#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

[doodle-pops]

The Weight of Loyalty

Knight!Fingon x reader

A/N: I told you all I wanted to write a yearning Fingon, and my fingers slipped and went down the angst road. I’ll make it up with some fluffy content soon. I’ll take my leave now. Bye and enjoy!

Warnings: angst, hurt/no comfort, Knight au, Royal au, reader in a forced marriage to another royal, heartbreak, argument, separation

Words: 3.2k

Synopsis: It is well known that royals must marry for political alliances, but when that marriage revolves around you suffering more than being happy, how long could Fingon stand by and play your emotional support, before you return to your husband? He remains your unwavering protector, but even he had his limits…and a heart.

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Your husband’s voice still echoed in the back of your skull long after the door had shut behind you.

“You will not question me again—not in my halls, not in front of others. Learn your place, or I’ll have you shipped back like a parcel your father wrapped too tightly.”

There were moments you should have screamed or slapped him, but all you had done was stand there, spine rigid and throat burning, and let the words sear you from the inside out. Now, the silence outside your chambers felt heavier than the shouting had. The corridor was dim despite the hour—narrow windows let in strips of filtered sun, but the air felt stale, trapped like you were.

Slowly, you traversed the hallway, almost aimlessly, fingers twitching at your sides like they didn’t know what to do when not folded properly in your lap. A few guards passed your way, but none were yours. They were all his, and it made you hate the way they stared—stoic, unreadable, but aware. Clearly, they had heard the exchange. Straightening your posture and lifting your chin, you forced your expression back into that carefully carved mask of serenity.

“Your Highness,” a voice suddenly murmured.

Turning toward it instinctively, your heart stuttering in your chest.

Fingon.

He stepped into the light, having just relieved the last guard of his station. His dark hair was half-pulled back as always; silver armour still dulled with the wear of morning drills. His eyes—blue like sapphires—immediately dropped to your face, and you knew what he saw. It only prompted the corners of your mouth to tighten, while you failed to wipe away the dull wetness in your eyes.

“Are you hurt?” he asked in that famed tender tone he always used with you.

“No,” you said, a little too quickly. “I’m—he was simply upset. It’s nothing.”

He didn’t speak, nor did his expression change, but the slow clench of his jaw betrayed him. You always hated how easy it was for him to see right through you.

“I came out to walk,” you added, grasping for a reason to be there that wasn’t shame. “The air inside was stifling.”

“I can accompany you,” he immediately replied.

“You’re due to patrol the eastern gardens,” you replied. “Your schedule—”

“Let me walk with you.”

Just for a second, you paused, eyes locked onto his face, before nodding. The corridor stretched long ahead of you, polished stone and velvet banners were silent witnesses to your quiet disgrace. You didn’t speak, and neither did he, but he walked beside you, always a half-step behind, hand resting near the pommel of his sword in the same protective stance he’d taken for years. You forced yourself to swallow past the ache in your throat.

“I shouldn’t have come to you like this,” you muttered.

“You always do,” he gently replied with a small degree of firmness which made your eyes sting again.

He turned slightly, just enough to see your face better without breaking stride. “What did he say to you?”

You shook your head. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It does because you matter.”

There it was. The line he always tiptoed. The one he kept crossing in ways no one else noticed but you. The one you wanted to lean into. Into him. But instead, you exhaled, long and thin, and looked away. “He’s my husband. I must honour him. Even if he—”

“Even if he dishonours you?” His voice was barely more than a breath. “Is that what your marriage vows meant?”

There was no way to answer him; too many answers—none of them the kind a knight should hear from the lips of a married person. So you kept walking, even as the silence between you began to stretch too tightly, until it ached. The gardens weren’t far. Not the grand ones meant for feasts and politics, but the smaller walled one hidden between the old stone corridors and the servant paths. A forgotten corner of the palace. You used to come here every morning before the marriage. Back when Fingon was your only shadow.

Slipping through the narrow gate first, fabric brushing over the gravel path while the iron creaked behind you as he followed. The overgrown hedges and wild rose bushes had claimed the edges of the space, and the low stone bench near the fountain sat untouched under a jacaranda tree. Pale blossoms had started to fall. It made you remember the first time they’d bloomed.

That time, he had brought you here to escape the noise of the court.

Sitting down with a quiet sigh, the moment you did, the memory pressed in like breath against your skin.

—

It had been spring, though the air was still sharp with winter’s bite, when you had complained about your aching feet after standing through another speech that had gone on far too long. And he—ever observant, ever silent—had stepped behind you in the corridor and murmured, “Come with me.”

He led you to this very garden, his hand brushing your elbow to guide you past the thorns. Though he didn’t speak much, not at first, but when he did—

“I do not think you were made for such places,” he had said then, glanced at the empty path. “Courts. Thrones. Masks.”

You snorted. “And what do you think I was made for, Sir Fingon?”

He had hesitated, just a second, but when his eyes met yours, it knocked the air from your chest.

“You were made for the stars.”

It had been a joke or perhaps it wasn’t. You couldn’t tell then and you still weren’t sure. However, you remembered smiling even when you hadn’t meant to.

—

“Do you remember?” Fingon asked quietly behind you, prompting you to glance over your shoulder and notice that he remained standing, straight-backed and distant, as though his presence here, even now, needed permission.

“I do,” you murmured.

“I used to bring you here when the court grew too loud.”

“You still do,” you muttered, almost bitterly. “Some things haven’t changed.”

But they had. Everything had. The distance between you now was no longer decorum. It was pain. It was choices made under the weight of crowns and bloodlines. It was the cold shape of your husband’s ring pressing against your finger when you curled your hands together to hide their trembling.

He finally moved to sit beside you with a measured grace, yet still out of reach. “You’ve changed,” he softly whispered with his eyes ahead.

And you didn’t argue, just closed your eyes, and let the wind carry the memory away. Yet easily the silence returned, but it was no longer gentle. It was taut like a bow drawn too long, and you could feel it in the way Fingon didn’t look at you now. The way his shoulders had set like stone, as though bracing himself. God, you wished he would speak, at the same time, you hoped he wouldn’t.

You wished a thousand things, and none of them came true.

“I’m tired,” he suddenly declared.

You blinked your eyes open. “Then rest.”

“Not like that,” he said, turning his head at last to look at you. “I’m tired of watching you break.”

You stiffened.

“I swore to protect you,” he continued. “But how do I protect you from the man you choose to lie beside every night?”

“That’s not fair,” you calmly stated.

“It isn’t,” he agreed. “None of this is.”

Your mouth went dry. “It wasn’t my choice, Fingon.”

“No,” he confirmed warily. “But staying was.”

Rising to your feet, the bench felt suddenly like a trap, and the air in the garden too thick to breathe. “You presume too much. He is my husband.”

He rose too, slower. “He is your captor.”

“That is treason.”

“Then hang me.”

You stared at him, stunned by the venom in his voice, but it wasn’t rage. It was grief. Bitter, old grief that had been buried too long under years of self-control and half-swallowed longing.

“I didn’t come here to fight,” you said finally.

“No. You came because he hurt you again. You came like you always do, hoping I’ll hold the pieces together until you can gather yourself and return to him.”

Your breath caught. “Don’t say that.”

“Why?” he softly inquired. “Because it’s cruel? Or because it’s true?”

You turned your face away, but he stepped forward—just a fraction, close enough that you could feel the heat of him, and the weight of his presence pressing against every part of you that still remembered what it felt like to be seen by someone.

“I can’t do it anymore,” he defeatedly muttered.

Your heart stopped.

“I cannot be the one you run to only when it’s convenient. I cannot watch him bruise your pride, your light, and pretend I’m content with just tending your wounds in silence.”

“I never asked you to—”

“You didn’t have to,” he interrupted, breaking slightly. “I gave myself to you freely. But I am not a sword you can sheath and draw at your leisure.”

The tears burned hot behind your eyes. “I can’t leave. You know I can’t.”

“You can,” he corrected with a smile that almost touched his eyes. “You just won’t.”

You looked at him, at the lines in his face drawn tight with heartbreak, at the sorrow that had replaced the yearning in his eyes. He wasn’t pleading anymore. He was resigning. And the worst part was that you couldn’t even blame him.

“I was going to ask if you would stay the night,” you whispered.

There was a sharp exhale, like the words struck something soft inside him. “I would have said yes. Even knowing it would kill me—” he paused momentarily to compose himself before speaking, “—but I can’t anymore. Because if I do, I might kill him. And I would rather burn for treason than serve a man who dares lay hands, or words, on you like that.”

You opened your mouth to stop him, to offer some comfort, but he shook his head.

“No more,” he mustered. “Do not come to me unless you’re ready to choose something more than your titles.” Then he stepped back. Just one step—but it was a chasm. One you couldn’t cross…not yet, you hoped.

“I… I never meant to use you,” you breathed on the verge of tears. “I never meant to be this cruel.”

He turned slightly, just enough that you could see the curve of his cheek, the profile of his pain etched deep into the lines of his face. “You weren’t cruel,” he corrected patiently. “You were scared. Obedient. Loyal.” He looked back fully then. “Just not to me.”

The truth of it landed hard. You’d always worn loyalty like armour, used it to survive the court, the marriage, the weight of a name that was never really yours. But in the doing, you’d buried something else—something tender, fragile and whole—beneath the suffocating expectations of royalty.

Your voice cracked. “You think I haven’t wanted to choose you?”

His jaw twitched. “Wanting and choosing are not the same.”

The wind stirred the petals again, pale lilac spirals falling between you like ash. You watched him through them, this knight who had never once failed to shield you even from yourself, and now he stood ready to walk away, sword at his hip, honour intact, heart in ruins. “I don’t want to keep coming back like this,” you admitted. “Crying to you like a coward. But I don’t know how else to survive this.”

“You aren’t a coward,” he said. “But you’re choosing a life that devours you because it’s what’s expected. You let them decide for you and then wonder why you feel hollow.”

You stepped forward once, then stopped.

“There are walls,” you said softly. “So many walls between you and me. Marriage, duty, bloodlines. I was born to be used. I’m a bargaining chip. A pretty thing dressed in gold and married off to buy peace.”

He looked at you then like it physically hurt him to agree. “But you don’t have to stay used.” He stepped toward you. Just a step. Then another. And when he was close enough to touch, he didn’t. His hands remained at his sides, fists clenched, shaking slightly. “Tell me to stay,” he whispered lowly, trembling with the last dregs of his restraint. “Tell me to keep protecting you. Not as your knight. As yours.”

He waited for your answer, but when you failed to speak, when all you could do was cry and tremble and ache, he breathed out slowly, as though releasing something final. He stepped back.

“Very well, Your Highness. Then I cannot do this anymore,” he announced with a broken voice. “I love you. But I will not stay to watch you break apart in silence while pretending I do not.”

Sobbing softly into your hand, turning away from him instinctively, you whispered, “F-Fingon…”

“I know,” he said.

—

The door shut behind you with a soft click, but it felt like the world had slammed itself shut instead. You stood there, alone in the centre of your chambers, the golden light of the setting sun painting streaks across the marble floor. It was too quiet. The kind of silence that makes you notice your own breathing, the rustle of fabric, the lonely crackle of the hearth that hadn’t been stoked in hours.

You hadn’t spoken a word since Fingon left the garden. He’d stepped away, and yet it had splintered something deep in you, a crack where there had already been too many.

You pressed your hand to your chest, fingers curled against the fabric just above your heart as if you could hold the pieces together physically. Because without him—without Fingon—you were no longer sure who you were pretending to be. There had always been a ritual to your misery: the fight, the silence, the tears pressed into your pillow, then your quiet escape to find him, your knight who had never once turned you away, no matter how cold or dutiful you’d become.

You hadn’t begged, nor had you wept. You hadn’t even touched him when he’d looked like he needed it most. You’d let him go because that’s what royalty did—stood tall, even as they shattered inside.

Even in times like this, your husband’s patronising voice echoed in your head.

“You’ll do as you’re told. You’re mine now. Forget whatever fantasy you held with that brute. You are my spouse. Not a child anymore.”

He had always hated Fingon. Hated the way he stood too close, the way he looked at you like you were precious, or the way you looked back, even when you didn’t mean to. The connection was never spoken aloud, but it lived in every breath you shared with him, every glance that lingered just too long. And now, you had nothing but the absence of it.

It made you missed him even more.

You missed the man who knew when to speak and when to stand beside you in silence. The one who didn’t flinch when you were cruel with your words because he knew you were trying to protect him. The one who looked at you like you were still whole, even when you felt in pieces. But he was right. You made your choice a hundred times over, and every time it chipped away at what was left between you.

Feeling like the weight of the world was on your shoulders, you flopped onto the floor beside your bed and wallowed in your self-pity, dismissing all who came to request your presence for the rest of the evening. Though the memory of his plea replayed in your mind like a wound that refused to clot. His voice was all cracked and tender.

“Tell me to keep protecting you. Not as your knight. As yours.”

As the days followed, you filled the space of his absence with routine. Letters. Appearances. Words you didn’t believe, smiles that never touched your eyes. But everywhere you turned, you saw him. The shade of his cloak in a passing figure. The rhythm of his footsteps in a guard’s march. A voice too close to his speaking down a corridor. And yet still, the courage to confront him once again, and say something—anything—to fill the gap he left behind fell at your feet. You felt like a coward.

That is until a week passed when his lack of appearance, followed by his voice, and then his presence finally cut you deeply. There was no shadow, no whisper, not even his scent or warmth. Just coldness and absence. That’s when you attempted to seek him out once again, not expecting a heavy withdrawal.

“Haven’t a clue where he went. He left at dawn a week ago, Your Highness,” the steward said. “Didn’t tell a soul. Not even the guards. Just left a single parcel in the armoury with your name on it.”

“A parcel?”

The steward nodded. “Didn’t even touch any of the wealth owed to him. Said it wasn’t why he served.”

Of course he hadn’t.

Later, you waited until nightfall when the halls had emptied and the firelight in the armoury cast long golden shadows. Your fingers curled around the heavy iron ring of keys with the ache of old habit, the clink of metal against the door sending a jolt through your spine like an echo from another life.

The parcel was easy to find. Wrapped in dark cloth, tied in worn leather cord. His handwriting marked the label—simple.

Your name.

No title.

Just you.

You stared at it for a long while, holding it against your chest before unwrapping it slowly, as if it might vanish if you rushed.

Inside was his sword belt. Not the ceremonial one. Not the polished silver he wore before kings. This was the leather one—dark, worn, marred by battle. The one you had helped him repair once when the clasp cracked, and he’d been too stubborn to ask the blacksmith. You’d stitched it yourself, your fingers clumsy with a needle, laughing as he tried not to wince when you pricked him.

Folded inside the belt was a single piece of parchment.

I left the sword. I will not raise it again—not unless it is for you. You are more than what they’ve made you. One day, you’ll remember that. And when you do, I’ll come back. —F

The parchment trembled in your hands as you read it over and over again, hoping that you had accidentally misread the words or the light was playing tricks on your eyes. It wasn’t a declaration or a promise. It was a truth, laid bare, and it pained more than any farewell.

Burying your face in the leather and parchment, you allowed the sobs to escape your chest this time. You didn’t hide the rattles through your bones, stripping you down to the raw thing Fingon had always seen when you tried so hard to be polished, composed, royal.

The candles burned down low, and you refused to move, staying until your tears dried. Until the ache in your chest quieted into something slower, softer, less like grief, more like remembrance. Until you opened your eyes and realised what you had done.

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[lendmyboyfriendahand]

Fingolfin goes every three years to Mandos to ask after his relatives. Finarfin and Lalwen take turns as well, so that Lord Namo cannot forget them, and cannot believe no one cares about the dead.

In the beginning, he just asked for his father and his son and his grandson - Aredhel and Turgon and Argon had all returned before him. But he saw the look on his little brother's face when he got back to Tirion, and the next time he asked after Aegnor. And when Celebrimbor died, Fingolfin began asking for him too.

Fingon returned after not too long, and he began his own annual petition for Maedhros. Fingolfin was only able to persuade him to actually see the spring festival in Tirion one year by promising to ask in his place. (If Fingolfin said it as more of a question for status rather than a request to release, he could be forgiven.) And it seemed unfair to ask for Maedhros but not his brothers who had less blood on their hands, so within a century Fingolfin was asking if every one of Feanor's descendants would be released soon. (Maeglin returned in time, but he at least had no wish to meet his older cousins.)

Fingolfin was uncertain for a while about asking for his half brother. It seemed only fair, given how much worse Celegorm had done, how much more blood stained Amras's hands. But Feanor was far more dangerous in word and in craft, and could cause turmoil across all of Valinor. Fingolfin eventually admitted he wasn't asking out of the petty belief that Feanor would never ask for him, and so asking out of the petty satisfaction he would get if Feanor was released and found out he owed it to Fingolfin was just as valid. Besides, Nerdanel had been very kind, and at least he could give her confirmation that the Valar still were considering her husband's case.

The journey to Mandos took over a week, and the same back. Fingolfin generally went alone except for two horses (one to ride and one pack horse), and he found the trip somewhat meditative. Sure, the subject was fraught, but there had been no change in over a century. He would ride the same road, waving to people as he passed, and then turn off onto the less used trail. Each day of the trip Fingolfin went through less and less peopled areas, with the last one cabin still a day's ride away from the Halls of the Dead. Sometimes Fingolfin would see the resident of the cabin and nod to her; sometimes he would not.

When Fingolfin reached the Halls, he always knocked once on the great gates taller than even Ethel Sirion. He was not here to fight, but he wanted everyone to recall that he had challenged a Vala before in their place of power, and put up a good fight. No one ever came immediately, but in ten minutes or two hours a maia would emerge to speak with him. Sometimes they came out of a smaller door, sometimes they just faded out of the rock, and once the maia had floated down from the sky like a flag torn from its post. It wasn't always the same maia, but they always provided the same answers. None of Fingolfin's kin were to be released yet. Then it was time for the journey home, slowly re-emerging into society day by day and mile by mile.

Fingolfin was already thinking of whether he should get some honeycomb on the way back to the city, Idril and Tuor's youngest has a strong sweet tooth. His thoughts all ground to a halt when the maia answered "Yes".

"Truly? Curufin son of Feanor will be released?"

"Yes, he is healed and ready to return."

"When will he be reborn?"

"Today, of course."

"Normally, there is a message sent ahead."

"True, but we knew that one of his kin would come this way soon. There was no reason to disrupt anyone."

Fingolfin didn't mention that any of Feanor's family would be disruptive, and a lack of warning would just make them more so. Any requests on the matter seemed trivial, next to his nephew's life. But he couldn't leave this journey incomplete just because he had success for the first time in so long. "What of Amras and Amrod, sons of Feanor? Are they permitted to return?"

"No. They still dwell within the halls, and are not yet ready to return to Valinor."

"Is Celebrimbor son of Curufin permitted to return, alongside his father?"

"No, he is not yet healed to dwell again among elves."

"Thank you for your answers, messenger."

The maia nodded, and then turned to the small door in the walls. The door opened away from Fingolfin, so he could not see inside the halls of the dead - though he doubted they had changed much. What he could see was a hand grasping the edge of the door, soon followed by the rest of the elf. Curufin seemed to be holding the door to keep from falling over, and it wasn't working well as the door slowly turned on it's hinge. Fingolfin remembered the shock of suddenly having a body again, having to move his legs and tense his back rather than just go from one spot to another with a wish. He walked quickly towards the door.

Curufin lost his grip on the door, and fell to his hands and knees. Rather than stop to breathe though, he started crawling, getting as far from the halls of the dead as possible. He didn't look up, just kept going in a straight line.

Curufin stopped when a pair of boots entered his field of view.

"Nephew, I welcome your return. Would you like a hand up?"

Curufin paused a moment, then said. "Yes, if I can lean on you while walking after. I'd rather not fall a second time."

"Certainly, as far as my campsite at least. If you're not feeling fully better tomorrow, perhaps you'll be well enough to sit on a horse."

"Could I talk you into moving the camp far enough not to hear the wind off this mountain?"

"Only after you can sit upright unaided for an hour. Falling from horseback could rattle you seriously."

"Fine."

[somepinkthing]

AU where, in pain, maedhros initially rejects maglor when he first sees him post-rescue. Very publically too. In their grief and guilt, the other brothers then turn on maglor and cast him out, injuring him in the process. At first, when they can't find him again, they don't worry. He was ever the more level headed of them all, they figured. He knows he can't make it out there. He'll come crawling back and we'll accept him, we aren't the brother-abandoners after all. But as time drags on, it becomes more dire. Search party after search party is sent out but nothing turns up a trace. Eventually, they start edging closer to morgoth's lands. In a fit of irony, the remaining brothers soon decide they can't risk any more parties that far into enemy territory when three of them in a row are found ripped to pieces.

In the meantime, maedhros has also improved, mentally and physically, and has begun to ask about maglor. It seems... odd that he hasn't seen him. Maglor has never held a grudge against family this long, much less against his favorite brother. Maedhros himself hasn't let go of all his resentment entirely, but he regrets how it all went down all the same. Now recovered, he knows what maglor did was the best course of action and likely saved his remaining family from annihilation (no we can't all be named the valiant, findekano). He wants to reconcile. At the very least, he wants to see him.

None of the other brothers have the heart to tell him. Nor do they think it'd be a particularly good idea while he's still healing. They tell him maglor is busy, he's emotional, he's drowning in guilt, he's been hurt, he's still feeling hurt—anything to keep the truth under wraps.

Fingon, in a fit of indignation at his cousin's continued refusal to come see his ailing brother, comes personally to the feanorian camp to fetch him. When he finds out the truth, he first feels it's just. Then he just feels guilt ridden and cold. All of them agree it'd be for the best if maitimo were kept in the dark about it for now.

"Maybe he's just being stubborn," all of them tell themselves at some point, "he's always had a knack for the dramatic. He could still be coming back."

But when even maedhros makes it back to the feanorian camp before maglor does, they have to concede the point. They've lost their brother.

Maedhros is naturally distraught when the truth comes to light. Unable to personally go looking, he begins investigating what happened. It turns up nothing regarding maglor's whereabouts, but he finds out a very interesting rumor. A rumor that celegorm's hunters punished a traitor a few months back by hanging them in a tree.

They find no body in the end, just a cut rope. Relief and dread fill the brothers at the discovery. Maglor is alive! But it's likely someone else cut him down. Who? Why? After all, they now know there are fates worse than death.

Meanwhile, deep in the forests of nan elmoth, eöl curls around his mute lover. A pretty noldor he found left in the trees like some decoration by orcs, throat completely mangled from the ordeal. He's altogether rather mad and useless at any household chores, but he's pretty enough and his skill with a set of twin daggers grows every day. And, well, he certainly doesn't ask for much. Nor does he complain at all—even on days where eöl's mood is foul. And he plays the harp whenever asked, very well too. And it pleases eöl to have such a talented musician in his court. So the noldor stays. His fits of madness become easy enough to manage once eöl finds out solitude shuts him up like nothing else will. It's like he's never been alone before or something.

And that's the way it stays, even after eöl marries aredhel. Their trysts end but the little harpist has picked up enough skill by that point to be useful. Eöl notices at some point that his servant wears a mask and has a habit of avoiding his new wife, but he never lashes out at her in his jealousy so. It's well enough. He's fantastic with the boy too.

Eöl never regrets taking the noldor in.

That is, until it runs away with his wife and son. Right into the hands of the feanorians.

[lyragoth]

I have so many questions for you and your gf about Happy Elfling and Golden Elfling !

Did Fëanor teach at Happy Elfling in person, and on a scale from 1 to 10 how much of a terrifying experience was it ? (if closer to 10 than 1, for how long did he teach before someone wiser convinced him he was more needed in the forge ?)

Who were Happy Elfling star students (I'm assuming Curvo, but beyond that ?) ?

Who were Happy Elfling's not so good students ?

Did Fingolfin's children attend Happy Elfling, and if yes, a) whose idea was it ; b) was it a good idea to?

Did Finarfin's children attend Happy Elfling, and with what result ? Did Finrod hate it so much that he swore no elfling would ever have to go through this again ? Was Galadriel the best but also by far the most annoying student ?

Did Finrod teach in person at Golden Elfling, and on the spectrum of inspiring to goofy to crazy out-of-body-experience, what was it like for the students ?

Were Finrod and Curvo fighting because Finrod wanted to put more Men stuff in the curriculum of Golden Elfling, and Curvo thought it was taking precious time away from studying the dwarfish stuff he was pushing instead ?

Later on, was Celebrimbor's patchwork education a cause of insecurities, and did Annatar play on it (I'm assuming he would have been hardcore Happy Elfling and would have made Celebrimbor feel very inadequate for having been educated in the equivalent pot-smoking methods of Golden Elfling) ?

Was Elrond homeschooled in the purest strictest Happy Elfling tradition (or did his education mostly consist of Maglor playing music and crying, with the occasional bout of martial training ?) ?

Was Gil-Galad educated in the Happy Elfling or Golden Elfling tradition ?

If Elrond was Happy Elfling trained and Gil-Galad Golden Elfling, did Elrond feel just a little bit smug about it ("Oh, you do not know the etymology and Cuiviénen pronunciation of the word for the underside of a beech leaf, High King ? Well, figures") ?

If Gil-Galad was Golden Elfing trained, was he able to retaliate in kind when it came to the long-lost traditions of the House of Bëor (extensively covered at Golden Elfling - "Oh, even though you are a peredhel, you did not know that in the third day following the Spring Equinox, the people of the House of Bëor while still leaving in the East used to fashion a clay-pot in the shape of a fish and leave it outside overnight ? Well, figures", goes Gil who has himself fashioned about a dozen such pots over the course of the years for the yearly recreations of the House of Bëor Spring Equinox traditions at Golden Elfling) ?

I must say (before saying anything else) that the idea of Happy Elfling originated in a rather silly context between my girlfriend and me, so we didn’t really consider in-depth lore or how the ages of the elves aligned. I will try my best to answer everything. So, Happy Elfling and Golden Elfling worked like what we humans have in "kindergartens" and "Elementary school". Happy Elfling: Initially, Happy Elfling began small, with Fëanor teaching Maedhros as his first student. Maedhros was everything but a happy elfling lol Fëanor hoped to instill a love for forging in his eldest son, but Maedhros, pragmatic by nature, preferred mathematics, and Maglor preferred musical theory. So for the love of his sons, he started to teach different subjects and invite different people to teach what he couldn't. As word of the school spread, Happy Elfling grew into a prestigious institution, and soon every noble family was sending their children there, Feanor also accepted exceptionally bright elflings.

Feanor likely taught Maedhros, Maglor, Finrod, and Fingon. But he stepped back from teaching once the school became too large. Nerdanel took over as principal, implementing new subjects like sculpture, Teleri and Vanyar history, and elfling psychology.

New students often asked old-schoolers like Fingon or Finrod about what it was like to have Fëanor as a teacher. The typical response was sweaty foreheads, nervous chuckles, and vague replies. They simply said they learned a lot, but "at what cost?” Maedhros and Maglor, meanwhile, had a more resigned perspective... because those amateurs had no idea about what was like dealing with that in AND out of school.

Fëanor returned to teaching temporarily when Curvo entered Happy Elfling. He wanted to oversee Curvo’s education personally. Finrod studied in Curufin's class, and they competed for grades constantly, especially in linguistics. Most of the time, their scores were even, but whenever Finrod won, Curufin would argue with the teacher that he was entitled to better grades because he was the founder's son. It’s rumored that Celegorm wasn’t academically bright, but he excelled in athletics, zoology, and surprisingly poetry (he hid this fact from his brothers). In other subjects, he was disinterested, often disrupting classes or fighting anyone who mistook him for one of Finarfin’s sons or punching elflings who drew trash cans on the blackboard with sentences like "Tyelko-Finarfin's-Trash-Can-Baby". Celegorm’s violent outbursts frequently landed him in the principal’ (his mother’s) office, which put him in double trouble. Being in the principal’s office weekly was considered fortunate. He was also known for jumping out of classroom windows to explore nature, playing with birds and colorful snails, and rarely returning to class.

Galadriel excelled as an A-grade student in Happy Elfling, bringing her international renown. Her fame as a wise elf originated from her achievements in HE. However, she considered the school’s teaching methods overly ruthless and vowed to one day establish a better and less dangerous institution. She was so traumatized by the experience, that when Feanor asked for her hair for scientific and artistic purposes, she denied him. She was more than happy to help her brother Finrod develop Golden Elfling when he later founded it.

Legend says Nerdanel still runs Happy Elfling in Valinor in her husband's place. She is not soft at all. And like Feanor, she manages the school with an iron hand.

Golden Elfling: In Middle-earth, Finrod, aided by Galadriel, founded Golden Elfling, Nargothrond’s elfling school, which Celebrimbor attended in the same class as Gil-galad. Orodreth and Curufin often argued because Orodreth claimed Tyelpe had kicked Gil-galad many times. Curufin would counter that his son was not in the wrong and that it was Orodreth’s fault for raising a dullard slow child.

By then, Galadriel was in Doriath, but she occasionally visited Golden Elfling as an invited teacher. She convinced Melian to come along as well. Melian eventually taught culinary arts and singing, but the elflings begged her to teach them "cool magic" and "dope power-shields" instead. They had zero interest in learning about lembas. Celebrimbor, especially curious, bombarded Melian with questions about the Ainur and why she looked different from most elves, with her larger stature, long ears, and unique aura. Tyelpe’s relentless annoying questioning led to the addition of "Maiar Physiology" to the subjects' curriculum.

Finrod didn’t teach in Golden Elfling because of his kingly duties. Curufin was also too absorbed in forging and dark deeds with his brother. Celegorm, except from Tyelpe, disliked elflings in general and had no interest in teaching Finrod wouldn’t have allowed him near the school anyway. However, despite his busy schedule, Curufin always joined Celebrimbor for parent-son scavenger hunts or sports contests. He taught Celebrimbor important questionable lessons like how it was fine to throw sand in an opponent’s eyes if they were bigger. Little Tyelpe would show up at these contests with war paint and a Feanor-star bandana, yelling, “House of Feanor doesn’t enter wars to lose! House of Feanor will slaughter the Golden House!” This unsettled Finrod greatly, who tried to teach Tyelpe that it was okay not to win, as long as he had fun, Curufin disagreed. Finrod also emphasized that "respect and honor" was Golden Elfling’s motto, Curufin disagreed with this motto entirely, arguing there was nothing wrong with his son being confident.

Curufin thought the meditation classes where the elflings drank a small glass of ayahuasca to have prophetic visions, were a waste of time. He suggested replacing them with pyrotechnics, teaching the art of burning things without getting burned. Finrod refused for the children’s safety. Curufin also disapproved of Golden Elfling’s student group trips to human villages because he harbored many prejudices. Whenever Celebrimbor returned home, Curufin would bathe him with enchanted herbs and use elvish healing magic, convinced that humans had infected his son with all sorts of ailments.

Although Celebrimbor was educated in Golden Elfling, his entire culture was rooted in Happy Elfling teachings, passed down from his father, uncles, and grandparents. Aftermath:

Annatar gently persistently argued that everything Melian taught about the Ainur was wrong. He never again attempted to offer his opinion on the teachings of the Happy Elfling or Golden Elfling, because Tyelpe wouldn’t allow him to comment on elvish education, especially that of his grandfather. That said, Annatar once suggested replacing Fëanor’s statue with one of Tyelpe himself, which got him fired from the forge work. He was later rehired, arguing that his work contract stipulated he couldn't be fired for 300 years, much to Tyelpe’s annoyance.

As for Elrond and Elros, although I didn’t think much about their "kidnap family" upbringing, I believe they were taught in the Happy Elfling tradition—albeit a toned-down version because Maglor wouldn’t allow Maedhros to teach pyrotechnics to children. Elrond and Elros loved astronomy, often using the big telescope to observe celestial bodies. In reality, they used it as an excuse to look for their father every night. Their weird curiosity about birds led to the inclusion of ornithology in the curriculum.

As for Elrond and Gil-galad, they certainly had some clashes, as Gil-galad was Golden Elfling schooled, while Elrond came from a Happy Elfling background. Their disputes often revolved around proper pronunciation, with Elrond politely annoyingly insisting he was correct and Gil-galad was not. Your final note about Gil-galad and Elrond debating House of Bëor’s long-lost traditions is pure Golden Elfling teaching and absolutely perfect as it is���I wouldn’t change a thing! @erendur

[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

[abomination-unto-nuggan]

Itasanë, a Noldorin philosopher and the wife of Maglor.

In Valinor, many admired her for her insight and principles, but some were annoyed by her attempts to bring up philosophy whenever possible. She's autistic and, besides, simply believed it's important - of course she wanted to talk about it! She was known for her philosophical performances on the streets. Sometimes, they were things like shadow plays. Sometimes, they were plain unhinged...

Made in ElenaA's Windswept Oc Maker and Fantasy icon maker ファンタジー画像.

One day, Maglor, who was just passing by, saw her performance about philosophy of music and approached her after she was finished. They began to discuss the subject and she confessed her theory was inspired by his concert. Eventually, Maglor had to go, but asked her if she'd like to meet again to explore music and its meaning together. She agreed, excited.

Eventually, they married. Taking her role seriously, Itasanë began to study politics. She also decided to learn how to fight. Surprisingly to some, she became close with her father in law. Both were extremely passionate, and had a lot to talk about. She also used to regularly play strategic board games with Maedhros, finding it a fun intellectual exercise, so they became friends.

She was the sort of philosopher who believed philosophy must be lived, so when the Darkening came, she immediately wanted to fight Morgoth - her ethical principles told her it's her duty as a princess with military training. She also loved her husband and, though she didn't approve of the Oath, wanted to be with him. But soon, things went very wrong.

When the fight at Alqualondë started, Canwen - wife of Curufin and Itasanë's friend - asked her to take care of little Tyelpë, then ran to see what was going on. Canwen ended up fighting herself, to defend her husband and the rest of their family and the terrified nephew Itasanë promised to stay with was the only reason she didn't join Galadriel and Finrod when the whole thing turned into a slaughter.

The thing is, she could be a very hot-tempered person. She had very high standards and while she worked hard to be understanding of others and not lash out at them, Alqualondë was just too much. When all was said and done, she told Maglor she wants nothing to do with him and stayed with the host of Finrod, her friend. Knowing Maglor didn't plan to murder anyone and that he didn't feel good with what he did, she soon regretted and wished to make up with him. Then, she saw the fire...

Despite her presence on the other shore, Maglor did participate in the ship burning. While Fëanor wouldn't disown him if he refused like Maedhros, he was completely in the fear of abandonment mode after his wife functionally broke up with him. Her staying with Finrod, who not just fought against the Fëanorians but was also her beautiful philosopher friend, only made him more heartbroken - even though he knew they were not romantically interested in eachother at all. He still loved her and wouldn't want to endanger her... just didn't expect her to cross the Helcaraxë.

At Mithrim, they both met after Fingon brought Maedhros back and Maglor came to see him. They decided they'll try to make up and, even though their relationship was still strained, they fought at eachother's side in Dagor Aglareb. After risking their lives together, they realised how much they still care, and their love was rekindled.

They became political and military partners in the Gap. Itasanë was greatly skilled as a warrior, especially in horse archery, but died in Dagor Bragollach. She and Maglor decided to separate, trying to surround Glaurung, but this attempt to defeat him failed utterly and Itasanë died in flames. Maglor felt her agony and tried to get to her, but he didn't manage to come quickly enough. The memory of his wife burning to death would haunt him ever since.

After a long time, she got eventually reembodied. When Maglor was convinced by Elrond to come back to Valinor, he thought she will reject him after all he has done after her death. But this was not the case. They reunited and finally found peace again.

[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.

[doodle-pops]

Serious question. I started thinking about what if the elves and their human s/o race swapped because they are considered pretty tall compared to humans so it made me think that elven women are also probably pretty tall compared to humans even if their height is considered average by elven standards. So, how do you think the elves would react to being race-swapped into an average-sized human and their human s/o becoming taller than them as an elf. I have no doubt they would feel disgruntled being a human, but how do you think they react when their s/o becomes an elf (especially one from their respective clan) Because I have a feeling them seeing their s/o with elven beauty might bring a very positive reaction out of them (If you know what I mean😏).

A/N: I love you so much for this delicious ask 😏. Also, I do agree with elven women being taller than mortal men. I see the average woman being around 6'10 (2.08m). So yes, when the elves become short, they will understand what it means to break our necks looking at their giraffe-looking self 😂. I also did one similar to this a while back. But it was just the elves becoming mortal.

Utterly offended but incredibly aroused. Lock the door, and throw away the keys, because you’re not leaving anytime soon…

— Fëanor, Curufin, Celegorm, Caranthir, Maeglin, Thingol (his wife is already taller than him and he worships her, so yeah), Aegnor

Suffering but staring too obviously and ready to risk it all. If you so much as complain, they’re on you…

— Maedhros, Maglor, Argon, Gwindor, Beleg, Glorfindel, Gil-Galad, Elrohir

Complaining but any time you so much as breathe in their direction, they're simping for something to happen behind closed doors or right there…

— Fingon, Amrod, Amras, Egalmoth, Ecthelion, Elladan

Calm but definitely into it because you are breathtakingly perfect and showing you isn’t such a bad idea…

— Turgon, Finarfin, Finrod, Galdor, Rog, Elrond, Erestor

[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. 

[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.

[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."

[thelordofgifs]

WIP Word Train

Rules: tagger gives a word, then for each letter of that word you share an excerpt from your WIPs that start with that letter.

Tagged by @thescrapwitch, thank you! <3 This is very fun. My word is CRAB. I had to dig into some of the "for later" WIPs for this one, which actually gave me all sorts of brainworms.

C: the "Curvo-Maglor roleswap" AU

Curufin does not really believe in ghosts. He has spent too long, perhaps, seeing one in the mirror. But it does seem to him sometimes that Celegorm is not really gone — he is out on the hunt as he used to be, that is all, clearing the forest of Morgoth’s foul beasts, and he will come back with a wild boar slung over his shoulder for them all to feast on, whistling; his footsteps will sound in Amon Ereb’s little forge any moment now, and he will show up with ten knives in various states of bluntedness and expect Curufin to put them all right instantly. Curufin would not scold him, if he did so. He chides himself, sometimes, for indulging in the fantasy. There is no use now in dwelling on what-ifs: his father is dead, and Celebrimbor is lost, and now Celegorm too has been taken from him, and all that is left is to avenge him, and make sure he did not die in vain. He corners Maedhros in his rooms one evening, and says as much. “Our brothers are dead and all we did is sit here! Shall we not seek our vengeance?” Maedhros blinks at him, slowly, as though he is moving through some fluid more viscous than air.

R: The Unburied (the longfic I'm gonna finish!! someday)

“Russo,” Fingon said. It was his own nickname for Maedhros – he went by Nelyafinwë in court, Nelyo with his brothers, and Maitimo amongst the rest of their kin. Russandol was the name he used with friends and casual acquaintances – a public name which Fingon had turned into something private, a lover’s name. “Is that a yes?” Maedhros asked with a crooked smile. Fingon busied himself with peppering kisses on Maedhros’ upturned cheeks and exposed white throat, on the tip of his nose and on the delicate skin beneath his eyes. The blaze of him! One could almost feel the heat of his fëa through his skin, the eldest son of the Spirit of Fire. “Stop – stop!” Maedhros said breathlessly at last. “You will leave a mark.” Fingon brought his fingers to Maedhros’ collarbone to trace the kiss-bruises he had already left there. “Are you scared of people knowing you are mine?” he asked. “Shall you wear furs and high collars, and cover these up?” “Only leave my face unblemished,” said Maedhros; “or else let me return the favour,” and he put his hot mouth to the hollow of Fingon’s throat. Fingon laughed, for this was an old joke of theirs. Maedhros’ ivory skin betrayed his every blush when he glanced Fingon’s way, every bruise that Fingon’s over-eager fingers and lips might leave on his body; but Fingon’s skin was darker, and gave up his secrets more reluctantly. “You may try,” he said, turning his head a little to bury his face in Maedhros’ hair, “but you have never left a mark on me yet.”

A: the "Fingon survives the Nirnaeth" AU (a casualty of last year's Russingon week... oops)

After, when he had slipped from Fingon, Maedhros was yet so blissfully content that he might have drowsed for a time in his lover’s arms, for all that their absence would be sure to be noticed soon. But Fingon was stiffening beneath him. “Darling?” Maedhros murmured, his eyes half-closed. His awareness of Fingon was still a shining sunlit thing in the back of his mind, as though some part of them had remained coupled together even now. “What is it?” “What is it?” Fingon repeated, his voice shrill and panicked. “What is it?” Maedhros sat up and opened his eyes. “What do you mean?” Then he saw several things at once: firstly, that Fingon was clawing at the base of his throat, his face twisted in real distress; secondly, that his dark eyes were rimmed now with a thin line of gold, as though the Tree-light in them had somehow grown in strength; and thirdly, that he was staring at Maedhros with the same look of slow-dawning realisation.

B: The "Bragollach" WIP (which I am sadly unlikely to finish for Maedhros & Maglor week)

But Maglor’s skin, although reddened from the heat, bore no burn-marks. His tunic was soaked with black orc-blood, but he had not sustained any wounds of his own. Even his hair, which had long since come loose of its braid, did not seem singed. His eyes were bright and alert, even fearful as they met Maedhros’. “Káno,” said Maedhros, reaching up to touch his brother’s hand. In the stinking air it seemed suddenly that he could draw a clear breath for the first time in many days, as though some invisible vice around his chest was loosing — so it always was, in Maglor’s presence. “I could not hold,” said Maglor, and his voice was a gasping, ruined thing, like to rocks scraping against rocks on the cliffside. “It matters not,” said Maedhros, and just like that it was true. “Come here.” Slowly, stiffly, moving with some odd reluctance, Maglor dismounted. As his feet hit the ground with a thud — uncharacteristic, for Maglor was the most graceful rider Maedhros had ever laid eyes upon — a wince flashed across his face, so swiftly that Maedhros might have imagined it. On instinct he reached out to draw his brother close, just as Maglor’s knees buckled. Maedhros’ hand was wet. Why was it wet? He drew it away from Maglor’s front to find his fingers red.

tagging @eilinelsghost, @welcomingdisaster and @zealouswerewolfcollector! Your word is HOPE :)

[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

[thetempleofthemasaigoddess]

Discovering Elrond is your soulmate would involve...

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

*****

💑 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."

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