#maedhros one shot

[silmawensgarden]

Stages of acceptance

Maedhros x reader

Prompt: Hi! I loved your young Maedhros request/fic and I was wondering if I could request Maedhros x reader and they are reunited in Valinor after the destruction of the Ring and Sauron (e.g. reader had remained in Middle Earth and only left with Elrond once the ring was destroyed)? Thank you!

Requested by anonymous

A/n: I know it's taken long for me to get this one out. Though I tried my best to imagine a good scenario for this one so I hope you enjoy it! → It has some hurt/angst in it but its hurt with comfort. I hope the end is sweet enough to make up for it. ❤

Word count: 1.5k

Warnings: angst/hallucinations/mentions of death

The time has finally come for you to return to valinor. Three ages have passed and the fourth was about to begin. The reign of the elves has waned into nothing. You are standing at the front of the boat, greeted by the salty air of the sea. This is the last ship to depart from the grey havens. You feel a mixture of joy, anticipation and fear. Your stomach churning uncomfortably from the feelings.

Your arrival in Valinor means that you must face someone you haven't seen since the earliest age. He's bound to be there, watching by the shore like a hawk for a sign of your existence. You don't know if you even want to face him after all these years. His death was like a poorly aimed arrow to the heart; a supposedly fatal blow, but instead turned into a curse you had to live with for the rest of your life. The nightmares made his death seem like it happened yesterday. The hollow look in his eyes as he fell into the flaming inferno remained fresh in your memories. The nightmares have subsided to some degree these days, but occassionaly you would still need the help of Elrond to be grounded into reality. Those days are the worst, in those moments dream and reality fuse together into horrible hallucinations that take days to recover from.

It took some convincing from Elrond to get you aboard the ship. Your hesitance was peculiar to them because you hardly ever divulged any information about your past. From the time you spent fighting in the first two ages of the world to a good while before your impromptu arrival in Imladris. They only know that you are one of the elves who left valinor in the first age. Not exactly an ideal amount of trust you gave them, but at the time it felt like the safest option.

What else could you have done? Tell them you'd been the ever faithful companion to a kinslayer? It would've been a far too harsh pill to swallow for a first meeting. Occasionally your story would fray at the edges, it made you wonder if any of them ever noticed the minor discrepancies between each recollection of the tales you told them.

Now that you thought about it, you haven't been truthful with him either. The one person you felt like running to and from at the same time. Especially now..... the thought of facing him was excruciating. You hadn't bothered to write to him, let alone use osanwe....the spiritual link between your fëar had remained all these years. Yet you refused to participate in the ages long tug-of-war your souls had been playing. Was it better this way?

You felt a firm hand on your shoulder, drawing you out of your spiralling thoughts. "Y/n, what is the matter? You have been completely mentally unavailable during our journey."

It was Elrond. A deep frown etched into his face. You felt a bit guilty about all the silent stewing but you weren't so sure if you should come clean right this instant or not. You were willing to take the bait in the end, after all you'd be spending quite some time together in Valinor. Even more so, Elrond was a trusted friend and companion to you, one you didn't want to lose.

"Elrond....I believe it is time for me to have a lengthy conversation with you. I have not been 100% truthful with you these past years."

You turn around to look at him and see an expression of surprise with thinly veiled concern on his face. Elrond nods and the both of you sit down a little further away from the other elves for privacy. "What is it that you wish to tell me y/n?" He asks.

"I have not told you the full truth of my identity. I believe you are aware of the Fëanorians? Specifically Maedhros...."

After a good hour of talking it had become clear that you had been involved with Maedhros quite closely. In return Elrond had shared with you his own interactions that he and his brother had with the eldest Fëanorians. Fond memories, but also the hardships that came with the turbulent times they had to live through. Elrond was not happy with you keeping the information to yourself all these years, it upset him that you never gave him any insight on your horrible hallucinations. Because now he also knew the reason behind them, had he known sooner he could've helped you earlier and easier.

However despite your silence he was not angry at you. Most of the upset had come from a place of wanting what was best for you, not because he had felt cross about your involvement with Maedhros. In the end you and Elrond remained good friends if not even better friends now that he knew who you were.

It wasn’t long before it was announced that the shores of Aman were in sight. The news made you freeze up. You knew that you would now have to face Maedhros face to face. So you braced yourself for the conversation ahead of you.

The moment you stepped onto dry land your soul felt like it was being squeezed tight by something, a tight grip that told you it wouldn’t let go. Within seconds after you felt this feeling you caught a sliver of fiery red hair in the back of the crowd.

Him.

Anxiety pooled into your stomach as you felt yourself being pushed forward by the people behind you. It seemed like every sound around you had become dull, save for your own heartbeat. The fast paced thumping in your ears was the only thing you could hear. You saw Elrond speaking to you for a brief moment, but your mind did not register what he said. You set out towards the last spot you had seen the tiny speck of red hair. Partially hoping for the confrontation.  

When you arrived at the spot there was no-one to greet you. He had apparently already left. The thumping had alleviated some but you were still processing your surroundings as if through a blanket of thick fog. Everything felt slow and dull. Your feet dragged you over towards a pathway that was all too familiar. You followed the road towards a familiar place mindlessly. Your feet stopped short by a riverbank. There he sat on a rock, his copper hair now long and swaying in the wind.

“So you have found it in you to return home, y/n.” He spoke slowly. It was deeper than you remembered and a little bit raspy, as if he had been screaming the night before. You stepped closer to him, now standing right behind him.

“Let me then simply state what is on my mind, why have you never bothered to send me letters y/n? You even refused to use osanwe with me, despite our status…….” He said solemnly. It was clear he was unhappy with your lack of communication.

“Maedhros….. I was so caught up with the destruction of the one ring and finding a way to defeat Sauron that I haven’t paid anything else any thought…..and I was also deeply wounded by your death. I was unable to respond to anything properly since. Including your bids for connection.” You fumbled over your words here and there during your explanation, partially knowing that it was a rather weak excuse that he may not accept. After all he was known to carry on until he could no more.

“Was it worth it?” His words stung like a papercut. You knew by the tone of his voice that it was meant to sound cold and removed, but his true feelings shone through underneath the façade. Saltiness. Maedhros the tall was feeling salty.  You pondered for a moment on what to do, you still loved him dearly and didn’t want to give him up. So you made up your mind.

“Maitimo….I am sorry for my lack of heartfelt response in those times when you reached out to me. I was unable to move past my own issues to reciprocate what you had given me all those years before and I am ashamed of it. I hope that you are perhaps still willing to give this another chance….I would be most grateful, if you’ll have me…” A lone tear slipped from your eye. You felt cross with yourself for your cowardice, maybe even your horrible dreams could’ve been eased if you had leaned into him back then. Unfortunately many things we only realize once we have been pushed onto the end of the road.

Maedhros’ form stiffened up at your confession, slowly turning around to face you. His face was stoic. Forcing yourself to make eye contact with him you saw the slightest flash of a deep heartfelt emotion in his eyes. You were now so close to each other that you could feel his breath on your face. In a moment of madness induced confidence you threw your arms around him into a bone crushing hug, refusing to let go. The lone tear now turned into full fledged waterworks. You felt your body being slowly pulled closer to him, a soft kiss was pressed to your cheek. In that moment your fëar had finally reconnected after two ages of separation.

A relieved smile graced Maedhros’ face as he whispers close to your ear; “Welcome home, melda…”.

[theelvenhaven]

Dating Maedhros as a Human

Request: could you do headcanons with maedhros and human!reader </33 - @noldorinpainter​

A/N: Of course I can! <3 I am so happy to do this for you!

* * * 

- To be perfectly honest, Maedhros was apprehensive first about courting a human, considering your short lifespans compared to his immortality. 

- Nonetheless when you told him how you felt, and how you’d rather spend your life with him, happy and loved. Maedhros surprisingly agreed to a courtship despite his usual defensiveness and distance.

- You bring Maedhros a bit out of that self-protective shell of his, as he realizes he doesn’t have all these years to dote or learn to be affectionate with you and take his time. 

- That doesn’t mean everything is super quick going, but it just means that Maedhros learns sooner how to be more open with you about himself rather than holing it up all the time.

- Still though there are boundaries that are naturally set in place, that don’t change regardless of whether or not your mortal or not.

- Displays of affection are still going to be an extremely private thing for him, he doesn’t want anyone to see him as vulnerable and weak. 

- In public he doesn’t mind the occasional handholding, or you coming to lean against him, and sometimes he’ll let you get away with a kiss to his cheek. 

- But other than that kisses and long embraces and cuddling are purely for private times only- chambers, empty studies and sitting rooms.

- The doors will always be locked, that way the two of you can’t be interrupted when he is wanting to dote on you affectionately and in private. 

- Because you are human, Maedhros looks at you to be extra fragile knowing healing and your life works so much differently than his own. 

- As a result it makes him really protective over you and your care, though he is very subtle in how he expresses his overprotectiveness as he doesn’t want to make you feel as though he is suffocating you.

-Every time you get sick, you can absolutely expect that Maedhros is on top of making sure that you get the care that you need to make you feel better.

- With him hovering over the Healers as well to make sure that they are diligent in taking care of you and he doesn’t really care if it seems like it’s too much.

- Maedhros wants to make sure that you recover fully and without any difficulties at that.

- Because he is so protective over you, you can absolutely expect that your safety is his top priority and he is constantly making sure that you either know how to defend yourself or have someone who can help protect you.

- Regardless of your thoughts on it, Maedhros teaches you how to wield a dagger at the very least, so you if you find yourself in a compromising position, you can fend off your attackers. 

- He won’t really accept any arguments on why you don’t want to do it, it is a requirement, and helps put his mind at ease when you agree to it. 

- If you are willing and ask, he will also teach you how to wield a sword.

- Any travels that you might have to make on your own that he cannot attend, expect that you will have a small guard with you to help keep you safe.

- It is non-negotiable, Maedhros would rather be safe than sorry, losing you any sooner than he has to worry about would be unbearable. 

- Though at home Maedhros will seem really relaxed with you around in Himring, but he’s intermittently checking on you somehow or another, though it is very discreet.

- Should anyone try and bully you- spread rumors, sully your reputation, speak ill towards you, they will indeed be met with Maedhros’ wrath. 

- He will make sure to make them regret for every trying to do you harm in such a manner.

- Eru forbid if they try to lay hands on you, it’s not often he likes to get physical but he absolutely will subdue someone who tries to lay their hands on you.

- Maedhros loves you, you mean everything to him and he will make sure that your life with him is well spent with him. 

* * * 

Tags: @saviorsong​ @lilmelily​ @dicksoutformtl​ @fandomhoe101​ @celebrimbor-telperinquar​ @red-riding​ @miriel-estelwen​ @ta-ka-shi-ma​ @nerdysimpy​ @thegirlwithoutaname87​ @anunexpectedsideblog​ @spidergirla5​ @eunoiaastralwings​ @eternalabysss​

[annoyinglandmagazine]

Russingon fic set in late 19th century England

Fingon had just gotten over the grass ridge when he’d seen the tell tale red curls glinting on the path ahead of him ‘Maitimo!’ He waved his hand frantically and pulled his satchel to his chest to avoid spilling his things everywhere as he dashed down the hill laughing in exhilaration as he did. He fell into step next to him with some difficulty due to his substantially shorter legs as Maitimo turned to smile at him. ‘You doing ok there Finno?’ Maitimo teased with a little smirk while Fingon stopped a moment to catch his breath. ‘Mhmm,’ he panted, ‘Oh, did you finally get your name Sindarised?’ he enquired as an afterthought. ‘I did yes. I’m going by Maedhros now.’ ‘Well it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, my dear Maedhros. You may call me Fingon.’ He said with an exaggeratedly posh accent while bending to kiss the other man’s hand.

Maedhros laughed at his antics and intertwined their arms cheerfully continuing to walk at a slower pace. ‘So what’s going on for you at the moment Fingon? Aredhel’s still chaotic as ever I imagine given the amount of time she’s spending with my brother’s.’ Fingon took a moment to appreciate how truly beautiful Maedhros looked when he was happy. He was so rarely at ease even when it was just the two of them but in those moments when he was relaxed and comfortable he seemed to glow with warmth and light.

‘Oh nothing much. I did get this in the post though.’ He said casually, pulling out an envelope. Maedhros stopped turning to look him in the eyes. ‘Have you opened it?’ he said slowly. ‘No.’ ‘When did it arrive?’ ‘Last week’ ‘Finno.’ Fingon shoved his hands into his pocket walking a few paces before circling back. ‘Look I know alright! But what if I don’t get in! You spent ages studying for those exams and you’re so much smarter than I am-’ ‘That’s not true Finno-’ ‘Yes it is! I just- I’m so nervous Mae!’

‘Findekano.’ Maedhros held Fingon’s hands still and put his palm to his cheek. ‘You are an incredibly smart and resilient person and you will be fine. Now if you don’t want to open it I can do it for you if that would help.’ Fingon breathed deeply and handed him the envelope, holding his breath the whole time. When Maedhros looked at the letter he folded it over and turned back to Fingon silently. ‘Fingon, I am so sorry,’ and his heart plummeted as he thought of back up options.

‘I’m afraid you’ll have to have me as your roommate again.’ It took a few seconds and then he snapped his eyes back up to Maedhros who was still looking at him solemnly but his eyes were twinkling. ‘What?!’ ‘You got in!’ Maedhros grinned and Fingon shrieked throwing himself into Maedhros’ arms as he spun him around into the air, laughing with joy in wild abandon. Then he smacked him lightly on the shoulder just when he was being put down.

‘You prick! Never do that to me again!’ Though it was hard to keep a straight face while his hands were very much still running through the mane of wild red curls. ‘You’re going to need to work on your flirting skills if you’re going to be going to university Finno.’ Maedhros grinned while wrapping his arm around Fingon’s waist. ‘And why would I need to do that? Unless you want me to suddenly develop an interest in the opposite gender, you’re the only person I’d ever need to flirt with and everything works on you.’ Maedhros put his hand on his hip putting on a shocked expression ‘Findekano Nolofinwean, did you just call me easy?’

Fingon went up on his toes to kiss him and Maedhros found it very difficult to stay offended.

[adreamofdoriath]

Maglor's face grew hot, and the dismissive compliment did little to mollify him. Perhaps his move had been ill-considered—or perhaps his drink was stronger than he'd thought—because this stranger studying his image with such intentness was doing unexpected things to him.

"Hmm," he allowed. Clearly Maedhros needed more photography practice! That was unsurprising. He took a slightly undignified gulp of his cosmopolitan. ...Though really, the lack of contrast with the background shadow was purposeful—dramatic in its own way—

Maglor made a (rare, in his family) strategic retreat and gave Daeron a sharp smile instead. "But you do think there is something worth showing off."

The stranger's annoyance seemed at least slightly tempered by Daeron's final remark, because he flashed a smile, though that did not seem entirely devoid of ongoing offense.

"Do you need me to tell you that?" Daeron asked, arching an eyebrow, running his fingers up and down the stem of his coup glass. "Dear me. I thought you were at least relatively intelligent." Obviously Maglor thought he was attractive--he wouldn't have had the entire gallery's worth of homemade boudoir shots up on his profile if he didn't.

His eyes flicked up and down Maglor's person, still appraising.

"You weren't wrong about highlighting the waist," he said. He had a nice figure. "Here, too." He gestured at Maglor's outfit. "But presumably you knew that already." He took another sip of his drink, which glinted a pale lime green in pinkish light thrown out from under the stained glass shades of the bar's lamps.

[thelegolashairappreciationclub]

Maedhros: *pulls up to barad eithel riding one of these.*

Fingolfin:... I know you gave ours back but... you dont need to resort to stealing beasts from the enemy. I can provide you a horse.

Maedhros: no, it works for The Brand (TM).

Fingolfin: *deadpan* The brand of extremely reckless and dangerous fools?

Fingon: *sprinting from around the corner* I W A N T O N E I M M E D I A T E L Y.

Maedhros: yes, exactly.

I've recently seen a video about hypothetical carnivorous horses, and I was just thinking- What if horses in Angband weren't normal, docile herbivores? What if they were twisted, corrupted things, all too-sharp teeth peeled back in an almost cruel grin? Melkor bent all sorts of creatures to his will, breaking and reshaping them into whatever malicious war ustensils he wanted. That's how Orcs came into being; the aftermath of prolonged torment, mutilation and corruption of Elves. It's implied that's what happened to many other beings. So why wouldn't he do that to horses as well? Surely, having a mount that bites and tears through the flesh of the enemies, a mount that grows thirsty at the sight of blood, is more useful -and admittedly more aesthetically pleasing- to a Dark Lord.

Anyway, here are some amazing works included in the video I saw:

[doodle-pops]

Echoes of Healing Hands

Maedhros x modern!reader

Request: How about Maedhros x reader from modern world, where reader was a med student from her world and somehow ended up in Middle Earth. Reader makes use of her skills and becomes one of the well known healers. The two meet and reader creates a specialized prospethic hand for him. The two kinda gets close and reader reveals how Angband was the first place where she ended up, having been forced the thralldom and use her knowledge and skills to escape. A bit angts where she is still traumatized by the experience (Maybe that's also how she regognized he had been a thrall himself) One shot might work with this and you can decide where the relationship goes. - @animatorweirdo

A/N: I chose to leave the relationship ambiguous between Mae and reader, so you all can decide if they’re friends or something more.

Warnings: modern reader in Middle Earth, fluff and comfort, humour, small touches of reminiscing the past, reader had spent time in Angband, consumption of alcohol

Words: 2k

Synopsis: You spend a moment with the Lord of Himring, demonstrating your skills while he returns the favour with a touch of gratitude and sympathy.

“It might be tight at first and slightly discomforting, however, give or take a week or two, you’ll merge and become one with it,” you explained as you fastened the straps of the prosthetic hand to Maedhros. “For now, practice holding small and light objects before advancing to larger and heavier ones. So, what do you think?”

The light from the fireplace flickered against his porcelain skin, casting hues of golden swirls which seemed to highlight his brilliant head of red, loose curls. They cascaded around his shoulders and stopped at his chest now that the moon had risen to signify another day had come to an end. You watched as he cautiously lifted his right hand, grimacing at the notice of the additional weight before attempting to curl his fingers and admiring your craftsmanship. Maedhros inspected your newly designed gadget with slight apprehension despite the feeling of gratitude arising.

“It does bear a slight pinch around the wrist, but I assume that is for now,” he replied. “The colour, red and gold, an excellent touch!”

“You’re lucky I didn’t paint it pink and purple with a touch of flowers since we’re in spring,” you snickered under his glare. “It would match the aesthetic of the season, and you. Come to think of it, I’ll make for the other seasons.”

“Please,” he begged with a worried expression as he looked away from his hand to meet your amused expression. “I beseech thee to not. One is fine, plus, you do not have any other projects to complete. So I think it is worth sharing a drink with me on this fine night, do you not think so?”

Scoffing as you sink yourself in the seat opposite him, you reach for the flask of wine and pour two glasses. “You do know that drinking leads to intoxication, and your idea of ‘a drink’ normally implies bottles.”

Taking the offered glass from your hand using his gifted hand, he carefully held the glass, finding a secured grip and brought it to his lips for his first deep swig. There was an evident glow on his face the longer the glass remained confidently in his hand. “Rest assured, ‘a drink’ in this case implies one, for your kindness. Thank you for creating this. While I do not believe that I am deserving of this gift, especially after all that I’ve—”

“You seem to have a problem saying, ‘thank you’ without reminiscing on the past, don’t you?” you smirked over the rim of your glass as you took a sip. “You elves and your million fancy, flowery ways to say, ‘thank you’ and then proceed to depreciate yourselves. However, you’re welcome.”

He frowned with a bemused expression on his face. His mouth was opened and ready to counter, yet the smirk you sent his way made him reconsider his choice of words and left a faint heat on his cheeks. “You…” he began as he struggled to spit out his words, “you have a strange way of speaking ever since I met you. You seem to despise the manner in which we elves speak.”

“Yeah, I definitely do,” you muttered and laughed, causing him to frown deeply. “Where I’m from, we just say what needs to be said without a bunch of mumbo-jumbo attached. No beating around the bushes.”

Maedhros’s frown morphed into scepticism as he listened to your scolding on their dialect while making a mental note to be more direct and upfront anytime he needed to speak to you. “Mumbo-jumbo?” he puzzled while furrowing his lips before he straightened in his seat. “Where are you from, if you do not mind me asking? You had not exactly told me other than your time in the Iron Fortress. Where is this ‘where I am from’ you speak of?”

“While isn’t it obvious?” you stated in a matter-of-fact tone to which he awkwardly shook his head. “I’m not from this world, duh! I’m from a far, far, away place where all these things still exist, only ten times worse. The only difference is that I was never involved in anything the way I was forced to…”

The air between you two fell into silence with the crackling of the firewood in the background. Neither of you spoke, causing the let the moment of reflection to resurface. Your memories, despite not facing anything tormenting as Maedhros suffered, were still frightening. Appearing in Angband decades after his escape and being forced to find a way to save yourself from being harmed, you offered up the skills you earned from being a medical engineer to design new artillery. Anything to prevent that bitch-ass redhead from feeding you to the wolves, literally.

The constant fear you felt in the short time you were there was enough to surmount the volume he felt. They were evident in your eyes and on your skin beneath your heavily adorned garments.

You and Maedhros were in the same water, at different depths, yet still drowned.

“I…Accept my condolences for what you might have experienced,” he gingerly whispered, setting the glass on the table.

“Yeah, I’m sorry too, but what’s done is done,” you half-heartedly chuckled and took a deep swig, wincing as the wine burned your throat. “It is what it is.”

Pausing with his mouth hanging open at your unapologetic, coping statement, he muttered, “That is an odd thing to say given your trauma, however, I shall not judge. But what I want to know is, how did you get here from this other world of yours?”

With the change in topic, you glanced over to witness his eyes swimming with eagerness. The possibilities of another world existing were unheard of by the Valar, so could it have been an untold work of Eru? Another realm that dwelt beyond the Timeless Halls?

“That’s something I really can’t figure out to this day. Cause all I knew was that one day, I was taking a long nap after my stressful exams, and then bam! I woke up on a table with that bitch-ass of a redhead hovering and asking his dumbass questions. I felt as though I could have strangled him, and then he made me abuse my medical practices.”

“Mairon! You appeared in Angband out of thin air and the first person you met was him?!” you gasped.

“Yeah, and it was pretty scary. I thought I was dreaming at first because no way in hell a place like that could exist in real life. But when things got heated, I realised that it was real. I had never prayed so much to wake up, especially when I told him my whereabouts but he didn’t believe me. He was going to throw me to the wolves.”

“I’ve heard of his cruelty from others. I was fortunate to not have met him during my…”

“Trust me, you were bloody lucky,” your voice trembled. “If I ever saw that bastard again, I’d feed his ass to the wolves. Never thought that I would hate redheads so much!”

The moment your last sentence slipped past your lips, Maedhros’s face morphed into dejection. What little light that shone in his face, vanished, as did the glow of his hair. As much as he tried to focus on the rest of your words, the loudness of your hatred towards redheads resonated exponentially in his head, prompting him to sulk. However, he was far from subtle since his dejection was visible to the eye which you eventually noticed.

Gasping with an apologetic expression, you vomited a whirlwind of words. “Oh God no! I didn’t mean you! I don’t hate you; I hate him—he’s the only redhead I despise! But you, you’re nice! I like you a lot; you’re so sweet and kind. I like you, Mae. So don’t take it to heart; you’re cool.”

He puzzled. “You like me?”

Your body’s natural response mechanisms were taking over, replaying all those embarrassing gestures you used to perform when you dwelt in the modern world around your friends. Unable to resist, your fingers lifted to form finger guns, as you aimed them at him and made a clicking sound with your tongue. “Of course I do. Why else would I make you that prosthetic hand and indulge in all your temptations even though I complain? It’s obvious, isn’t it?”

He felt his lips tugging at the corners to stretch into a smile. Maedhros couldn’t say when last he felt like this for it had been too long that the pure feeling of bliss overcame him. Dropping his eyes to the floor as his dimples became prominent, it didn’t matter how hard he bit his lip, the smile kept forming. The little awkward nods of his head followed as he accepted your words, wanting to keep things light.

“I like you too; you are very nice,” he finally managed to spit out with a goofy grin which left the both of you flustered like two teenagers.

“Cool,” you murmured and swallowed the last bit of wine before reaching for the flask to refill your glass to the brim. Anything to wash away the awkwardness that unfolded.

Entertained, Maedhros made a tsking sound and wiggled his prosthetic finger at you. “Did you not scold me for wanting to share a drink with you, and now you are consuming two glasses?”

“Oh shut up! The conversation is going too well to deserve one glass, plus, I can do whatever I want. I’ll just suffer the consequences of a hangover tomorrow. I’m a doctor, I can nurse myself back to full health,” you quietly chortled with a roll of your eyes.

Unbiasedly staring at you as you drank the wine with heaviness, he glanced over your humane features and felt a wave of sadness that this could indeed be a strange dream. One day, he too could wake up and you would be gone forever. Or what if he had never left Angband and the image of you was a conjured coping mechanism? “But what if all this was a dream and you had to wake up, would you want to leave?”

Prying your lips off the glass, you fell into a contemplative silence that left you fretting. You would admit, life here wasn’t the best nor was it the worse, but there was something that existed which wasn’t present in your world. You helped and taught your medical practices while learning the ropes of incorporating magic and natural remedies into your etiquette. Life had its ebbs but they brought you forms of adventure no one would ever experience.

“I don’t know; I can’t answer that honestly. I’d be lying no matter what response I give,” you supposed. “However, I will say that I am grateful to have met and helped you. It was an honour to utilise my knowledge to build you a hand and form a bond with an elf. I never thought I’d meet one, so tall and wasn’t Santa’s little helper, and get this close, thanks to my medical abilities.”

“Likewise. You have been a great companion during your time here with me in my lonely castle. You have given me something to look forward to each day with your strangeness.”

“Of course you would enjoy my company. I’m far better than the ghosts living here,” you snickered. “But I too, enjoy your presence. It’s nice to connect with someone who understands.”

Maedhros offered a genuine smile as he fought to ignore your jest, and reached for his glass with his prosthetic hand and gingerly lifted it to make a toast. “I propose a toast to your hands then. Worry not about what they were forced to do, but the great things they have achieved. Perhaps that is your purpose here, to use your gifted hands.”

“You elves and your poetic words,” you jokingly scoffed while reaching out to knock glasses with one another. “But yes, to my hands and yours that can be detached and thrown at someone who annoys you. I am thankful they have gotten me this far and for meeting you.”

“Good, now make haste and finish that glass of wine. The night is still young, we have much to celebrate and I have a new blend for you to try. Might be too strong for a human, regardless, I want you to try it.” He sauntered out of his seat and towards his wine showcase where dozens of flasks sat, some still sealed for decades, leaving you appalled. You couldn’t help but wonder if this was the downside to using your talents. Becoming his new drinking buddy.

You scowled as he returned with a flask while showing off his strength to hold the bottle with his new hand. “I should have sent your hand instead of bringing it myself if I knew this was to be my fate.”

“I would have visit your chambers nonetheless.”

“One glass, Maedhros. Just one glass.”

“Of course. One glass as prescribed,” he grinned with the intention of finishing the entire flask tonight in one sitting with you.

Masterlist

Taglist: @lilmelily @ranhanabi777 @rain-on-my-umbrella @mysticmoomin @asianbutnotjapanese @batsyforyou @sakurayaxd @involuntaryspasms @ladyenchanted @mcwentfandomtraveling @stormchaser819 @aconstructofamind @addaigio @lamemaster @hermaeuswhora @elficially-done-with-life

[thescrapwitch]

WIP Whatever Day

Thank you @queerofthedagger for tagging me! Here's a (very rough) snippet of an untitled one-shot that came out of nowhere and has been rattling around in my head the past few days:

“Invitation?” This is the first Maedhros has heard of it.

“You were…away,” says Maglor, guilt coloring his words. Away, Maedhros knows, means that he had gone deep inside his mind, deaf and blind to the world around him. “Right after Thangorodrim fell. I did not want to disturb you.”

“Show it to me,” Maedhros demands. 

Maglor does. A small letter, their uncle’s neat handwriting across it. Eönwë wishes to speak with you, it says. To offer peace and a way forward. Come to our camp, nephew. Please. 

“Peace,” snarls Maedhros, “does not mean a Silmaril.” He’s heard such a foul promise before. 

“It could,” Maglor insists. 

“You were going to go by yourself?”

“Yes. Just - just in case.”

In case it was a trap. In case the whole camp of grieving, angry elves turned their swords on the remaining Sons of Fëanor. In case Eönwë’s judgment was cruel instead of benevolent. 

“No. Absolutely not.”

“Nelyo - ”

Maedhros can see it. The iron around his brother’s wrists, the gag shoved into his mouth. He can see his brother forced to kneel, stripped and beaten in the bottom of a ship - so similar to the mines beneath the mountain, dark and stinking with very little air to breathe - then thrown at the Valar’s feet. No mercy, not for kinslayers like them. 

They do not deserve it. Maedhros knows that. But - but - 

But just because such harsh judgment is deserved does not mean he will allow Maglor to be put through it. 

“No,” Maedhros says again, and he grabs Maglor’s hand. Hard. “You will not go and parlay with them.”

You will not go and face danger in my place, he thinks.

You will not be punished for our sins, no matter how great the evil it is we have done.

You will not leave me.

Tagging: @lordgrimwing @dreamingthroughthenoise @camille-lachenille @echo-bleu @tethysresort @tathrin and anyone else who wants to join in. No pressure, of course!

[quixoticanarchy]

Maglor saying "the oath says not that we may not bide our time" is very interesting (not, unfortunately, conducive to conciseness). bear with me.

a) if they can bide their time, that kind of undermines the idea that they are driven by the oath into atrocity; rather, they can choose the moment to obey it (to some degree). the truth of this statement is unclear because it does seem that they spend a lot of the First Age biding their time, but also when they try to bide their time before the third kinslaying, it was said that they were tormented by the oath. was that false? what is it that pushes them into action, if not the pressure of the oath? or, is it the knowledge and shame of the unfulfilled oath combined with events that enable them to strike out for the jewels, but not actually any metaphysical pressure forcing their hand?

b) Maglor is also saying here, let's go back to Valinor and just see what happens. maybe eventually we can get the silmarils peacefully and be forgiven (I have to agree with Maedhros that that seems.. unlikely). probably correctly, Maedhros envisions the difficulty of trying to get the silmarils in Valinor while unforgiven, and what it would entail and cost to do violence there again. Maglor imagines peace; Maedhros definitely anticipates violence

c) I think Maglor also just wants to go home. he wants to stop. he would probably like to fulfill the oath (or be freed from it), but also would be fine with kicking the can down the road, presuming the oath will allow that. but once Maedhros talks him out of the likelihood of success if they wait til Valinor, he's also willing to break it entirely. his contention that Manwë and Varda making the oath impossible to fulfill would also make it void could be interpreted as a hope that both these things would happen

Maedhros makes the points that they can't be released bc they swore also to Ilúvatar, and therefore they're still facing the Everlasting Darkness if they fail. to which Maglor makes the fair point that if they can't be released, then either they hold themselves bound by the oath and keep trying for the silmarils (and if they fail, face Everlasting Darkness), or try to give up the oath, find they are still bound by it and, having auto-failed their task by breaking the oath, face Everlasting Darkness anyway. therefore yes, they would do less evil in the breaking, but the result is the same to them - as long as in neither case do they actually anticipate fulfilling the oath. Maglor therefore is maybe ready to give it up as impossible; possibly, Maedhros is arguing that it remains achievable for now, but "its fulfilment be byeond all hope" only once back in Aman, lending urgency to the final attempt to get the silmarils now.

a follow-up question: do they at this point believe that success is still possible? what is success? if they have to get all 3 silmarils to satisfy the oath, they're up against Earendil, but they never mention that. what does fulfilling the oath mean - that they evade the consequence of failure? is the force that 'drives' them to stick to the oath not so much (or not only) a metaphysical pain or burden that torments them, but the fear of the failure condition itself - the Everlasting Darkness?

this would explain Maglor's interest in wanting to stop pursuing the oath, but also wanting it somehow neutralized - whether by biding time or having the oath declared void. and Maedhros is arguing that a) they can't be released, b) they can only keep the darkness at bay by continuing to actually try for fulfilment, and c) they should take this one last shot while arguably they still have a chance (or at least it's easier than it would be in Aman). it may not matter whether success is ultimately possible (i.e. if Earendil does come into the picture, or the crosshairs), but it matters that they are trying.

but then, what to make of them reportedly realizing Eönwë was right and they've lost their right to the silmarils? what does that matter to the oath? the oath declares they'll do anything to get them back, and they do. as much as it sucks to get burned, getting them back (ignore the 3rd silmaril) should mean their deed has not failed so they should not face Everlasting Darkness.

I see a couple of possibilities here: a) they ceased being bound by the oath when they lost their right to the silmarils, which would make it vain and mean none of the atrocities had to happen. but is that how the oath operates? did they stop being bound by it long ago and just not realize? or, alternately, b) does their losing their right to the silmarils mean they auto-fail the oath bc they’ll never truly “reclaim” them? and therefore, rather than their never being at risk of Everlasting Darkness, are they consigned to it now no matter what? (but Maglor at least seems to evade that, unless it’s very metaphorical…) or, c) were they indeed bound by the oath all along and indeed fulfilled it, it just doesn't really matter bc the victory is hollow, and they themselves can’t hold the very things they killed others for holding? could be harsh enough on its own, whether or not the oath responds to the status of their “right” to the silmarils.

there is also the matter of we don’t know what the Everlasting Darkness is. lol. but I’m not touching that now beyond I think it’s a thing the SoF are genuinely afraid of

[eloquentsisyphianturmoil]

1,375 words, mentioned Maedhros/fingon, post nirnaeth, singular stabbing, passive suicidal ideation:

Himring held a rigid, silent vigil. Beyond, the plains of Aglon were burning. We cannot close it against the enemy, Maedhros had said, if it cannot be ours, let it be no one’s. That strip of ravaged land had once been Celegorm’s, and he felt strange now, watching it turn black in the sharp frost of early morning light.

Nirnaeth had become a dreadful blur. Celegorm wasn’t even sure if he had believed they could win, but had revelled in the blood on his sword— and when Ulfang turned against them and the blood on his hands ran from black to red, the smoke of dragon fire had seemed to invest very mind, and he had curled in on himself, and did the only thing he knew to, he sought is brothers.

Maglor had led the retreat. Everyone was bleeding. Maedhros’ voice rang clear and terrible from the rearguard, his people fenced their casualties from the enemy, the sun fell in a blaze of red and heat, and Celegorm led a horse saddled with three of his wounded men.

They had lost soldiers even as they drew to Himring, but Maedhros— steely, cruel Maedhros— had not let them stop until they reached the hill. Celegorm couldn’t remember if he had fallen asleep or simply into a stupor, but hours had vanished like dust on the wind, and only now he felt awake again.

Caranthir had been terribly wounded. Maglor was with him. Amras was sending his people at Maedhros’ command to their southern settlements, where those who could not fight had remained. Maedhros had taken a fearsome tally of losses, somehow wrangled their rout to order, somehow established a chain of command, somehow got them through this.

Celegorm was bitter. That the man who got us into this mess should also get us out of it. I’m sure it is all nothing to him.

He looked again westward over his burning land, then stood, and sought his eldest brother.

The sun was cresting weakly over the eastern mountains, thin and wan, air damp and blue in the hilltops, when Celegorm found him. Maedhros was pacing by the conifers at Himring’s southwest border, forward, back, forward, back, he had worn a track into the bed of rotting needles.

Celegorm watched him. His brother’s footfalls were silent, his jaw was clenched, his eyes were… Celegorm blinked. There was a startling look in Maedhros’ eyes, a very particular, fraying glint that Celegorm had seen only once before.

He had seen it in Fingon’s eyes when they had told him Maedhros was in Angband. Celegorm fancied that glint was a tripwire, burning down. All things considered, Fingon had lasted a while before he ran off to Thangorodrim.

Celegorm glanced west. There was no way to tell how the battle had fared with Fingon’s host. He looked back at his brother.

Maedhros would not last as long.

It would be madness to send messengers now, when their people were held together by sheer force of will, but it was madness precisely that seemed to consume his brother, such that he had not yet noticed Celegorm’s presence, such that his breathing was heavy and harsh.

Damned if I don’t stop him.

Briefly, Celegorm considered binding his brother, so that he could not escape. Maedhros would only break the bonds. Then the spirit of vengeance swelled within him— he, after all, alone of our forces is unwounded— and he drew his sword.

When Maedhros’ back was turned, Celegorm skewered him through the liver. There was an crisp squelch, and Maedhros made a choked, surprised noise, but he did not fall. Celegorm said, “Brother.”

Maedhros was very still. “Is there a reason for this?”

“Calm down,” Celegorm said, “it will do you good.”

He saw Maedhros’ muscles tense, his eyes twitch, nostrils flare, “I don’t have time for this,” he said, “save your grief and your vengeance for those who will better be wounded by it.”

“What’s that, brother?”

“Did you plan to kill me?”

“No.”

“I would not be surprised if you did.”

“Sometimes I believe of all of us, you are the one who wants yourself dead the most.”

“On account of me knowing myself the most.” Maedhros did fall now, to his knees, his tunic coming up bright red in the morning light, his breathing now ragged.

“I do mean it,” Celegorm said.

Maedhros replied, “Just leave me here.”

His brother said only, “don’t move the sword,” and left.

Slowly, Maedhros keened forward, and lay on his face in the needles.

The steel of his brothers sword had severed something within him, carving through more than flesh and muscle. The fervour of battle had trembled and fallen at his brother’s quiet words, frozen and hung like a dreadful spectre. Maedhros could not feel the pain. He thought perhaps he would die.

He knew why Celegorm had done it. Or rather, he didn’t, but he welcomed it regardless. I would stab myself too. Maybe it was hatred. Maybe it was grief. Maybe it was the same madness of defeat that had led their father to exile their people, or Maglor to slay Uldor.

He lay very still. An awful cold was seeping into him.

Maedhros thought about dying. If he died now, he would not stop himself. Yet he knew the wound would not kill him. It would incapacitate him. My brother has stabbed me. With a humourless huff, my brother has stabbed me in the back.

Maedhros should be there.

He should be riding Nan Dungortheb, or back across the planes, alone and desperate, he should be sending messengers, he should be gathering information. He should be there where the battle still raged.

He should be there with Fingon.

He cried, and his tears were as cold and bitter as Celegorm’ sword, at nightfall he fell into darkness, and demons haunted him.

He did not scream. He was assayed by visions of bloodshed and death, the Nirnaeth swirled before him, he bethought to run in a madness across the battle plain, thinking he had left something there, his gauntlet or his brothers or his love, but he could not move, because he had been stabbed. His vision went red, and grey, and purple, and black. Another morning rose.

When Celegorm walked to the conifers again that evening, he did not expect to see his brother still lying there. He wondered for a brief and chilling moment if he really had died.

Still sore and weary from the battle and the loss, he thought, perhaps, that would not be so bad.

But Maedhros was not dead. He saw Celegorm as he approached, watched him as he knelt. “Will you finish me off,” he said. It was hardly a question. Celegorm did not know if there was any emotion in his brother’s voice.

He felt suddenly wretched. Why did you do this? Why would you stab your brother? Look at him; he has been broken; there is no life in his eyes.

But at least he is alive.

“What do you want,” he said finally, “really?”

“I want to go find Fingon.”

“See, I couldn’t let you do that.”

“You a cruel.”

“So are you.”

“You will kill me?”

“No. Hold still.”

Celegorm drew the sword from Maedhros, and inspected the wound. It looked as if Maedhros had not moved at all. He did his best to seal it, and bound his brother’s torso, leaving his tunic and shirt bloodstained and tattered on the ground.

Maedhros had not flinched. Celegorm wondered if he was revisiting old memories, and wondered again at his awfulness, but then he saw his brother crying.

“Maitimo.”

“There’s nothing left of me, Tyelko.”

“I don’t know. You have me.”

“He could be dead.”

“Come now, you’re wounded. You should rest.”

His brother almost laughed, tears burning gold in the evening light, eyes wide. “I don’t know what will become of me,” he whispered.

Celegorm suddenly felt like crying himself. “Let’s get you home,” he said, and the words felt foreign on his tongue, he helped his brother to his feet, and Maedhros had never seemed so thin, so gentle, so simply human as he did now. It scared and relieved him. They turned and walked back to Himring.

i need to see Maedhros be literally stabbed in the back and left laying on his face for the better part of a weekend amongst the trees

[tanoraqui]

I’m in Maine again, so naturally I was thinking about Reccarfinwë the war-moose, and I realized there must have at some point been a scene like…

The scouts brought word to Himring at dawn one early winter day: the night had brought not just a fresh sprinkling of snow, but also that pale beauty’s instant marring, in a regiment of armored orcs approaching from the northeast. Maglor, breakfasting with his brother the lord of the fort, immediately offered the strength of the troop that had accompanied him on this visit. A single orc-regiment wasn’t a real threat—this was a test of the Siege-line’s defenses; they still came every few years. But it was enough to serve well as a trial for the joint capabilities of Himring and the Gap.

Thirty minutes later, Maglor was striding into the forecourt in full armor, looking out for his people and half-listening as Maedhros gave additional orders to his aides and captains. Maglor was certain that Himring ran like Aulendilin clockwork no matter who was in residence, yet Maedhros always seemed to find extra orders to hand to his staff—especially when there was a training battle to be had!

“…the arrows. Remind Beorwen to keep the lines—I’ll take my moose; her squad must adapt to—”

Maglor had been beckoning his own lieutenant, about to instruct her on how they’d fit into the riders of Himring. He gasped with joy instead.

“Good Reccarfinwë yet lives? I thought moose only had fifteen years!”

Maedhros, armed and armored for battle, shot him a stern look. “Nenpadron passed away some twenty years ago. However, we managed to find him an acceptable mate ere the end, and so on. Today I ride his grandson, Guruthos.”

Maglor felt alight with, if possible, even more glee. The orcs were completely forgotten.

“Nelyo-Reccarfinwë?!”

A hint of an older brother’s scowl crept into Maedhros’s cool commander-face.

“No. Guruthos.”

“Nelyo-Reccarfinwë!” Maglor countered.

“No.”

Yet even Maedhros at his sternest could not silence the greatest Singer of the Noldor. Maglor called after the departing aide with a voice that rang like crashing bells across Himring’s muster-ground and beyond, “That honorable moose is named Nelyo-Reccarfinwë!”

“For stars’ sake,” Maedhros hissed, “at least use Sindarin!”

“I mean Nelregfin!” Maglor corrected hastily—then dodged, no less hastily, his brother’s kick to the back of his knee.

“Hey,” he complained. “Leave something for the orcs—ah! Okay! I must attend to my own troop, now!” He narrowly dodged an earnest Himringer’s attempt to grapple him for their lord, ran toward his own horse and called over his shoulder, “We’ll ride ahead and meet you at the ambush! I can’t wait to see your new mighty steed in action!”

[lamemaster]

Loving the Maelstrom

Pairing: Maedhros x Reader

Genre: Fluff

Summary: Perks of marrying a writer. Nelyafinwe pov.

AN: Istg I get the most random ideas while working out.

Curvo bounced the fussing Tyelpe in his arms, his brow furrowed in concern. "What's wrong with her?" he asked, his voice laced with worry.

Maitimo sighed for the what felt like the hundredth time that evening. He glanced across the room at you, your face lit by the flickering firelight. A vicious smirk was etched upon your lips, your eyes gleaming with an unsettling intensity as you stared into some unseen distance. "She's writing a villainess," he muttered under his breath, more to himself than anyone else.

The murmur seemed to quench everyone's curiosity, at least momentarily. Except for Tyelkormo, who perked up at the revelation. "A villainess?" he echoed, his eyes wide with fascination. "Is that why Kano's been playing such… ominous tunes lately?" he asked, directing his question towards a very tired-looking Nelyafinwe.

Before Nelyafinwe could muster a reply, Moryo, ever the impatient one, interjected. "Makalaure, for the love of Illuvatar, can we please have a normal tune?" he pleaded, his voice laced with exasperation

Both you and Kano paused for a fleeting second. Your minds snapped into the present world before grinning widely and Kano launched into another melancholy somber tune. This time, accompanied by your booming evil laughter. 

Such perhaps was the fate of loving a writer. He had known it well as Kano’s brother. A songwriter and musician's angst was familiar to Maitimo. And yours was similar yet, so achingly different.

Where Kano’s music seldom bled into his life, your words lingered in a pervasive presence. The angst of separated lovers, fervor of a brewing war, or the grit of a dwindling hero, you were lost in your worlds even before Maitimo met you. 

And when he did meet you, he also met your worlds. Gay, morose, bleak, grand, your worlds were his now. Your character settled into his thoughts. And sometimes, they carried a part of him or his family. Small fragments of your life that bled into your worlds. 

He liked your never-ending ramblings about a crooked character or exceptionally hard-to-write down plot. And he witnessed your fall into the world who possessed your mind and heart. 

Despite the differences in art, you and Kano were inseparable in the creation of art. His tunes often rang out from your and Maitimo’s home as you scribbled away another tale. While Kano’s music was given a direction of melodies from the stories you wove into the tunes he tinkered around with. 

And this was the rare occasion where both you and his brother were taken by a story so bewitching that from the strums of Kano’s harp to the rouge of your lips- all was tainted with a lingering shade of sinister. 

It had been a week since your robes had been swapped for uncanny dark silken gowns, very much not your usual choice of color, your nails were painted a hue darker almost bloodlike. Even the decor of your study had shifted ambiance similar to that of the Maiar of Namo.

On several occasions, Maitimo had seen you stir your dinner with a smile so venomous that he sniffed his food twice before eating it. 

You donned a gait so seductive that he, almost was tempted to discard the weekly family dinner with his parents. Yet, despite the unease that gnawed at him, Maitimo couldn't deny the jolt of excitement that shot through him when your newly painted nails, tipped with a crimson that seemed to mock innocence, brushed against his arm.

“I just hope sister-in-law and Kano are not going down the Mairon route of life.” Curufin’s words brought Maitimo back to the present. 

The dinner had ended surprisingly well. Kano’s company had perhaps allowed you to shed the world that captivated you these days for a few moments. You were back to your normal self smiling by his side. Helping his mother and brothers set up the dinner table as twins climbed all over Maitimo.

It was only later in the night when his breath shuddered. He gasped as your lips ghosted over his ears. Filthy words spoken without a care of the oddly lonely alley on the way back to your home. Words so daringly sacrilegious that they would have sent a Vanya to the halls of Irmo. 

Maitimo however, was nothing if not immune to the intricacies of your play and definitely not a faint-hearted Vanya. Pulling you closer in his arms, he indulged your little world. Tracing the shape of your lips with his fingers, he kissed you with a wicked smile. 

Nelyafinwe loved every part of you. Even the fucking crazy ones. 

(This one definitely more than the angsty lovers)

[silmawensgarden]

Carrots make a strange bouquet

Maedhros x reader

Prompt: May I ask for a fluffy fic or headcanon, whichever is easier? Perhaps a young Maedhros back in Valinor attempting to court reader for the first time and he's a bit nervous about approaching due to his massive crush. Thank you in advance 🌻

Requested by @a-contemplation-upon-flowers

A/n: I attempted something fluffy and a little awkward to better portray his first-time-confessing jitters. It's a bit shorter than I'd like to deliver but I hope you like it!

Word count: 900 Warnings: none :)

Maedhros has been pacing around his room for the past two hours. He has something of great importance on his mind. This thing of great importance, would be you. For the past 50 years he has grown extremely attached to you. A fondness has grown in his heart. Like the lovely blooms in spring, these feelings are now waiting to unfurl. He just doesn't know how to breach the subject to you, let alone approach you confidently.

He huffs in annoyance, an emotion not often seen in him. He slams the paper back onto his desk and turns his back to it. It was a poem, he wrote it as a way to confess his love to you. Maglor advised him to do so. However after writing the poem, and reading it a few hundred times, it just doesn't seem to suffice anymore. Not at all actually. So he stops his pacing and changes his course towards the garden. He knows exactly who he is looking for to help him with this issue.

He races down the large staircase, nearly knocking one of his brothers off the stairs. A string of curses is hurled at him, but he doesn't hear it nor is he interested in hearing them. He has more important things to attend to.

"Ammë? How can I confess my feelings to them? I've been fond of them for quite some time now." He sits in the cabbage patch his mother cultivated. Prodding at an innocent cabbage rather absentmindedly. Nerdanel has quite the expansive garden, full of vegetables, fruits and even cutting flowers. It's close to the first harvest season, many things can be harvested already.

Nerdanel looks back at him over her shoulder and chuckles. "Maitimo, I think the best way to confess to them is to simply do it. I have seen the way they look at you, I am certain your feelings will be returned." Maedhros frowns for a moment and a light blush washes over his cheeks. Just the thought of having to approach you with this makes his stomach feel like he swallowed a beehive.

He is momentarily shaken out of his stupor when his mother asks him to collect some strawberries, and afterwards to check which carrots can be harvested. Nerdanel planted an early harvest variety, Yavanna had given her some of the newest seeds her maiar had cultivated in the previous seasons.

Maedhros trots over to the carrot patch, his nerves are getting the best of him in this moment. Despite the fair weather and the bright light of laurelin he still walks with heavy steps, as if he has lead tied to his legs. He is completely unaware of what is happening around him.

You were on your way back from the market and remembered that you had gotten an invitation from Nerdanel to come view some of her newest plants. The both of you had bonded quickly from the moment you met. You both enjoyed the arts and had a fondness for gardening. You smile and change your direction to the Fëanorian household instead. Curious to maybe see more than just the newest plants. Perhaps you'd catch a glimpse of Maedhros there too!

When you arrived you heard two familiar voices in the garden. Nerdanel's and that of Maedhros. You stop and hide behind one of the jasmine bushes. You know very well that eavesdropping is not exactly considered good manners, unfortunately your curiosity has overthrown your sense of reason in this moment.

Who are they talking about...?

You didn't catch whom they spoke of and decided that it would be better to simply make your presence known. You glanced up towards an oak tree that stood close to the road. Hearing a heavy rustle of leaves on a windless day. You were brought up properly after all, not dragged, unlike some people. These people appear to enjoy eavesdropping from oak trees.

You shake your head and walk out of your hiding spot. Walking towards Nerdanel and maedhros. Maedhros is sitting with his back towards you, he appears to be busy with the carrots. You greet Nerdanel, who seems to be surprised at your visit. Maedhros doesn't seem to hear you at all. Lost in his own thoughts, mumbling about something.

You talk with Nerdanel for a moment, attempting to figure out how that invitation came to you in the first place. Maedhros finally snaps out of his musings. "Ammë, I think I am going to visit y/n. I must tell them of my feelings before they consume me entirely!" He gets up to leave and turns around, still bent over, now nearly nose to nose with you.

His eyes widen in shock, the realization dawning on him that you heard his plan. More importantly overheard his feelings for you in such a flat way, no romance at all! His throat felt like it was being stitched closed. He could only stare at you with a wild blush on his face.

"I......don't think I've ever received a bouquet of carrots as a courting gift before....?" you say, trying to suppress a laugh from ripping out of your throat. Maedhros looks at you with pure shock and disbelief on his face. Slowly his eyes trail down to his hands, realizing that he was in fact holding a large bunch of carrots.

Indeed as if to gift them to you like flowers.....

[theelvenhaven]

Hot and Cold

Maedhros x Reader

2.6k Words

Request: Maedhros request if you like it: reader helping Mae cope with the trauma of leaving Angband. Ie: him learning how to accept and enjoy physical and sexual attention again, in a safe environment and at whatever pace he needs to heal. There are good days where it feels like he is starting to feel comfortable in his own skin, and then there are days where he can barely meet her eyes. But she takes her time, and he takes it one day at a time.

A/N: Hey anon I hope this is what you were looking for!

* * *

Your mind wandered as you read the pages in the book, one talking of romance and love. Filled with the fictional hero and their partner reuniting after long captivity with the villain. Part of you wanted to scoff as you read it, knowing what the partner had been put through by the villain in the previous book you read. Seeing how their reunion was warm and love filled and touchy, especially from the victim. 

You couldn’t help but think of your reunion with Maitimo, and how different it had been. How it had been cold and distant, though he spoke of relief to see you and to be with you again, his actions at the time spoke more of how timid and fearful he was of being touched. No matter how gentle your touch had been, Maitimo had been apprehensive with every single touch. 

It had taken a long time to even do simple things like doing his hair, helping him up and about, holding his hand. It had been a struggle even in those moments to get him to do it for any length of time. You almost felt insulted reading this part of the book, as what the Healers described as Post Traumatic Stress Disorder was nothing to play around with. Though you didn’t know if you could fault the author for being lucky to be ignorant… Unintentional or no. 

Though your mind wandered back to last night and how far Maitimo had come since that fateful day that Findekano had brought him back to Mithrim. You could still feel the warmth of his lips melding with yours, the way his hand wandered over your body and pulled you close… You shivered as you remembered the slow and tender moment of him filling you.

It was a far cry of what had been, but that didn’t mean it was like that all the time. It was one of the few tender moments you two shared with one another, with Maitimo feeling comfortable in his own skin for a change. Something that you had been carefully cultivating, with the help and instruction of both Maitimo and healers in an effort to help him heal without the help of Lorien at your aid being all the way in Beleriand now. 

You sighed as your eyes blurred trying to continue to read the words on the page, but unable too. You were too disgruntled with portrayal of the Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, and how they seemed to speak of it yet none of the symptoms were congruent with what you and Maitimo- especially him- had experienced. 

Gently you shut the book closed and set it down on the coffee table that was in front of you, hoping to be able to at least read it later and enjoy it after you got some sleep. It was hours past when Maitimo went to bed, so you figured now was time to join him for bed. 

Quietly you stood from your spot, exiting the study that was just down the hall from your shared chambers. To the point you could see the door, one that was shut and probably locked. You had gotten in the habit of carrying the bedroom key on you in the event that it was locked. Regularly it was as an added measure of security for Maitimo. 

You entered your shared chambers with Maitimo, with a sliver of faint lamp light shining in to find him sitting on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands. He had gone to bed hours before you, or at least that was supposed to have been the case. But it was clear that it had been disturbed or he never made it to sleep. 

“Maitimo?” You asked in a soft voice, as you shut the door with a soft click, though he gave you no answer except a simple sigh leaving his lips at the sound of your voice. You patiently waited for him to acknowledge you before finally he sat up straight and looked in your direction, the look of distress was clear on his face. 

“Am I still dreaming?” He asked in a soft whisper, with distress and confusion in the tone of his voice. You began to shake your head no as you moved to approach him slowly, 

“No, Maitimo you are awake and I am very real.” You answered him honestly, knowing that he’d ask if you were real. His dreams were so vivid and imaginative there were times he couldn’t tell if it was a cruel vision from Sauron of you being present and him being home, or if he were really there. 

The Maia seemed to know his every weakness and preyed on them easily, especially when it came to you. Something Maitimo had disclosed to you, and it had explained why he had been so hesitant to get physical with you. For fear that you’d dissipate and he’d wake up from such a sweet and tender dream to just be in shackles in Sauron’s torture chamber all over again. 

Yet it was much to his relief every time you touched that you were more real than any vision he could’ve ever conjured. 

Maitimo’s heart began to speed up as you came nearer to him, pounding so loud in his ears he hardly heard your footsteps. Wondering if truly you were real despite your confirmation, it could be a trick of any kind for all he knew, especially being in this soft bed that smelled like you. Yet as he felt your hands gently touch his face, he shuddered before relaxing his tense body. 

You were indeed real and here with him. 

“You are cold, melda.” He whispered softly as your cool fingers traced over his scarred cheek and down to his jaw as you cupped his face. Maitimo leaning his head into your hand, and you hummed and shook your head. 

“No Mai, you are hot, from your nightmares I am sure.” You said gingerly, while your other hand came to rest on his shoulder as you stood between his legs. Maitimo let out a soft sound of understanding before he sighed, leaning forward and his forehead came to rest against your chest and stomach. 

Seeking out your touch for once, looking for you nonjudgmental comfort that he could gain from you. He admired your patience with him and how hot and cold he could be with affection. How some days he felt so confident, like now, to lean on you figuratively and literally, but other days… Paranoia got the better of him and everyone was his enemy. Though he pushed through such things and always kept why to himself, even though he knew you suspected why. 

Gently your hand came to cradle the back of his head gingerly, your fingers softly playing with his hair that now came to his shoulders as it had grown back in from where it had to be cut short from all the mats and tangles that had accumulated in his beautiful russet hair. You leaned down and pressed a kiss to the top of his head as you held him. 

“I am keeping you from sleep aren’t I?” Maitimo murmured into your robes, and you smiled some, shaking your head. 

“No. I do not mind even if you were, I am still wide awake from my book.” You confessed to him openly, and he hummed, laying against you for a moment longer. He wasn’t very heavy, the weight was coming back on him and he was filling out again. But he was still lighter than what you were used too. 

There was a long moment of silence between the two of you with Maitimo wracking his brain trying to think of something to talk about. Something that didn’t have to talk about his nightmares, even though that went against what the Healers wanted out of him. They wanted him to speak with you or to them about the happenings in his mind, yet you never pressed really. But he could tell you were growing tired of being left in the dark or disobeying the Healers when it came to these things. 

“Here why don’t you lay down, and I’ll get ready for bed and we can lay together.” You said, regretting the words as soon as they left your mouth, as you doubted he’d want to cuddle. Probably having had his fill on affection, for a moment he didn’t move. Maitimo didn’t want to part from you, but did so regardless, before he sat back in the bed. 

To keep his mind from wandering, Maitimo’s eyes followed you as you reluctantly left his side of the bed. Taking his place again but sitting up, Maitimo watched as you went to the armoire, how you stripped down and out of your robes. You were used to him watching you so intensely after such vivid nightmares, it was like his mind still didn’t trust whether or not you were real. 

You didn’t shy away as you continued to strip down to your smalls, as there wasn’t an ounce of judgment in Maitimo’s eyes. It had taken some time to adjust to his staring in moments like these but you managed too, and only continued on with your task. Maitimo thought you were utterly graceful as you slipped back into the night time trousers and shirt, doing so with ease. He didn’t envy you, despite all his clumsiness to do it all one handed. 

His pale blue eyes were still fixated on you as you approached the bed and he gingerly pulled down the duvet for you allowing you to climb into bed next to him. The silence between you two was comfortable, you had grown used to either having to fill it or being stuck with it, never making it awkward. 

The pair of you sat there together before you felt Maitimo reach over to pull you towards him, you felt your heart leap into your throat in excitement. It, again, wasn’t often he seeked out physical affection- usually letting you initiate everything. So you were quick to scoot across the bed to be right next to him. 

Both of you sliding down the headboard to lay down, and for Maitimo to pull you in towards his chest. But you hesitated, 

“Mai, do you want me to hold you?” You asked him as you sat up at an angle looking down at his face, and slowly he shook his head no at your words. 

“No, I can’t- It’s-” He faltered trying to find the right words to tell you that he didn’t feel safe. It felt terrible voicing those feelings but you only nodded your head, 

“It’s okay you don’t have to explain, I’ll lay with you.” You reassured him, knowing it wasn’t often that Maitimo got tripped up over his words. But you knew there was a method to the things he did and you suspected why, Sauron had a hand in it. If not him then Morgoth, so you didn’t argue. 

Simply laying your head on his chest and cuddling up close to him, and Maitimo didn’t shy or scoot away from you. You heard the contented that left his lips, familiar with all his non-verbal cues and reactions by now. 

“Do you want to talk about your nightmare?” You offered up, and you felt him tense beneath you at the idea of having to tell you the horrible dreams that he had and suffered from. He didn’t like the idea of exposing to you to the terror that he went through, so slowly he shook his head no. 

“No. I don’t.” He answered you simply, and you nodded against his chest listening to his heart beating steadily. 

“They are things that I don’t want you to think about.” He whispered out softly and you nodded your head slowly against him, understanding that he was just trying to protect you. But you wished that he’d let you in, so he wasn’t shouldering so much on his own, but that Feanorian trait of stubbornness really shone through here with this. 

Again there was a silence between the two of you. You thought for a long moment about what to say, something that wouldn’t make him grow too defensive and distressed. You didn’t like to put anymore on his plate than he already had. 

“I just want to help.” You answered him gently and without an accusatory tone, and you felt him shift, before his arm around you gave you a snug squeeze. 

“I know Y/N. And you are helping, it is just… I do not want to put this on you.” Maitimo said and there was a firmness to his voice, showing that he was adamant that he didn’t want anyone else- well you- interfering with this issue. You sighed out at his words, relaxing against him knowing there was no point in arguing. Once Maitimo had set himself on a path there was no stopping him, 

“This… Doing this is easier because of you.” Maitimo said giving you another squeeze to your shoulders, and this time there was a tentative kiss pressed to the crown of your head. 

“I’ve asked enough of you and what you dedicate your time to helping me with. You don’t have to help me with everything.” Maitimo said gently to you, he wasn’t angry or upset… If anything you couldn’t help but wonder if he felt as though he was burdening you with this task of healing from Angband. Not that you’d ever look at it like that… But it seemed that might be what he was insinuating. 

“And you can keep asking for more of me Maitimo, I will help you with anything you asked me too.” You said to him softly, your hand coming to rub against his chest affectionately knowing better than to wind your arm around his waist. Knowing it made him feel trapped. 

“I know…” He whispered quietly and for a moment there was an awkward silence that fell between you. 

“But let us not dwell on such things, you are helping me now being like this with me… Thank you Y/N.” Maitimo said and you smiled softly at his words, 

“I love you, Maitimo.” You answered in return as you felt his hand begin to rub your back softly and affectionately. 

“And I.. love you Y/N.” You weren’t offended at the hesitance, you knew it took him more courage to find the will to say it than it did if he said nothing. You felt loved, and you hoped he did too, and quietly you closed your eyes savoring this moment that felt far too fleeting. But you’d soak up every second of it until you fell asleep. 

Maitimo closed his eyes, sleep still far away from him. Something he was keeping at bay, until  you fell asleep at least, so quietly he listened to the way your breathing slowed and deepened. How you stilled fully and relaxed with all your weight against him, the pressure of your body against him was welcome. 

Finally with your little shifts and sighs, Maitimo knew you were asleep and let out a breath of relief. Relieved this was real, that you were here and he was with you. Relieved that there was no more pressing about the nightmares, he loved you and could see the toll he was taking on you. 

Not dwelling on it further, finally Maitimo closed his eyes and let sleep slowly whisk him away. Content that you two were together and that he felt comfortable enough in his own skin to be with you like this. 

* * *

Tags: @saviorsong @lilmelily @dicksoutformtl @fandomhoe101 @celebrimbor-telperinquar @red-riding @miriel-estelwen @ta-ka-shi-ma @nerdysimpy @thegirlwithoutaname87 @anunexpectedsideblog @spidergirla5 @eunoiaastralwings @eternalabysss @noldorinpainter

[annoyinglandmagazine]

I love the idea of Finweans being transported into Years of the Trees Valinor as much as the next person but you know what I think could be just hilarious for a crack concept? A Sinda being transported into Years of The Trees Valinor. Think Beleg, Mablung, Daeron or maybe even Thingol himself (preferably with no one knowing who they are) getting out of Mandos and into Valinor but they don’t realise immediately that this isn’t current Valinor.

Thingol sees Maglor Feanorian in the marketplace which is a shock already because why would he get out before him but he doesn’t even have the decency to offer apologies when he sees them, how dare he in fact wait a minute he’s waving at him? What’s going on here why is he being friendly, he shouldn’t be able to be that friendly after killing so many people? Does he feel no guilt?

Mostly though for Thingol’s world to get absolutely shattered at meeting Maitimo Nelyafinwe, who yes technically is Maedhros Feanorian but how?! He doesn’t recognise Thingol of course so when he notices he seems a bit shaken by something he’s all polite and considerate and guides him to a bench before clapping him on the shoulder reassuringly and fetching him some tea. With the two hands he now has somehow.

And he sits with him and tries to find out if he’s alright but Thingol’s too confused to run like his life depends on it (and since this is the infamous Lord of Himring it might) because what is he even wearing? That’s practically a gown, not one he’d want to see Luthien in either, he’s not even wearing armour or carrying a blade? And he’s still smiling and it doesn’t look even slightly forced and his hair is actually long, not normal long either it’s down to his thighs for goodness sake.

All hope of sanity disappears when someone who looks no older than 20, comes up to them and starts tugging on Maedhros’ sleeve impatiently, ‘Nelyo, Nelyo, I can’t reach the tools I need for a project.’ Why in all of Arda would a child be approaching Maedhros Feanorian for anything? Why would they not be running in terror and avoiding him at all costs?

Maedhros shot him a conspiratorial glance as if he’d enjoy being in on some joke with a kinslayer ‘That’s most likely a sign you shouldn’t be using them Curufinwë,’ Curufinwë as in Curufin, possibly worse than even Maedhros himself. Of course it was.

‘But Nelyo.’

He smiled apologetically and asked him if he was feeling well enough now. He assured him he was mostly to get him out of his sight long enough to process the interaction and Maedhros Feanorian beamed at him, ‘Alright then, just feel free to come to me if you need anything, I’m always happy to help and Uncle Ara is very good at giving advice if something’s bothering you if you’d prefer.’

Then he stood, making Thingol concerned enough about the loose swathes of material to look away as a precautionary measure (was this a seduction attempt? He’d never heard of the Lord of Himring employing such dishonourable tactics but did he really know anything anymore?) and swept the child who could not be Curufin into his arms spinning him around above his head until he was in fits of giggles, ‘Now how about we ask Ammë about your project and if she says no I can take you somewhere instead? There’s an exhibition on in the city you might like? Sound good to you?’

The person who has to have just stolen the face of the eldest son of Feanor walked off with the elfling balanced easily against his hip and chatting away. This must be a weird fever dream.

[nyxshadowhawk]

I Read The Silmarillion So You Don't Have To, Part Seven

Previous part.

Chapter 18: Of the Ruin of Beleriand and the Fall of Fingolfin In which everything goes to hell. Again.

Remember the Siege of Angband? Yeah, that’s still going on. It’s been roughly two hundred years since Morgoth’s last attack (the first appearance of Glaurung the Dragon), and in all that time, the Elves haven’t made much progress. Fingolfin, the High King of the Noldor, considers launching another assault on Angband; his people are strong, and now they have the Men on their side. What Could Possibly Go Wrong?

Fingolfin by Insant

The other Noldor are less enthused by this idea. For once, things are pretty great. Why risk the peace and prosperity that the Elves currently have for the chance at defeating Morgoth, when there’s bound to be massive loss of life either way? Only the Elven lords who live in the far north — on Morgoth’s doorstep — agree with Fingolfin, since they can’t ignore Morgoth as easily. They’re shot down by everyone else, so, there’s peace for a little while longer.

That’s when Morgoth makes his move.

Morgoth has been steadily gathering his forces throughout all of that time, and he’s also grown more and more spiteful. He doesn’t just want to defeat the Noldor, he wants to defile their homeland. But his hatred has also made him impatient.

One winter, on a dark night, without any warning, rivers of lava suddenly come pouring down the Thangorodrim, which belch poisonous gases into the air, rendering the whole plain of Ard-galen a barren wasteland overnight. Also, unlike with natural volcanoes, the damage is permanent — Ard-galen becomes known as Angfauglith, which means “Gasping Dust.” Instant Mordor, Just Add Lava. Many poor Elves are swallowed up by the lava before they can react.

As if that weren’t bad enough, Glaurung returns, accompanied by Balrogs and entire armies of Orcs — more Orcs than the Noldor have ever previously seen. The ensuing battle lasts all winter, as Morgoth’s forces return fire on the Noldor. It becomes known as Dagor Bragollach, the Battle of Sudden Flame.

Battle of Sudden Flame by Jovan Delic

There are many casualties. Angrod and Aegnor, the brothers of Finrod and Galadriel, both die in the battle. Finrod himself gets cut off in the Fen of Serech, and almost dies, but he’s rescued at the last minute by a Man named Barahir. Finrod escapes with his life, barely, and manages to make it back to his palace in Nargothrond. Finrod pledges undying friendship to Barahir, promises to help him and his family in return if they should ever need him, and gives him his ring as a token of his promise. It’s a ring shaped like two intertwined snakes, set with green stones, and it becomes known as the Ring of Barahir.

Finrod in the Fen of Serech by pansen1802

Incredibly, Fingolfin and co. manage to hang on to their land of Hithlum, but not without heavy losses. Hador Lórindol, one of the Kings of Men who was Fingolfin’s thane, dies in the battle. In the East, Fëanor’s sons aren’t doing great, either — Celegorm and Curufin are both defeated, but not killed; they retreat all the way to Nargothrond and hide there with Finrod. Caranthir’s land is ravaged, too.

Maedhros, however, “burned like a white fire.” He’s been dying to get his revenge on Morgoth for having strung him up on Thangorodrim, and personally slaughters so many Orcs that they start to run in fear of him. He manages to hang on to his fortress, and many people rally to him, including his brother Maglor.

Finrod, Fingon, and Maedhros by star热爱生活呀巴扎嘿

Overall, the battle is really bad. Fingolfin stares out over the ruined lands, sees his family scattered, and realizes the Noldor are done for. He’s filled with rage and despair, but he isn’t ready to give up yet. There’s only one thing to do. He mounts his horse, Rochallor, and rides straight to the gates of Angband. Those who see him think he must be Oromë, the Vala of the hunt, because he burns with fury and his eyes glow. He blows his warhorn, bangs on the gates of Angband, and challenges Morgoth himself to a duel.

That may be the ballsiest move of any Elf so far (and yes, I’m counting Fëanor going up against an army of Balrogs).

Fingolfin’s Challenge by Jenny Dolfen

Now, throughout all this, Morgoth has spent most of his time hiding in his fortress. Sure, he’s a Vala, and technically the most powerful being in Middle-earth, but he doesn’t fight his own battles. Fingolfin calls him a coward who’d rather send out all of his evil minions to fight for him than come and face him like a man. Morgoth can’t ignore that. So, to the surprise of everyone, Morgoth actually comes. And we get this badass description, which I’m going to transcribe, because I can’t do Tolkien justice:

Therefore Morgoth came, climbing slowly from his subterranean throne, and the rumour of his feet was like thunder underground. And he issued forth clad in black armour; and he stood before the King like a tower, iron-crowned, and his vast shield, sable-blazoned, cast a shadow over him like a stormcloud. But Fingolfin gleamed beneath it as a star; for his mail was overlaid with silver, and his blue shield was set with crystals; and he drew his sword Ringil, that glittered like ice.

Oh, it is on!

Fingolfin vs. Morgoth by Marchesi

The Fall of Fingolfin by Wavesheep

The battle is epic. Morgoth tries to smash Fingolfin with his hammer, called Grond (GROND! GROND! GROND! GROND!), but Fingolfin is too quick. Every time GROND hits the earth, it creates a volcanic cleft in the earth. The battle is compared to a thunderstorm, with the strikes of Morgoth’s hammer being the thunder and Fingolfin darting around being the lightning. Fingolfin actually manages to wound Morgoth, seven times! Each time, Morgoth howls so loud that all of the Orcs cringe in fear.

Fingolfin can’t keep it up forever, though. He’s mortal, and he’s going up against something near to a god. Three times, Morgoth crushes him with his shield, and three times Fingolfin is able to pick himself back up again. He doesn’t have much space to move anymore, because the ground around him is full of holes. He stumbles and falls, and Morgoth presses his foot to Fingolfin’s neck. It’s like getting an entire hill dropped on top of him. Fingolfin isn’t going to go peacefully, though — with his last bit of strength, he cuts deep into Morgoth’s foot.

Fingolfin dies, and thus passes the strongest and most valiant of the Elven kings. The Elves are so sad to lose him that they don’t even sing about the battle. The Orcs don’t gloat about it, either, even though Morgoth won — it was kind of a Pyrrhic victory, because it’s embarrassing that a mere mortal was able to do so much damage to Morgoth. The reason why we know what happened, despite the lack of songs about it, is because Thorondor (the King of the Eagles) brings the news to Gondolin and Hithlum.

Thorondor also saves Fingolfin’s body from being desecrated by Morgoth. Morgoth goes to throw Fingolfin’s corpse to the wolves, but Thorondor swoops down and claws him in the face. Thorondor brings Fingolfin’s body to Gondolin, and Turgon builds a cairn for his father in the surrounding hills. For a while, Fingolfin’s tomb acts almost like a charm that keeps the Orcs away. (But not forever though. Because, in case you forgot, Gondolin is doomed.)

Morgoth’s wounds are permanent. His seven initial wounds never heal, he now limps everywhere he goes because Fingolfin damaged his foot, and his face is also scarred where Thorondor got him.

All of Hithlum mourns Fingolfin’s death. Fingon, in his grief, becomes the sole High King of the Noldor.

Fingon by Moimq

There’s an interesting note here: Fingon sends “his young son Ereinion (who was later named Gil-galad) […] to the Havens.” This is an outright inconsistency. In other sources, Gil-galad is the grandson of Angrod, Finrod’s brother. So, it’s legitimately unclear who Gil-galad’s father was. Oh well. Distant legendary past, oral tradition and all that. I’m sure the songs disagree on whose parents are whose all the time.

And, the “Havens” referred to here aren’t the Grey Havens, either. They’re two cities in the southwest of Beleriand. But they’re ruled by the same Elf, Círdan, who would rule the Grey Havens later.

Morgoth is now in control of most of northern Beleriand. Barahir, the Man who helped save Finrod, keeps fighting for some time, alongside his wife Emeldir. But Morgoth destroys their land little by little. That land becomes so dark and evil that even Orcs avoid it, and it gets a new name: Taur-nu-Fuin, “The Forest under Nightshade” (which is cool as hell). This forest is like a proto-Mirkwood. Its trees become tangled with claw-like roots and branches, and it becomes full of angry spirits that can drive travelers mad.

The situation gets so dire that Emeldir leads her people away. They end up in the Forest of Brethil, which is where Haleth, another badass warrior-queen of Men, led her people in a similar moment of desperation. All of Barahir’s men are killed fighting Morgoth except for a small handful (whose names are all listed, of course). The Elves don’t come to help them, so they become desperate, hunted outcasts who live in the wilderness. One of these outcasts is Beren, Barahir’s son, who’s about to become very important.

The Elves managed to maintain control over Minas Tirith, the tower that guards the pass separating Morgoth’s lands in the north from the rest of Beleriand. This tower is maintained by Orodreth, Angrod’s son and Finrod’s nephew. But after two years pass, the tower is besieged by Morgoth’s lieutenant, Sauron.

Sauron by Wavesheep

(Oh yeah I’ve been waiting to dip into my self-indulgent collection of Sauron pictures.)

At this point, the Elves call Sauron “Gorthaur the Cruel.” He has become…

a sorcerer of dreadful power, master of shadows and of phantoms, foul in wisdom, cruel in strength, misshaping what he touched, twisting what he ruled; his dominion was torment.

He’s basically like Morgoth 2.0, and there’s very little left of him that is still Mairon, the Maia smith that he once was. Still, Sauron and Morgoth aren’t interchangeable; while Sauron is certainly very evil, he doesn’t think the same way that Morgoth does. If you’re familiar with the D&D alignment chart, Morgoth is pure Chaotic Evil — he doesn’t have a motive beyond fucking things up as much as possible. Sauron is more Lawful Evil, more like an evil dictator. Morgoth wants to watch the world burn (and just did, a moment ago); Sauron wants to rule over the ashes.

Sauron’s assault on Minas Tirith is successful. (If Sauron had a nickel for every time he besieged a tower called Minas Tirith, he’d have two nickels, which isn’t a lot, but it’s weird that it happened twice.) He conjures a cloud of pure terror that causes Orodreth and his men to panic, and flee to Narthothrond. Then, much like Sauron would corrupt Minas Ithil and Osgiliath eons later, he transforms Minas Tirith into an evil watchtower. Tol Sirion, the island where it’s located, becomes known as Tol-in-Gaurhoth, the Isle of Werewolves.

Lord of Werewolves by Dracontessa

After that, things only get worse. The Orcs spread across Beleriand, kidnapping Elves and desecrating all the land around Doriath. Morgoth sends out a bunch of spies to sow discord in every kingdom, hoping to win a psychological battle. Because of the Curse, most of the Noldor believe the sugary lies. The dirtiest trick that Morgoth pulls is setting free some of the Elves that he took captive, while keeping them under his control. This causes the Noldor to distrust even their own families.

With Men, Morgoth tries a different tactic. He attempts to turn them against the Elves by pointing out that the Men are inferior to Elves, and that the Noldor are inherently untrustworthy and untrusting. He promises the Men that if they come and join him, “the rightful Lord of Middle-earth,” then they’ll have honor and rewards and yada, yada. The Men don’t fall for this, which makes Morgoth even more spiteful towards them.

The Three Great Houses of Men are in complete disarray at this point. The house of Bëor —Barahir and his people — is basically destroyed, with the remainder barely surviving in the wilderness. The House of Hador are all stuck in Hithlum, and Hador himself is dead. The only remaining Men in the rest of Beleriand are the house of Haleth — the Haladin — who live in the Forest of Brethil. They’re one of the last lines of defense between Nargothrond and Morgoth’s onslaught. Hador’s grandsons, Húrin and Huor, are camped out in the Forest of Brethil with the Haladin. Halmir, the current leader of the Haladin, sends for backup, and a small army of Sindar Elves from Doriath come to help defend the forest. With the Elves’ help, the Men drive back the Orcs.

Húrin and Huor are some of our major players among the Men. They’re brothers, and they’re currently teenagers. Back before the battle, their father married Halmir’s daughter, so they’re members of the Haladin on their mom’s side. During the battle, they are separated from the rest of their company, but Ulmo protects them with a magical mist from the River Sirion, and then Thorondor rescues them when they wander near his mountains. Thorondor sends two eagles to pick them up, and the eagles bring them to Gondolin. Húrin and Huor become the first Men to ever see the secret Elven city of Gondolin.

By Mysilvergreen

King Turgon receives them well. He’d gotten a prophetic dream from Ulmo, telling him he’ll need the Men’s help when things get bad, so he takes them in as his honored guests. Húrin and Huor live in the mystical Elven city for a year, and they learn a lot from Turgon in that time. Turgon wants to keep them in Gondolin, not just because of his proclaimation that no one can ever leave it, but also because he genuinely loves them. Eventually, though, they want to go home.

Remember how well that went the last time, with Aredhel?

Húrin reminds Turgon that Men don’t live very long, so he and his brother can’t just wait until things cool off, especially with their family thinking they’re dead. Also, they were carried into the city by eagles, so they have no idea where the entrance is and probably couldn’t find it again on their own. Turgon thinks that this is reasonable, and agrees to let them go, so long as Thorondor is willing to let them leave the way they came, by eagle-taxi.

But Maeglin — remember him? He’s the edgy Elf — Maeglin is happy that Húrin and Huor are leaving, because they’ve been soaking up all the king’s attention. Maeglin snidely tells Húrin that Turgon wasn’t so lenient in the past, like that time he threw Maeglin’s father off the walls.

To pacify Maeglin, Húrin and Huor swear an oath not to reveal anything about Gondolin. As you’ve probably gathered by now, oaths are serious business. I almost guarantee that this is going to bite them in the ass.

When Húrin and Huor return home, their family is overjoyed to see them, because they all thought that the brothers had died in the wilderness. Their father, Galdor, asks where they’ve been, and why they look like princes instead of like they’ve been living in the wilderness for a year. Húrin tells him that the only reason they were allowed to return at all was if they swore not to speak about it, so… don’t ask.

Meanwhile, King Turgon learns that the Siege of Angband is officially over, and Morgoth killed Fingolfin. Turgon doesn’t want to involve himself in the war, at least not yet — Gondolin is a secret safe haven for now, and he wants it to stay that way for as long as possible. It’s like the Wakanda of Elven cities.

However, Turgon also realizes that this is the beginning of the end for the Noldor, unless they can find some outside source of help. He sends secret bands of Gondolin Elves to sail to Valinor. That’s a truly desperate move, since the Noldor are exiles, and Valinor has wanted nothing to do with Middle-earth for centuries. Unfortunately, none of Turgon’s emissaries make it; the western sea has become much more dangerous ever since Valinor cut itself off. The sea is full of enchantments and illusions, and Valinor itself is hidden. There’s no way to get to it. With every failed mission, Gondolin’s doom inches closer and closer.

Guess who hears about it? Morgoth. Morgoth is very interested to know what happened to Finrod and Turgon, because Elven kings don’t just vanish off the face of the earth. He knows they must be somewhere, probably plotting a new scheme to take him down. He knows what Nargothrond is, but not where it is, and he knows nothing about Gondolin. In the Battle of Sudden Flame, he made the mistake of underestimating the strength of the Elves and Men. Although he won the battle, they managed to hit him back just as badly. He’s not about to make that mistake again.

Morgoth attacks Hithlum again. King Fingon is outnumbered, but rescued at the last minute by ships full of warriors sent by Círdan. The Elves win the battle, but King Galdor, Húrin and Huor’s father, dies in the same spot where his own father fell during the Battle of Sudden Flame. Húrin becomes the new patriarch of his house, and serves as Fingon’s thane. He marries Morwen Eledhwen, a woman of the house of Bëor, who fled the Forest under Nightshade for the Forest of Brethil alongside Queen Emeldir.

Húrin by Steamey

The House of Bëor is by this point reduced to only one man, Emeldir and Barahir’s son, Beren.

Chapter 19: Of Beren and Lúthien, Part One In which we hear the greatest love story ever told.

This is the first of what Tolkien called “The Great Tales,” some of the oldest stories in the Legendarium, all of which were ultimately unfinished. To put into perspective just what a big deal this story is, Tolkien and his wife Edith have the names “Beren” and “Lúthien” written on their respective headstones. The version here in the Silmarillion is the most complete, but it’s also an abridged version. This is how Tolkien introduces it:

Among the tales of sorrow and of ruin that come down to us from the darkness of those days there are yet some in which amid weeping there is joy and under the shadow of death light that endures. And of these histories most fair still in the ears of the Elves is the tale of Beren and Lúthien.

Most of my retelling here is paraphrased from the Silmarillion, but I’ve included some details that appear only in the Lay of Leithian, Tolkien’s unfinished poetic telling of the story. It’s really worth going and reading the Lay of Leithian; it’s extremely vivid and evocative, it perfectly imitates the medieval poetic form.

The story doesn’t actually start with Beren. It starts with an account of what happened to Barahir and his remaining men after they fled the Forest under Nightshade. They ended up camping out beside a lake called Tarn Aeluin, which is beautiful and reflects the stars. It was supposedly blessed by Queen Melian, and her magic repels the evil creatures that took over the rest of the forest. Barahir and co. are well hidden there, but Morgoth commands Sauron to find them.

One of Barahir’s people is a man named Gorlim, who has a wife, Eilinel. They love each other even despite the war, but when Gorlim returned home one day after a battle, he found his house empty and Eilinel gone. He still follows his people and hides out near the lake, but he holds out hope that maybe his wife isn’t dead. He periodically leaves the secret safe haven and returns to the empty house, hoping that his wife will be there. One time, he sees the lights on and hears her voice, but it’s a trap — Sauron found him. Sauron tortures Gorlim to force him to reveal the location of Barahir’s secret camp, but Gorlim holds out. That is, until Sauron tells him to name his price. Gorlim asks to see his wife again.

Then Sauron smiled, saying, “That is a small price for so great a treachery. So shall it surely be. Say on!”

Poor Gorlim reveals the location of Barahir’s camp. Then, with a mocking laugh, Sauron reveals that Eilinel is dead, and that he cast an illusion to ensnare him. “Oh, but don’t worry, I’ll still send you to her,” he says, and then kills him. They don’t call him Gorthaur the Cruel for nothing.

By @ayaosguqin

See, this is one of the things that makes Sauron different from Morgoth. Morgoth is spiteful and enjoys sewing discord and causing destruction for the sake of it, but we haven’t seen this kind of calculated sadism from him yet. (There’s not much that’s subtle about busting in with a giant spider and killing trees.) Sauron, having been a Maia of Aulë, has an appreciation for subtlety and craftsmanship. Sauron likes to stick the knife in and twist it. And as The Lord of the Rings makes clear, he’s a master of psychological warfare.

Now that Sauron knows where the secret camp is, his forces attack the men at Tarn Aeluin. They massacre everyone, save Beren. Beren is out on a spy mission when the Orcs attack, and he has a dream in which Gorlim’s ghost appears to him to tell him what happened. Beren rides back, but it’s already too late. He finds his father and everyone else dead.

Beren builds a cairn for his father and swears vengeance. He hunts down all the Orcs, slaughtering them by himself. He sneaks near their camp, where they’re gloating and holding up his father’s hand as a trophy. On the severed hand is a ring, the ring that Finrod Felagund gave to Barahir. Beren swoops in, steals the hand with the ring, and runs off before the Orcs have a chance to react.

Beren lives by himself in the wilderness for some time. He befriends the animals, and becomes a vegetarian as a result. He manages to perform many heroic deeds just in that time, so that he becomes famous. He’s already such a legend that Morgoth puts a price on his head, just as high as that of King Fingon himself, but the Orcs are so afraid of Beren that they avoid him instead of hunting him. Morgoth resolves to send an entire army after Beren, and not just any army — an army of werewolves, captained by Sauron himself.

The werewolves are enough to chase Beren away from the land where he buried his father. He heads south, towards Doriath. He resolves to pass through Queen Melian’s magic wall, for some reason. (Maybe because it’s the only guaranteed safe place?) He travels along sheer mountain cliffs, and through the spider-infested wastes that had been twisted by a combination of Sauron’s magic and Melian’s magic. That land was basically the Mordor of its day, and no one knows how Beren got through it; whatever he experienced there was terrifying enough that he never spoke of it again. When he arrives at the magic wall, he passes right through like it isn’t even there. This event had been predicted by Melian herself: ‘because the power of that Man’s destiny will overcome her own. People will sing about that event until the distant future, when Middle-earth is unrecognizable.’

He finds himself in the north of Doriath, a forest called Neldoreth. He’s exhausted and harrowed, having spent years traveling through a cursed land. But everything in Neldoreth is beautiful, it’s summertime, and Beren sees a beautiful Elf maiden dancing on the grass. It’s Lúthien, the daughter of King Thingol and Queen Melian themselves. Lúthien is the most beautiful person alive. (Like, metaphysically.) Being the child of a Maia, she is more or less a demigoddess.

Encounter of Beren and Lúthien by Elena Kukanova

Beren is instantly smitten. In fact, he’s literally enchanted by her — just watching her casts a spell on him. When she suddenly vanishes, he literally can’t speak. He wanders the woods like an animal, searching for her. He doesn’t know her name, so he calls her Tinúviel, which means “Nightingale” in Sindarin. A whole year passes, and he sees her in the beauty of nature around him, like she’s a ghost and he’s fondly recalling her memory. A whole winter later, she reappears, and sings a song so beautiful that it brings spring back to the woods:

Keen, heart-piercing was her song as the song of the lark that rises from the gates of night and pours its voice among the dying stars, seeing the sun behind the walls of the world; and the song of Lúthien released the bonds of winter, and the frozen waters spoke, and flowers sprang from the cold earth where her feet had passed.

When he hears her song, Beren can suddenly speak again. He calls out to her, using the name “Tinúviel.” Luckily for him, Lúthien falls just as in love with him upon seeing him. The narrator says that “doom fell upon her” as soon as she loved him back, which could mean either that she met her destiny or that she is going to die for her love. Probably both.

Beren goes to embrace her, but she vanishes again as soon as day breaks. Beren immediately feels a mixture of ecstasy and anguish. He falls into a coma, and has nightmares about groping through the dark to find the

vanished light. (I’m starting to note parallels between Lúthien and the Two Trees, and also the Silmarils.) But Beren’s anguish is nothing to Lúthien’s. Now that she’s fallen in love with a mortal, her fate is inextricably intertwined with his. She’s no longer free.

Lúthien returns to Beren and wakes him from his coma. They walk through the woods together, blissfully in love, throughout that spring and summer. Presumably they talk and actually get to know each other in that time.

A sudden in love by breath-art and aglargon

There’s another person who loves Lúthien, an Elven bard named Daeron. He spies on Beren and Lúthien in the woods. Jealous that Lúthien loves Beren instead of him, he goes and tattles to Thingol about their relationship. (In the Lay of Leithian, Daeron — in his envy — is able to cast a spell of silence upon Beleriand, so that there is no music or even birdsong.) Thingol is immediately furious, because he’s extremely overprotective of his daughter, and he hates Men. He confronts Lúthien about her new boyfriend, but she refuses to say anything until Thingol promises that he won’t hurt or imprison Beren. Lúthien personally leads him before her father’s throne.

Beren and Luthien in the Court of Thingol by Donato Giancola

Thingol demands to know who Beren is, but he’s so intimidating that Beren is stunned into silence. Lúthien answers for him. Thingol tells Lúthien to back off and let Beren speak for himself. What’s Beren’s excuse for entering the forbidden realm of Doriath? Beren’s response is very poetic and eloquent, but basically boils down to “I want to fuck your daughter.”

There’s pin-drop silence in the hall as the assembled Elves wait for Thingol to smite Beren. Thingol immediately regrets his promise not to harm him. Thingol’s response is to fold his hands, smile coldly, and say,

(I mean, it’s not these exact words, but it’s close enough.)

Thingol accuses Beren of being a spy and a thrall of Morgoth, at which Beren takes offense. Beren isn’t afraid of death, but he won’t allow himself to be insulted by any Elf, even a king. His father was a lord of Men and he deserves to be treated like a prince! He has a ring given to his father by Finrod himself, for Eru’s sake! He holds up the ring, and all the Elves see it. This is the Ring of Barahir, which will eventually get passed down to Aragorn. The jewels set in it were originally cut by the Noldor in Valinor itself.

Melian whispers to her husband that he won’t be the one to kill Beren. Beren has a lot more stuff he’s destined to do, but his destiny is still intertwined with Thingol’s. Whatever Thingol does next will seal his own fate, too. Thingol proceeds to choose the stupidest thing possible.

Beren wants to marry the Faerie King’s daughter. So, as is common in fairy tales, Thingol sets him an impossible task that he must complete to earn Lúthien’s hand: He must steal a Silmaril from the crown of Morgoth. Thingol feels like this the nearest thing to a fair price for his daughter. Of course, like most mythological kings, he’s hoping that Beren will die in the attempt.

You can just hear Melian’s facepalm through the page.

As is hopefully clear by now, the Silmarils are like a bomb waiting to go off. Everything about them is fraught — from the fact that they contain the last light of the Trees, to Morgoth’s obsession with them, to the Curse laid on all Fëanor’s sons for their unbreakable oath to get them back, etc. etc. Thingol’s choice to get involved in that shitshow was a dumb fucking idea. It’s not really his place to say or do anything concerning the Silmarils, and he effectively dooms his own kingdom by involving himself with them. In fact, by doing so, Thingol subjects himself to the same Curse that affects all the Noldor — you know, the reason he banished them from his kingdom and banned their language in the first place.

But that’s getting ahead of ourselves. Let’s get back to Beren, who responds to this by literally laughing it off and calling it easy:

“For little price,” he said, “do Elven-kings sell their daughters: for gems, and things made by craft. But if this be your will, Thingol, then I will perform it. And when we meet again my hand shall hold a Silmaril from the Iron Crown; for you have not looked the last on Beren son of Barahir.”

I like the parallelism here: Both Beren and Sauron call something that’s extraordinarily valuable to someone else a “little price” or “small price.” Obviously, we’re supposed to side with Beren in this instance, but I wonder if his pride will be his fall.

Having received his main quest, Beren leaves Menegroth.

Menegroth by David Gresit

Melian tells Thingol what an idiot he is for involving himself in the Main Plot and forsaking his kingdom’s safety in isolation. She can’t protect him from whatever happens next. Thingol is pretty confident that Beren’s going to die, which proves that he’s not Genre Savvy enough to make good decisions from here on out. He should really listen to his wife.

Lúthien doesn’t quite enter “but Daddy, I love him!” territory, but she does stop singing. All of Doriath is eerily silent.

Beren travels west, towards the River Sirion, and then to Nargothrond. Being alone and with no resources, he doesn’t have any other option but to go to Finrod for help. He wisely holds up the Ring of Barahir as he enters Finrod’s territory, because it was originally Finrod’s ring, and his Elf snipers would know not to shoot. Knowing that he was being watched by an army’s worth of hidden Elves, he randomly yells out “I am Beren son of Barahir! Take me to your King!” in the middle of a field in the hopes that someone will hear him and decide not to kill him. After doing this several times, he’s apprehended by the archers and taken to Finrod.

Finrod receives Beren warmly. Privately, Beren tells Finrod about his father’s death and about meeting Lúthien. He cries more over remembering Lúthien than remembering his father. Remember, Finrod promised to help Barahir or any member of his family in need, because they had saved him. So, he has no choice but to help Beren retrieve a Silmaril, even though he knows it will not go well.

Finrod by yidanyuan

He tells Beren, ‘Well, it’s obvious that Thingol wants you dead, but if anyone so much as mentions the Silmarils, the sons of Fëanor are on them like a pack of wolves. Celegorm and Curufin are powerful lords in my court, and I can’t risk antagonizing them. If they find out you want a Silmaril, they’ll kill you. But I made a promise to your father, so I have to help you. In short, we’re all screwed.’

For some reason, Finrod decides that the best thing to do is to be as transparent as possible. So, he summons his court and stands before his people. He tells them all about the promise he made to Barahir, and how he is therefore obligated to help Beren. He asks his lords for help. Celegorm’s response is predictable. He repeats the Oath of Fëanor, reaffirming that the sons of Fëanor will hunt down anything alive that dares to seek a Silmaril. He goes on a tirade as impassioned as the one that Fëanor originally gave to the Noldor back in Valinor. (Like father, like son, I guess.) Then Curufin speaks, more quietly. What he says boils down to: ‘Nice kingdom you’ve got here, Finrod. Would really be a shame if something happened to it.’

Celegorm and Curufin, by Julia Reizen

Curufin’s speech scares the Elves of Nargothrond so much that they avoid open war for decades, preferring guerilla warfare with arrows, poisoned darts, and magic. According to Tolkien, this is less valorous than open combat, and diminishes their whole society.

Say what you will about Fëanor and his brood, they’re damn good at public speaking.

The Elves of Nargothrond begin to murmur amongst themselves that Finrod can’t tell them what to do as though he’s a Vala (even though he’s… y’know… the king), and all of them refuse to help him. The Curse is in full effect: Celegorm and Curufin realize that this is a golden opportunity to send Finrod alone to his death, and take over Nargothrond for themselves.

Finrod reads the room. He takes off his crown, and throws it at his feet, renouncing his rulership of the kingdom that he built. He looks directly at Celegorm and Curufin and tells them that while they may be faithless bastards who will break their oath of loyalty to him, he will not break his own promise to Barahir. He addresses the rest of the room — there’s got to be at least a few people who haven’t been affected by the Curse, and who will follow him, so that he isn’t pathetically driven out of his own kingdom. Right? A grand total of ten people stand up for him. One of them, Edrahil, picks up Finrod’s crown, and says that it should be given to a steward instead of being left for Celegorm and Curufin to snatch. Whatever happens, he says, Finrod is still the true king of Nargothrond. #IStandWithFinrod.

Finrod chooses Orodreth, his nephew (or youngest brother; sources differ), as his steward. Celegorm and Curufin just smile and withdraw from the room, which isn’t creepy at all.

Finrod and Beren leave Nargothrond with their ten loyalists. They travel north, come upon a band of Orcs, and kill them all. Finrod uses a magical illusion to disguise his company as Orcs, and they sneak through the mountain pass towards Angband. Sauron finds them anyway, and intercepts them. Sauron and Finrod engage in — of all things — a singing competition. It’s very similar in principle to “the oldest game” from Neil Gaiman’s The Sandman, in that it’s a battle between dueling concepts that are instantaneously manifested as the singers describe them. Sauron sings about treachery, betrayal, uncovering secrets, piercing through things, and sorcery. Finrod answers with a song about resistance against evil, keeping secrets, maintaining trust, standing strong, and gaining freedom.

Finrod and Sauron by rami-fon-verg

There is something simple, almost childish, about this back-and-forth. I feel like I’ve seen several different children’s shows in which a good character and an evil character sing at each other instead of fighting, with the evil character extoling the virtues of power and the good character singing about the importance of love. (The one that comes to mind is Barbie and the Diamond Castle, in which the two heroines and the villain play good/evil music at each other, and the good music overpowers the evil music, resulting in the villain’s defeat.) I wouldn’t be surprised if several anime have a scene like this, as well. And yet, it is primordially powerful, like Gaiman’s “oldest game.” In Tolkien’s universe, singing was what created the world in the first place, and singing is therefore a direct and powerful means of manifestation.

By Wavesheep

Unfortunately, it does not end the way it would if this were a Barbie movie or an anime. Finrod is a great singer, but Sauron is better — he is a Maia, one of the Ainur, meaning he was there when the original Music of creation was sung. It’s impressive that Finrod manages to hold out as long as he does, but in the end — much like Fingolfin and Fëanor before him — he loses.

To tell this part of the story, Tolkien randomly switches to verse; he quotes a section from the Lay of Leithian. Medieval texts actually do this; lots of them will randomly switch between prose and verse. Texts that do this are called “prosimetric.” For example, in the Volsung Saga (which reads very much like The Silmarillion), when Sigurd meets Brynhild, the text abruptly switches into verse as she lists all the different types of runes and their uses. There’s several other instances in that text when it randomly switches between prose and verse. It prefaces the verse parts with something like, “So saith the song of Sigurd,” referencing poetic versions of the same story that otherwise don’t survive. Tolkien evokes that same structure here, right down to saying “as it is told in the Lay of Leithian.”

The Lord of the Rings is prosimetric, too, but most of the songs are diegetic, meaning they’re actually being sung by characters in-universe. That’s not what’s going on here. The verse part describes the singing contest between Sauron and Finrod, it’s not the actual songs that they’re singing. But it’s really clever of Tolkien to switch to verse to describe this scene, because it sets the vibe! It’s like you’re listening to a distant echo of their songs, passed down through generations of oral storytelling. It wouldn’t be nearly as evocative if he just described the scene flatly in prose.

Thank you for indulging me in that tangent! Moving on: Sauron throws Finrod and co. into a dark pit, and threatens to kill them if they don’t tell them who they are and why they’re there. Periodically, he sends a werewolf to eat one of them (which, I’ll bet you anything, is a direct reference to the Volsung Saga). Still, none of them talk.

Meanwhile, back in Doriath, Lúthien intuitively senses that something is wrong, and asks her mother what has happened to Beren. Melian tells her that Beren is in Sauron’s dungeon. Lúthien resolves to go and rescue him by herself. She goes to ask Daeron for his help, but Daeron refuses to risk his own neck for Beren’s sake. He’s been afflicted with full-on incel syndrome, so out of spite, he snitches to Thingol a second time. (Thingol is so grateful that Daeron keeps tabs on his daughter for him, that he names Daeron a prince. Make of that what you will.) Thingol can’t imagine anything worse than letting his daughter waste away in a dark pit, so he builds a house in a giant beech tree, called Hírilorn. Because the best way to keep your daughter safe from one prison is to put her in another! Logic!

Well, it’s a common trope in myths and fairy tales: The king is overprotective of his daughter and puts her in a tower, or a box with a hole in the roof, or some such. Lúthien, however, is proactive. She doesn’t wait for someone to rescue her from her treehouse. Instead, she tricks her guards and Daeron into sending her a golden bowl of wine, a silver bowl of water, a spinning wheel, and a loom. Then she sings a spell that mentions all the tallest and longest things in the world, which causes her hair to grow extremely long. She mixes the wine with the water, then sings a song of day over the golden bowl, and a song of night over the silver bowl. Finally, she sings a song of sleep. The singing enchants her hair, filling it with corresponding ideas that shape the way Lúthien wants it to behave. (Similar to Sauron and Finrod’s magic songs, singing about an idea causes it to manifest.) She weaves a robe out of her hair, a robe that’s described as being misty and shadowy, like it’s woven from clouds at night. Lúthien weaves a rope out of what’s leftover, and puts a sleeping spell on it. Then she just throws it down onto the guards at the foot of the tree, and they go to sleep, allowing her to climb down the rope and escape.

Lúthien prepares her escape from Hírilorn by Anke Katrin Eißmann

As she leaves Doriath, she comes upon Celegorm and Curufin, of all people. They’re out hunting, hoping to learn something about what happened to Finrod (and probably plotting behind his back the whole time). Among their hunting dogs is a particularly large wolfhound called Huan, who actually came with them from Valinor. Oromë himself, the Vala of the hunt, gave the dog to Celegorm long ago. Huan loyally followed Celegorm into exile, and therefore became automatically subject to the Curse. He’s foretold to die, but only after he faces the biggest and baddest of big bad wolves.

Spoiler alert, the dog’s gonna die!

Huan finds Lúthien, because he’s immune to her enchantments, and brings her to Celegorm. Once she learns that Celegorm and Curufin are enemies of Morgoth, Lúthien decides that she trusts them, and reveals herself to them. Celegorm (or, in the Lay, Curufin) instantly falls in love with her, because… of course he does. He offers to help Lúthien, making a point not to say that he already knows about the quest. Lúthien goes with them to Nargothrond.

Celegorm and Curufin find Lúthien by Elena Kukanova

As soon as they get there, Celegorm and Curufin show their true colors. They imprison Lúthien, take away her magic cloak, and forbid her to speak to anyone else but them. Lúthien escaped one trap, and fell right into another. Now that the brothers know from Lúthien that Finrod and Beren are in Sauron’s prison, they figure that it’s easiest to just let them die. Nargothrond is as good as theirs. And now that they have Lúthien, they have leverage over Thingol — they can force him to give Lúthien’s hand in marriage to Celegorm. That would make Celegorm and Curufin the most powerful princes of the Noldor! [Insert evil laugh here.]

Huan, however, is the Goodest Boy and is too pure-hearted to follow Celegorm (even though Celegorm is his beloved master whom he’s been serving for literally centuries). Huan also fell in love with Lúthien upon seeing her for the first time, but in a decidedly less creepy way. He comes to her prison every night to keep her company, and Lúthien tells him all about Beren.

Huan decides to help Lúthien break out. He brings her magic cloak to her, and speaks to her (he’s only allowed to talk three times before he dies). He shows her a secret passage out of Nargothrond, and they escape together. Huan even swallows his pride enough to allow Lúthien to ride on his back.

Lúthien riding on Huan by Meraclitus

I mean, if you’re gonna be a damsel in distress, a dog is a pretty awesome thing to be rescued by.

(Stopping there, because I'm running up against the max number of images. More to come!)

[runawaymun]

Ask me about my not-yet-written-fics from this list

@linesofreturninggeese

Okay, so this is something I was talking over with @metatomatoes because I wanted Celebrimbor to survive so badly but like, I just could not see how it was possible, and then we got to talking and fucking around with Elvish biology and I think I can make it work.

this is all based on the foundation that Elrond and Celebrimbor were very close in the second age, and/or it piggybacks on the To Partake universe. Either way, they have an Osanwe bond. Not quite a marriage bond. It's a bit weaker than that, but a bond nonetheless.

there are human burn victims who have lost a tremendous amount of skin with medical care and survived, right?

and obviously the greatest risks here are blood loss, infection, and hypothermia

It's reasonable to me to assume that elves have pretty good blood clotting.

We also know from canon that they're better at regulating their temp than we are

If elves are pretty much immune to infection, we can knock that out.

With some sketchy research the general consensus is that a human IRL could, after being flayed, last 36 hours, or perhaps up to a week (if given fluids and semi cared for).

Reasonable to me to assume because Sauron is Sauron that he might continue to toy with Celebrimbor post-flaying, which means he has a vested interest in keeping him alive a bit longer.

Also reasonable to assume that elvish bodies can withstand quite a lot, considering Maedhros survived torture and being hung off a mountainside for a really long time while captured by Morgoth.

So, the final kicker here IIRC was @metatomatoes' idea - which is, what if elves are essentially able to drop into a stasis state? Like where everything slowly shuts down to minimal functions in order to survive extreme conditions? Explains a lot of things, really.

With that, what if rather than dying, Celebrimbor drops into stasis.

Stasis is no fun for Sauron :( Celebrimbor's not making fun noises anymore when he gets hurt.

So at this point Sauron has him shot full of arrows (assuming that he'll be dead soon) and hangs him up to taunt Elrond and Gil-Galad, per the canon events.

Everyone at this point is pretty confident that Celebrimbor is dead as a doornail,

EXCEPT ELROND.

Because he can absolutely feel through their Osanwe bond that there's something left there, and post-siege of Eregion when they finally recapture everything and pull Celebrimbor down, everyone is like "Elrond he's dead, we promise he's dead" and Elrond is like "I promise he's not!!!!!!!!! he's in stasis!!!!!!!!!!!!"

And Elrond by now has Vilya, which enhances his already incredibly strong healing.

Also I have already established within my own universe that Elrond is a bit of a necromancer, so long as someone is only mostly dead (re Princess Bride hehe).

SO, he manages to bring Celebrimbor back from the grave.

And granted, Celebrimbor is like, severely fucked up and perhaps does not even want to continue living, but Elrond is determined.

Once Celebrimbor has recovered (it is a long, slow road) he winds up just living with Elrond in Rivendell, possibly under an alias idk. But hey everyone talks about that weirdly good smith in Rivendell. Like uncannily good smith.

I like to imagine that he's the one who reforged Anduril :3