#i know some people hate reading the text as in-universe but i'm very fond of it i think it adds layers and flavour

[vidumavi]

i enjoy thinking about the silmarillion as an in-universe historical text and also building on that it's really fun to think about what other texts (not necessarily limited to writing) might have survived in-universe from the first age or even before. of course a lot of it got destroyed, but as in the real world, there would be copies of copies and fragments and things written down from memory and stories told to children that survived. Even if 95 percent of everything was lost, that still leaves a whole lot! and all of that would be subject to further translation and mythologization and fragmentation and alteration after the first age. there's so much potential in the cultural legacy (& its reception) of first age beleriand

[grey-gazania]

I'm sorry someone bombarded you with bitchy comments 😭. While my To Read list is lengthy and continually lengthier (actually I think something of yours with her is on it), I'd like to hear more about Ianneth-Fingon-Maedhros if you want to talk about them.

@polutrope

It wasn't really upsetting, just annoying and honestly a little bit funny. This guy left comments on all six chapters of By Love or at Least Free Will, every time I updated the story, just objecting to the entire premise of the story and ranting about how Elves have incorruptible pure souls and are immune to lust. I was sorely tempted to respond with this quote from "Laws & Customs Among the Eldar":

Even when in after days, as the histories reveal, many of the Eldar in Middle-earth became corrupted, and their hearts darkened by the shadow that lies upon Arda, seldom is any tale told of deeds of lust among them.

'Seldom' is not the same thing as 'never', and furthermore, I don't think lust is even a major theme of my story. It's more about conflicting obligations and unruly hearts.

In the end I deleted the comments without responding, because I have a personal policy of not engaging with people who are acting in bad faith. But I have to assume that this guy has no actual hobbies if he spends his time hate-reading entire stories instead of just...closing the window and moving on with his life. Maybe take up crochet, bro? Or volunteer at a soup kitchen? Watch a TV show that you like? Grow some tomatoes? Do something that will be more fulfilling than typing long screeds on AO3. I promise it will make you a happier person.

Anyway. On to the actual topic of your ask! As you've probably noticed, I am very fond of Russingon. However, I am also very fond of Fingon as Gil-galad's father. At first I balanced these two ideas by keeping my Russingon ideas and my Fingon-father-of-Gil-galad ideas in two separate universes, but then I started really fleshing out Gil-galad's mother, and it made me think some thoughts. To repeat something I said to @cuarthol in a comment on AO3:

...half the genesis of Ianneth was seeing so many stories (in multiple fandoms, not just Tolkien) where the woman is written out of a canon or semi-canon couple to make room for a popular M/M ship instead, without the female character being treated with any respect. I decided that the female perspective on that situation would be a nice change of pace and interesting to write.

I'm not trying to point fingers -- I'll readily admit that I have my male faves just like the next gal and that it's fun to make them kiss -- but the wives and girlfriends don't get a lot of love in fandom, do they? And it doesn't help that the legendarium in general tends to be a bit of a sausage fest. So I decided that Fingon would have a wife and be in love with Maedhros. But instead of focusing just on the forbidden love, I was going to focus on the wife's feelings, too.

Ianneth ("bridge-woman") is one of the Northern Sindar, from the community that lives around Lake Mithrim. She's the daughter of Annael (yes, that Annael), whom I've imagined to be one of the more influential leaders among the Northern Sindar, and particularly among the Elves of Mithrim.

Her betrothal to Fingon starts as a political arrangement. Fingolfin loves Fingon dearly, of course, but he's also been hinting for a while now that Fingon really needs to settle down and start having kids so that there will be a strong line of heirs should Fingolfin die. After all, Argon's dead, and Turgon and Aredhel abruptly fucked off to god-knows-where some three hundred years ago and haven't been seen nor heard from since. Your dad needs some grandsons, Fingon, and this also seems like a ripe opportunity to strengthen the Noldor's alliance with the Northern Sindar.

I don't think political marriage is unknown among the Elves of Beleriand. (For one example in the text, see Celegorm trying to marry Luthien to force Doriath into an alliance.) And the quote I drew the title of the aforementioned Fingon/Ianneth story from, also found in "Laws and Customs Among the Eldar," is:

The Eldar wedded only once in life, and for love or at the least by free will upon either part.

Free will could easily mean, "Are we in love? No. But I'll still marry you, for the good of our peoples, and I'll bring some of Dad's soldiers along with me." That sort of thing happened all the time among real-world nobility, so I see no reason why it can't happen among Elven nobility in Beleriand, too.

At any rate, Fingolfin arranges for Fingon to meet the daughters of some of the more powerful leaders of the Northern Sindar, and he's hint-hint-hinting that Fingon really needs to pick one of them to be his wife. Fingon, having been in love with Maedhros since they were young in Valinor, is not exactly keen on this plan. But he goes along with it anyway because he is a dutiful son, he knows that his father is right about needing to strengthen the line of succession, and he also knows that revealing his (quite taboo!) relationship with Maedhros to his father would probably break Fingolfin's heart.

It takes Fingon a while to decide who to court, but he picks Ianneth because he likes her sense of humor; she has the guts to gently tease him at their first meeting, which he finds quite charming. He doesn't think he can love anyone besides Maedhros, but he does look at Ianneth and think, "This is a woman I could grow to care for and whose companionship I think could enjoy."

The trouble begins when, over the course of their courtship, Fingon starts falling in love with Ianneth without falling out of love with Maedhros. And he doesn't know what to do about this. He can't call off the marriage, and he doesn't want to break things off with Maedhros, so he decides to just...keep the whole thing with Maedhros a secret and marry Ianneth anyway. It's not a good decision, but really, are there any options here that won't end with someone getting hurt? I don't think so.

So we have Ianneth, blissfully ignorant of her husband's infidelity (for now); Fingon, in love with two people at once and feeling horribly guilty about it, but unwilling to pick one partner over the other; and Maedhros, resigned to the situation but still hurting because Fingon is no longer his alone.

Maedhros' feelings are complicated by the fact that, once he meets her, he finds that likes Ianneth. It would be easier, he thinks, if he could write her off as just a political necessity for Fingon, but it turns out that she's charming and intelligent and kind, and he can understand why Fingon loves her. His feelings soften further once Ereiniel is born, because Fingon is so happy being a father, and he loves Fingon, so how can he begrudge him that? There's a line from "Famous Blue Raincoat" by Leonard Cohen that I always think of when I'm getting into Maedhros' head at this point:

And thanks for the trouble you took from [his] eyes. I thought it was there for good, so I never tried.

Things tick along about as smoothly as they can for thirteen years, until, in the aftermath of Fingolfin's death during the Dagor Bragollach, as Fingon prepares to send Ianneth and Ereiniel to the Falas for their safety, Ianneth learns his secret. This is understandably devastating for her, and leaves her wondering if Fingon ever really loved her as she loved him, or if his marriage to her was simply a politically expedient sham.

Add to that the fact that she leaves for the Falas less than ten hours after this revelation and spends most of that ten hours either crying or asleep, as she's too upset to really talk to Fingon about what she's discovered, and it leaves her with this horrible knowledge and all the worst thoughts that come from it gnawing at her nearly a full year until Fingon next comes to Eglarest -- time that she spends as the sole caregiver for her young daughter, among strangers in a foreign city, without her mother or her sister or any of her friends who might have theoretically been able to offer her some emotional support.

Theoretically is a key word there, though, because even if, say, her sister had come to Eglarest, Ianneth isn't sure she'd even be able to tell her. For one thing, she can't help feeling ashamed, because infidelity is very rare among Elves, and she can't help thinking that maybe she failed as a wife somehow, and if she'd done something different, Fingon wouldn't have strayed. Then there's the fact that he's the High King of the Noldor, and if this gets out it could cause a crisis in the Noldorin government and possibly tank the alliance between the House of Fingolfin and the Northern Sindar. Ianneth is a practical woman, and she's of the Northern Sindar -- the people who have been living practically on Morgoth's doorstep for centuries, with no Maia queen's magic girdle to protect them. Their alliance with the Noldor is vital, and she would never want to jeopardize it.

So Ianneth is just...completely alone with this pain. She has no one to turn to, no one who can comfort her. And that pain is central to her story, and a not insignificant part of Ereiniel's story, too.

[youaretoosmart]

girl you're murdering me today with your writing (and also your kindness I cannot BELIEVE you posted a link to my fic I'm??) anyway if you wanted to do more one shots I'd love to see what you come up with for 39 if you haven't done it already! :)

*walks in a month late without starbucks* 

39: “This is very cliché.” +  69: “You’re ticklish.” (requested by @janeerikabrady​ on twitter) + 21: “God, I missed you.” (@lydias-martin)

(from +this list of prompts)

Under the readmore because I realize it’s long and I’m nice to my mobile-using friends and followers.

The car starts clicking and creaking on the last half hour of their trip. Lydia feels it in the wheel first, then in the rigid steering, and when Stiles finally cuts off the music to ask “What’s that noise?”, Lydia knows there’s a problem.

“Pull over,” Stiles says after the engine gives a sudden whirr, one wheel in a pothole.

Lydia complies, because even though the rented Mercedes is much newer and all around better than his old Jeep, the antic car did give Stiles more experience with faulty engines.

“Do you know what’s happening?” she asks, pulling on the side of the road.

Once the car is still, the lateness of the hour catches up with her, and she feels a twinge of irritation toward Beacon Hills. They’re barely in Beacon Hills county and so of course their car–their rental, brand-new car has to stop working in the middle of the woods on a Sunday night.

Stiles shakes his head before stepping out of the car. Lydia pops up the hood when he gestures her to, and stands a moment bent over it, hidden from Lydia’s sight by the sheet of black metal.

She waits for five, ten minutes without hearing a sound before she unbuckles and opens her door.

“You okay?” she asks as soon as she’s outside, and the wind carries out her words.

She watches the leaves rustle around her heeled boots, and a spike of panic seizes her for a hot second. It’s senior year all over again, and Beacon Hills is swept over by a cold wind that blows in the supernatural; she finds herself focusing on the distance, waiting for the tell-tale sound of hooves.

She can’t see Stiles over the hood, and she knows he could be gone in the blink of an eye–

Then Stiles slams the hood down and turns to her, blinking in the harsh lights of the car.

“You okay?” he says in a soft voice, like he knows what she’s thinking about.

How can he, when Lydia herself isn’t sure what transpires in her brain in those times? But Stiles has always been too perceptive when it comes to her, and that’s how that particular story begins.

Lydia sits back sideways in the car, legs outstretched toward him, and gently bumps her right foot to his shin.

“Better than this engine,” she says, regaining her composure and hard-won casualness. “What’s the matter?”

Stiles scowls.

“I’m not sure,” he admits. “The engine is so different from the Jeep’s–I couldn’t see anything.”

“You mean no duct tape?”

“Very funny.”

There’s a loud rumbling sound in the distance and Stiles squints at it before making his way to the passenger seat. Lydia catches on and close her door the moment the rain starts to fall furiously.

“I missed those north Californian downpours,” Lydia says darkly, watching the drops of rain smash against the windshield like pebbles.

“Makes you regret the East Coast winters.”

“Well, I wouldn’t go that far.”

They don’t turn on the heat, not wanting to add a dead battery to the damage, and Stiles reaches for the heavy winter coats they shed when they landed in California. Lydia slips into hers, grateful for the warmth and the smoothness of the fleece lining, and reaches for her phone. The line is busy the first time she dials the still familiar number of Beacon Hills’ towing company, and she looks at her phone in distaste after five minutes of Vivaldi’s Spring concerto.

“The odds of someone else crashing their car tonight?”

Stiles makes a disgusted noise and makes himself comfortable in the seat.

“We should call them with my phone next time,” he says. “They must still have my number in their VIP clients book.”

The truth is, Lydia wouldn’t be surprised if it was true. She slips off her shoes and turns in her seat to face him. The window is cool against her back, and she tucks her socked feet against the armrest between them.

“Home sweet home,” she sighs. “Lost in the woods at night in a broken down car. It’s high school all over again.”

Stiles’ eyes take on a different kind of mischievous light.

“You know what else we did in the car in high school?” he says playfully, grabbing her ankles to extend her legs over his lap. His fingers slip up the hem of her pants and ghost over her ankles and Lydia feels her toes curl up against his thigh.

“Stop it,” she says, biting her lips to contain her giggles.

“You’re ticklish,” Stiles realizes, his mouth already stretched wide. “How did I never know?”

She kicks at his wrists until he lets go of her ankles.

“Try again,” she says, pointing at his phone. “I’m not having car sex with you when we should be at your father’s for dinner.”

“So you’ll have car sex with me after we get dinner with my father?”

“I will consider–” Lydia pauses, enjoying the way Stiles’ lips part unconsciously. “Making out on your bed.”

Stiles snorts.

“You really are reliving our teenage years,” he says, like they’re not barely twenty and still in college.

Lydia waves the phone under his nose until he gives in and calls again. This time they pick up immediately, and Lydia isn’t surprised when she hears Stiles greet the other person by his name.

“Ah, no,” he says after a few minutes. “We rented a car at the airport. No, I left the Jeep to my friend Scott–the one with the Kawasaki bike?” He glances at Lydia when she nudges her with her foot, tapping on her wrist with two fingers, the universal sign for “hurry up”.

“An accident,” he repeats after giving their location. “Of course. How long?”

He hangs up soon after and places the phone in the cup holder between their seats.

“An accident?” Lydia asks.

“Yup. Three car pile-up. They’re nearly done, but we’ll have to wait for the tow truck for at least forty minutes.”

The wind picks up at that moment, rocking the car slightly. Lydia and Stiles stare, unimpressed, as a branch hits the window heavily.

“This is very cliché,” Lydia says, trying to see something in the darkness.

Stiles hums and picks up his phone, his fingers quick across the screen as he types a message.

“Dad can’t pick us up, he’s covering the accident.” A groan. “Fuck. I’m starving.”

They spend ten minutes in silence, three others playing I spy until they run out of things to spy (the rain, trees, the road), and by then Lydia is so cold and bored that she’s starting to imagine things out of the dark shape of the trees. Stiles’ rhythmic drumming on the dashboard is also slowly driving her mad.

Tap tap tap, and Lydia’s seeing something move between the trees; reason tells her it’s the wind, branches and bushes bent backward by the storm, but experience is pressing down on her until she fears like she’s been conditioned to.

Tap tap tap. A bird swoops down suddenly, hits their car, and Lydia jumps half a foot in the air. It rights itself as it bounces back and disappears in the storm.

“Weird,” Stiles notices. “Birds usually don’t fly out during storms.”

They share a look; even though they both live in the city, now, noticing out-of-place animal behaviors has become a second nature.

“Scott hasn’t mentioned anything weird happening lately, right?” Lydia ends up asking, just to break the silence. She turns in her seat to look out the back window, but there’s nothing to see except for dark trees and a darker sky.

“Not to me,” Stiles answers.

The reproach is clear in his voice. Even months later he’s still annoyed that they never called him when rats and wolves and people started killing each other, Lydia guesses. She reaches for his hand and squeezes a silent apology. Stiles’ phone buzzes with an incoming text at that moment, and when he brings up her wrist to his lips, leaving the ghost of a kiss on her pulse point, his attention is clearly elsewhere.

He doesn’t release her hand the whole time he frowns at his phone, but Lydia looks at him and feels like someone put her heart in the wringer and chose the highest settings; it turns and turns in her chest until she feels like she’s going to bleed for this boy sitting two feet away from her, like her love for him seeps in her blood and warms her fingers between his.

She turns her hand until they’re holding hands and laces her fingers through his. It’s a small but steady comfort, a gesture made dearer by the distance that they’ve grown accustomed to.

“God,” Stiles says suddenly, like he’s thinking the same thing. “I missed you.”

“I missed you too,” Lydia admits with a squeeze of his hand that make him look up. “So much, Stiles.”

It’s nothing she hasn’t already thought or heard, because long distance is hard, especially when isolation, to Lydia in high school, meant driving less than an hour north to her lakehouse.

She tugs him to her with their connected hands and he falls against her shins.

“I’m sorry about Thanksgiving,” she says in his mouth when he leans forward to kiss her. “I wanted to come home–”

“It’s okay,” he reminds her, his nose brushing against her cheek. “I know that project was important.”

There’s something in his words that makes frown and lean back to look at him in the eyes.

“Not more important, though, you know that, right?”

His eyes are impossibly soft and fond; there’s her answer. It makes her feel safe that she can read him so easily before he can even speak, because if Stiles Stilinski is good with his words, he tells even more with his eyes and his hands and his actions. And now–now she has a lifetime in front of her to read each movement, his half-aborted nervous gestures and gentle looks.

Some part of her hates the lateness of the hour and the uncomfortable knowledge that the tow truck is coming, because a revelation like that deserves the shallow darkness of a bedroom at night or the casual familiarity of home.

“Say it again,” Stiles asks, so Lydia does just that until the lights from the tow truck break the illusion of solitude.

The air is still thick with those words when they step outside the car and Lydia is nearly swept off her feet by the wind, because they’re still there in the way she reaches for him when he stumbles and the weight of his hand on her back when she climbs inside the truck: You’re the most important person in my life, Stiles Stilinski.