to carry on your skin, proof of a bond you are intimately sure you will never have the chance to experience "Did you draw it? Did you... see it somewhere?" The scribe explains that they and their colleagues were specifically told to copy that symbol on each of the invitations for the festival, even though they have no idea what it means; it is probably just a seal that their overseer uses in his personal correspondence.

💑 He. "And... your overseer is...?", you ask, your heart in your throat. "It is Elrond, the King's herald. He offered to oversee the writing of the invitations himself; he insisted on signing each of them, and asked us to add that symbol on the top of each sheet, and made sure we could copy it properly. I really do not know why; he is the least self-important person I know. He was here until five minutes ago, but I think he was called to the gardens by the King... (name), wait! Where are you going? Give it back, please, I need to make eighty more copies already..."

💑 You barely listen to them as you run out of the library as if you had a balrog on your tail, clutching a copy of the invitation, with the glyph on top and Elrond's signature at the bottom, your heart beating so fast in your chest it hurts.

💑 Elrond. You felt discouraged thinking your soulmate might live at the other side of the kingdom, and instead, his rooms are less than thirty fathoms from yours! It is true that he is not formally part of the kingdom's army, but how could you not even consider him as you mentally listed all the male Elves you knew who had taken part in the battle but you had never touched until then? You spoke to him two days before leaving for the front!

💑 You keep calling yourself an idiot until you finally reach the gardens, where the King likes to spend some time when the weather is good. Sure enough, you soon spot Elrond, talking to Gil-Galad as the two unhurriedly walk next to a line of beautiful rose brushes, the fruit -or rather the flower?- of the efforts of the palace's gardeners. You wait anxiously for a while, hoping the King will soon dismiss his herald and at the same time fearing the moment you will be face to face with him. You have no need to talk to him to make sure of what you already know for sure in your heart; Elrond had the scribes add the glyph to each of the invitations together with his signature to let every single warrior in the kingdom, including his soulmate, know he was looking for them. A clever stratagem, but superfluous all the same, and there is no need to send those invitations, because you are there already, you are his soulmate, and he is yours, and the thought to face him, even though you have known each other for decades, makes your legs tremble...

💑 What will he think when he discovers you are his soulmate? Will he be happy, surprised, or disappointed? Will he think you are too different in character and personality to get along as more than acquaintances? Whatever it is going to be, you will find out now, because Elrond has been dismissed by the King, and is now walking away to return to the palace... which brings him face to face with you, silently standing next to a bench.

💑 "Good afternoon, (name), how are you?" he pleasantly greets you, but the friendly smile on his face quickly disappears as he realizes how upset you look... and then he sees you wordlessly unfold the sheet of parchment in your hands. He stops when he is a step away from you; for a whole minute neither of you utters a word.

💑 "It is you." "Yes. It is me." you needlessly confirm, and the emotion filling your heart is finally close to overflow. You are not magically falling in love with him in the space of a second, like some swear happens to couples who become aware of their bond or meet for the first time, but you look at Elrond, and maybe you are just letting yourself get carried away, but you feel as if you were finally able to breathe after having held your breath for so long, or if you finally met someone you had missed without even knowing of their existence. You feel ready to cry, but you are happy; half of you wants to run away, as far and fast as you can, and the other wants to experience that moment to the fullest, like a goblet of fine wine... or a kiss.

💑 In the end you do cry, which is something you have always hated to do in front of other people, but Elrond does not seem inclined to judge you, especially because he seems as moved as you are; spontaneously, without any embarrassment, you embrace each other, Elrond's arms holding you by the waist as you rest your cheek against his shoulder. You both weep, and hold each other, experiencing that moment which is overwhelming in its sweetness, joyous and terryfing at the same time.

💑 "I must first of all thank you for saving my life." Elrond says in the end; he quietly proposed to talk as you walked in the gardens, an offer you happily accepted "Were it not for you, I would not be here now." "Which makes me even happier to have been there when you needed me; there is no need for thanks." you sincerely answer "So... we are soulmates. Is it... strange, for you?"

💑 Elrond admits it was unexpected, but not because, he quickly adds, he finds the idea of the two of you together absurd; he is... flattered, actually, and happy. He thinks you are beautiful, and there are so many things he likes about you... and he hopes you are not disappointed either, finding out he is your match. "Absolutely not; I think you are very handsome, and I have always thought highly of you." you quickly reassure him; normally you would not have been able to compliment someone so brazenly without blushing furiously, but Elrond is different... you feel at ease next to him, as if you were old friends and not just good acquaintances. It is nice; it is beautiful, and he is as well, with his sweet smile and his luminous and expressive eyes "I was just... afraid. And I still am, to be honest. Elrond... you are an herald, I am a warrior; I have dedicated my life to martial arts and the defense of my kingdom, while you are a cultured Elf, a diplomat, a scholar. Do you think we can... get along, even though we are as different as day and night?"

💑 It is painful to express your fear, especially while you are enjoying Elrond's company more than you have ever done, but you want him to know, because you feel -and what an unpleasant sensation it is!- that if you discover you have too little in common to work as a couple after you have spent time together and you had the opportunity to develop an affection to him, it will break your heart; it that is destined to happen, it is best to break things immediately.

💑 Elrond does not dismiss your fears, nor does he tries to reassure you as if you were a child, which you appreciate; he reflects for a while as you walk, alone for the first time in your lives as the sun bathes the garden in the golden light of the midmorning. "No one can foresee what the future holds for us, especially when feelings are concerned; it does not matter how carefully we make plans, I doubt it might help us avoid future complications or disagreements." he softly points out in the end "And being similar in temperament, occupation or interests does not necessarily ensure harmony. If anything, I wager I would find it incredibly boring to live side by side with someone who thinks, feels and acts exactly as I do; we would have nothing to learn from each other, and it would be equal to spend time by ourselves."

💑 "I think the same." "Ah, not a good start." Elrond states, making you laugh. "But you are right. I do not want to think we have so little in common we cannot even find something to talk about or to do together, and that does not mean we could not fall... develop feelings from each other, does it? My parents have different opinions and tastes about many things, but they learnt to love that about each other, and to make their differences balance them out. I just... I never though I would be able to do the same, and not for lack of will; or that I would find someone ready to do it for me."

💑 Elrond keeps silent for a moment; then he stops, and he turns, and he gently offers you his hand to take, and when you do you feel your eyes filling with tears again, but the feeling is much clearer and more definite than the one that wracked your heart a few minutes ago: a sweet, comforting joy, the certainty to be safe, and that whatever danger or problem you will meet, you will not have to face it alone.

💑 "I am sorry, maybe I am being too... too forward." you stammer, intimidated by his gaze, so deep, piercing and wise; you have never cowed in fear on the battlefield, but being close to Elrond makes you feel... small, vulnerable, as if your emotions were as visible as the words on the pages of a book. You must admit, it is quite pleasant "And we should get to know each other before discussing about the future..." "No." Elrond quickly stops you; he moves to face you once more, and he takes your hand in both of his; you can feel the warmth and the generous, comforting light emanating from his person, and this is when you start loving him, even though just platonically - for now "(name), I... I do not know what will happen in the future, but one thing I am sure of: you are brave, loyal, generous... Any Elf, any creature in Arda would be blessed to earn your love, and if that Elf ended up being... me... well, I do not think I would ever want for anything else."

💑 "I do not deserve all of this, Elrond." you answer in a whisper; you are forced to, because the emotion has choked your voice, and there is so little you know about him, but suddenly you know that whatever you may discover in the future, the good and even the bad, will be marvelous "I... I do not know if I will ever fall in love with you, this is not something you can force..."

💑 He reassures you, saying that since fortunately no law forces two soulmates to marry or even to begin courting, you can do things in your own time, learn to know each other and unhurriedly decide whether to part and never speak again, remain friends... or else. You can begin by spending some time together... maybe with a ride, that night? And then dinner? You think it is a splendid idea, and happily agree, and a beautiful, relieved smile appears on Elrond's mouth.

💑 You need both to return to your duties, but just as you are about to say goodbye to each other, Elrond's expression turns serious. "I know it goes against everything we just agreed, but there is something important you must know, even before we decide if we can be friends." he explains, so serious it scares you; what terrible secret is he about to reveal? "I am a Half-Elf. I am immortal, as you are, but that means that if I ever have children, they will also have to make a choice, and..."

💑 "I understand. And... I am fine with it." you reassure him; the idea to see your children pass away, even now that their very existance is only a remote possibility, is a terrible prospect, but you do not want to let fear decide for you "We agreed to do things in our own time, so... I think I should also leave my children the freedom to live their life as they want, whatever the consequences. Do you wish for children, Elrond?" "I think I do. Some day." he answers, and you both smile, as you unknowingly try to imagine what a child born from the two of you would look like. It would be nice, you think, if they inherited Elrond's smile, and his warm eyes. You feel happy, and hopeful, and excited, and all thanks to the handsome, kind Elf in front of you. "Then... until tonight, Elrond."

💑 "Until tonight, (name)." he answers; he takes your hand once more, and when his lips brush against the back, you feel a jolt of warmth spread through your body. Your gaze meets Elrond's, his smile revealing how aware he is of the effect he has on you "I look forward to it."

TAGGING @starlady66 and @elvenenby .

[arlenianchronicles]

Years of preparation have finally culminated on this day. Turgon stands in what used to be his room, in the palace of Vinyamar. Early morning sunlight streams through the window and creeps across the far wall.

In the back of his mind, Ulmo calls to him. It is faint, not yet urgent. Turgon has planned his people’s departure and is certain that they shall reach the appointed spot on time. From there, Ulmo shall protect them on their way to Tumladen.

Everything is ready. Yet he hesitates, gazing unseeingly about the room. He sent letters to his father and brother in Mithrim. Admittedly, he did not give them enough time to send him their replies, if they did choose to write back at all. If he were to receive any letters from them now, it would only delay him further from departure. He cannot afford to delay any longer. He must do this.

As much as it pains him to go without proper farewells, it is his duty.

Footsteps reach his ears, furiously hurrying up the stairs beyond his room. There are many voices clamouring, getting louder, pleading, shouting. The door to his room bursts open.

Turgon turns. Standing in the doorway is Fingon. The sight of him is like a dose of ice water, and yet -- Turgon ought to have expected this. Part of him cannot help but feel relieved, glad even, to see his eldest brother one last time before leaving.

Fingon’s face is flushed from the flight up the stairs, perhaps from the entire journey here from Mithrim. At least, that is what Turgon assumes. It could very well be the heat of anger instead.

Standing behind him in the corridor are Turgon’s guards. Turgon waves his hand; it does not tremble, thank the Valar, and the guards retreat, albeit hesitantly. Fingon glances back at them to make sure they have left, then slams the door closed and turns on Turgon.

“So, this was your intention all along?” Fingon says. His voice quivers, though from wrath or from grief, Turgon cannot say. “You left us for Vinyamar. Now you are leaving us again for a city that does not exist!”

Turgon looks away. If he meets Fingon’s glistening eyes, the shield around his heart will break. “Who told you?”

“I questioned the messenger after receiving your letter. He would not tell me where this city is, only that you are departing very soon. I rode here as fast as I could.”

“We are leaving in a couple hours. Our travel must be kept secret; I trust you will not divulge it beyond Father’s confidence --”

“Oh, blast it all, Turgon!” Fingon cries.

Turgon falls silent. His heart pounds rapidly in his chest, beating like the paws of a rabbit running from wolves. After a moment, Fingon speaks. “How did you find this city?”

“I had it built in secret.”

“Where?”

“I cannot tell you. Unless you wish to join me and remain within its walls forever.”

He hears Fingon take a step into the room. “You have not even told Father. And what of Aredhel? Do you think she will take this lightly?”

“Aredhel knows. She has decided to join me there.”

Fingon sucks in a sharp breath. "So you -- you plan to stay there till the end of Arda, never to see us again? You cannot mean anything else by ‘remaining within its walls forever.’”

“The city’s location allows for it to remain guarded and secret, so long as none give it away,” Turgon explains. “If I am to ensure that there is no opportunity for that, then all who know its location must stay inside the city.” He swallows. “That includes myself. If I were caught by Morgoth outside my city --”

“You do not trust yourself to keep it a secret if you were caught?”

“Is that such a surprise?”

“You are too strong to submit to Morgoth.”

It is Turgon’s turn to be surprised, enough so that he looks at Fingon to find his brother gazing back at him determinedly. Fingon saw him almost fall to pieces after Elenwë was lost. After that, Turgon drew himself so tightly together that his face became as stone, unmoving and unbending. Locked away behind his inner defenses, he kept his anger and grief, doubt and despair. He is to become the king of Gondolin. He cannot afford to fall apart when his people need him most.

But it is still a possibility. As much as he can appear tall and stalwart in the face of Darkness, he is still just himself. He can still be broken into a thousand pieces.

“You do not believe me,” Fingon says, a note of bitterness in his voice. The sunlight catches in his golden ribbons, turning them to molten fire in his dark braids. “But I know it. You would never betray your people, or Father, or myself. You need not stay hidden in your city for all time.”

“What laws I give to my people, I must also follow. It is only just.”

“So I am to never hear from you again?” Fingon demands. “This is to be our final meeting together?”

“I will think of you and Father always.”

“That is not good enough! What if you need my help, but I cannot find your hidden city? What if Morgoth finds out and descends upon you one night, and I am not there to help you and Aredhel, and little Idril?” Tears slip down his cheeks, gleaming like crystal drops in the sun. “Mother is gone. Elenwë is gone. Argon is gone, and now -- now you might as well be! What am I to do about that?” His voice cracks and his breath hitches, chest heaving with sobs not yet released.

Turgon does not have the words. It is for my people’s safety. As a prince, Fingon would understand, but it will do nothing to heal this wound to his heart.

So he reaches out and cradles Fingon’s face, bringing their foreheads together. Fingon grips Turgon’s wrists, and eventually, his breathing steadies.

“I know you feel it is your duty as the eldest,” Turgon murmurs. “But you are no longer responsible for me, Finno. I am a leader of my own people now, and I must do what I feel is best for them. Just as you do for yours.” He gently kisses Fingon’s cheek. “I will be alright on the journey there. I think I can safely assure you of that. Ulmo has promised us his protection.”

Fingon swallows hard. “I -- that is good to know,” he says hoarsely.

“Indeed,” Turgon smiles, but the grief finally cracks through his shield, and his next words are shaky. “So you see, you need not worry too much. Alright?”

Fingon nods, unable to speak. Turgon knows not how it happens, but in the next second they are holding each other close, a final embrace. Fingon has to stand on his toes in order to properly wrap an arm around Turgon’s shoulders; he tugs insistently, so Turgon must bend down a little. Distantly, he remembers that it was slightly more awkward with Argon, but that never stopped Fingon before.

Turgon listens to his brother’s whimpering and weeping, muffled against his shoulder, and hugs him tighter. On the far wall, the sunlight lengthens, and Ulmo’s call grows clearer in the back of his mind. But that time is not yet here. For now, Turgon stands with Fingon, and lets his tears fall into his brother’s hair, unnoticed.

_____

I wasn’t expecting to write an entire one-shot for this; originally, it was just going to be a small snippet of dialogue, but the scene kept playing out in my head and getting longer, so I decided to write the whole thing!

If I were to make this a full-fledged fic, this scene would likely be longer with more exploration of their feelings, but as it is, I think it works well enough for an art post! Plus you get a closeup of Fingon’s anguished face! Man, I just love Fingon+Turgon angst loll

[welcomingdisaster]

Full Scene Friday! tagged by @zealouswerewolfcollector to share a little bit of a random WIP. here's the beginning part of a WiP i'm kicking around. I have realized that I have absolutely no idea where it will go. It's tonally all over the place and I'm splitting it into two different fics. SOO probably won't get finished any time soon unless I have an epiphany, but have this bit.

Maedhros wakes, and no one is there. 

He learns the news in the disconnected, half-alive state that seems to accompany one’s return from the Halls. 

Maglor never came, dead or alive—they say perhaps he’s wandering, in spirit or flesh, along the coasts of Middle-Earth or beneath the depths of the sea, where the Gap has fallen, or maybe he’s faded and there’s nothing left of him but his voice, which sings out laments of great sorrow, or maybe he’s settled down somewhere in a little cottage and taken a Sindar wife and had three beautiful daughters who speak only in riddles or maybe he’s setting himself up to be the next dark lord, terrible and beautiful to behold, or maybe he laid down in a ditch somewhere and didn’t get up the next morning. 

And Fingon had been here, returned from the halls. Some three or four hundred years ago. Just missed him, really. He waited around some while; maybe three dozen years or so. Couldn’t Maedhros have gotten reembodied sooner? 

His mother has gone to seek solitude in the mountains, and does not wish to be disturbed. Out of his close kin only his nephew—whose death he had not lived to witness—has returned, and taken on an apprenticeship with Aulë. He has no words for Maedhros, nor Maedhros for him. 

Of his remaining cousins only Ar-Feiniel will see him, at first, remembering something of their friendship, and Felagund, who has ever had more pity than sense. His uncle, too, will speak to him, bound by old ties of loyalty and favor, though his face is drawn. 

Aredhel offers him honeyed wine speaks not of the past; Finrod swears by the justice of the halls and the Valar and laughs his sad bell-like laugh and talks so much Maedhros need not. 

tagging! @eilinelsghost @polutrope @melestasflight @outofangband @meadowlarkx @theghostinthemargins @grey-gazania & anyone else who wishes!

[dalliansss]

It happens precisely as Finrod and Maedhros plan and predict it to be. Angrod does let slip crucial information to Thingol: their deeds, their numbers. Their forces. Caranthir makes a show of his infamous temper: vitriol is thrown against Angrod, in such vehemence that everybody there present can only believe its honesty, and only the most perceptive will know it is an act. A small push to enforce the shove, a little drop of the reagent to spur further chemical reaction; the little crack in the ice forestalling the avalanche–

But the reminder that Arafinwe – Finarfin, on these lands – remains a lord of the Noldor, though Earwen be of other kin– 

An uncharacteristic coldness comes over Finrod’s beautiful face then, though he hangs onto his patience and control and temper with all claws he ever possessed. He knows Caranthir is provoking him; provoking him into showing his hand, exposing himself, to unearth his plan to abscond East while everybody else is embroiled with the technicalities of rebuilding society. The great wildlands of the East, where the greatest potential of Beleriand lay undiscovered–

He and Caranthir look at each other across the table, and Finrod is keenly, sharply aware Maedhros is watching too, as is Fingon. But Finrod wins this round; he says naught, refuses to rise to the bait, and there is the faintest twitch in Caranthir’s temple. Not today, Kinslayer, Finrod thinks. 

“King is he who can hold his own, lest his title be in vain,” Maedhros says, breaking the deadlock between his cousin and brother. “This Thingol does naught but point to us lands where he does not hold power. The Noldor will thank him for this gift, and he will soon regret not coming here himself to treat with us.”

A pause. Caranthir bristles subtly. Galadriel holds her breath, and Finrod senses her tense. They come to it, this one specific moment in history that–

“Yet there is a greater matter here, that the Noldor must acknowledge. I, High King Nelyafinwe Maitimo Feanorion of the House of Feanaro, decree this to be mine official act, made in clear mind and aware of all consequences appurtenant hereto.  Hereafter I abdicate the crown and throne in favor of Nolofinwe Arakano Finwion, of the House of Finwe.”

It is as if Maedhros reached across the table and slapped Finrod across the face.

[stone on the board / AO3]

[whovianofmidgard]

Day 1 – Maedhros – Coping

For @feanorianweek You can also read it on AO3

Maedhros used to think he didn’t have a traditional Noldorin craft. That his craft was the same as his grandfather Finwë’s, excelling in diplomacy, politics, being a skilled orator and an attentive listener, a natural leader among brothers, cousins and his people. That his talents ended there and no further.

He knew his father was proud that he had found in him a worthy heir in court. Yet Maedhros always knew that Fëanor secretly wished he had skill and passion in creation, in the works of his hands.

So, Maedhros applied himself, and took lessons in any and every craft he could find. He weaved and stitched and embroidered. He carved and apprenticed with carpenters. He did masonry, wove baskets, and painted landscapes and portraits alike. He played with clay and chiselled stone together with his mother. He hammered hot metals and cut precious gems under the tutelage of his father. He hunted in the company of little brothers and cousins, and sang songs and played instruments privately, only sharing with steadfast Maglor or beloved Fingon.

In every craft he tried his hand at he did good, solid work, but never exceptionally, and never passionately.

Now, Maedhros lay bundled in soft furs and linens, steadily healing from wounds, starvation, and exposure to the elements, grateful for dear Fingon’s kind and valiant heart, grateful to be alive. Yet he was left short of one hand, and with no craft to keep the nightmares at bay.

Relearning to merely write with his off hand was a slow and arduous process, what chance did he have for anything more involved than that? He could not hold an embroidery hoop properly in place, and his fingers shook and cramped up from pinching a needle for more than five minutes. He was more a hazard and a liability in the forge, he had too few hands to play any instruments other than a drum or tambourine, and his voice was shot to gravelly rumblings from screaming it raw in pain. He would eventually learn to hunt once more, but never with bow and arrow again, and more out of necessity.

Then one afternoon a bundle of charcoal sticks lay waiting on his office desk with a pile of blank parchment. Maedhros stared and contemplated it for a while, and shoved it aside to ignore in favour of hours of paperwork. Eventually, though, his mind grew weary, and as the Sun dipped low on the sky into twilight, he reached for a fresh unmarked parchment. Maedhros mindlessly sketched shapes and lines, the soft scratch of coal on paper and the repetitive motions of the hand soothing to his mind. By the time a servant came in with the dinner tray, he had scribbled the interior of his office down.

He thanked the servant as she left and regarded the work of his hand. The lines were uneven, and the perspective was off, yet the image was recognisable. With practice it could be improved upon.

Maedhros doodled and sketched every night, his office over and over again, until it looked perfect. Then the view outside his window, the crow on the ledge, a still life of his dinner, and many, many portraits of his staff, warriors, his people.

One day he found his charcoal sticks replaced with a brush and watercolour paints. Then months later it was gouache, then egg tempera, and finally oil paint. The walls of Himring were soon lined with landscapes of fierce mountains and sleepy meadows, of riders on planes and warm torchlit halls full of revelry. In Maedhros’ private rooms he kept only two paintings. One was a tableau of himself with his brothers arranged around him, proudly displayed above the mantelpiece. The other a simple portrait of his dearest cousin, kind smile and gold braids falling to his shoulders, guarding his dreams beside his bed.

When next Maedhros found a lump of clay on his desk and a pottery wheel by the window, he knew he was up for the challenge.

He quickly saw that forming the clay with only his one hand made the process more difficult, the cups and vases under his touch turning wonky and lopsided without the counter pressure. Maedhros thought of being stubborn about it, trying again and again until endless practice yielded results. But it only takes one mistake that almost had the lump of wet clay spin right off of the wheel, and he instinctively reached for it with his right, and his wrist ended up pushing it back onto the wheel.

Maedhros experimented after that. His single hand pinched and manipulated as dishes and mugs spun into form, while he could push and smooth the soft clay with his stump, and easily reaching inside his creations with it to widen the mouth of a vase.

Sitting down to do pottery at the end of a long day calmed his mind and nerves perhaps better than painting. The motion of his leg working the treadle was a steady rhythm he matched his breaths to. The slow yet decisive movements of his hand and stump required just the minimum of focus to empty his head of all worries and nightmares. The coolness of the clay sticking to his fingers and scarred skin grounded him in the present on dark nights when his memory wished to steer him towards pain.

Washing away the residue from his stump at the end of it all almost felt like healing.

[idleleaves]

Six Sentence Sunday? More like 14 sentences, and it appears my Maedhros/Fingon brainrot will not be going away anytime soon...

Fingon reaches over the side of the bed, expecting to find his robe where he'd left it. He finds Maedhros', instead, and wraps it tightly around himself as he rises. It's too long; the hem brushes against the stone floor as Fingon rekindles the fire and returns to bed as quickly as he can, sliding back under the covers with a soft sigh.

Maedhros' eyes are open, now, if half-lidded. "Morning," he says, with a stifled yawn.

Fingon rolls onto his side so they can lie face to face. "Morning," he says, and lays a cold hand firmly on Maedhros' bare chest.

Maedhros yelps, and grabs Fingon's hand to pull it away. "That," he says, "was unkind." Fingon only laughs, and Maedhros brings Fingon's hand to his mouth, pressing his lips to Fingon's knuckles. "You're half-frozen," he says.

Fingon leans close to Maedhros' ear. "Warm me, then," he says.

Maedhros is not granted time enough to act; Fingon kisses him first, deep and slow.