#maedhros screams into his hands when he finds out but is also proud. so is fingon! thats his Baby Sister!!!

[youareunbearable]

Its late and im tired so please excuse if this doesn't make sense but lately, I've been thinking about Angry Aredhel must have been

Like realistically, when has this woman made a single decision about her future for herself, and in the few times when she did, when did it not end in tragedy

She must have been so angry, so frustrated and wrathful at her lot in life. She was meant for other things, greater thing! She was a disciple of Orome, the Maiden in White, one of the best hunters in his group along with her cousin.

Yet here she is, caged and trapped like a pretty little canary in a wire house. Stolen from her purpose because of her eldest brother's blind loyalty, her father's stubborn pride, her second oldest brother's blinding grief, and her baby brother's terminal bravery. She's across an ocean, escaped one cage for another by her tormentor and abuser posing as a husband.

The bastard won't even name their child.

She must have be so angry, stuck in that endless darkness, the forest must be such a familiar landscape but so different, twisted and wrong like looking into a warped mirror.

Shes grieving outside her "home" one night, having managed to convince the trees to part their branches just enough that she can glimpse a star or two so she can bask in the starlight. Its been a year since the birth of her son, and nothing has changed. Eol won't look at the boy, and she can feel herself drifting. Without the ability to see the passage of time, without the Light of the Trees or with the Sun and Moon chasing each other across the sky, things are blending together and she feels adrift.

At least when they crossed they ice, they were able to watch the stars move across the endless dark.

The starlight warms her skin, as weak and distant as it is, so she basks. With her eyes closed and face tilted up she feels like a lizard in the mid day sun. Behind her, she hears a noise, a twig being deliberately stepped upon. Aredhel whips around, raising her glowing lichen lamp, wondering if its her husband or one of his servants come to take her back. She feels a little feral at the idea of being dragged away from the pitiful starlight.

A wolf, with a pelt as crisp and clean as the snow dusting Himring's mountain top, slinks into the soft glow. Its fur takes on an almost sickly colour in the green luminescence. The wolf settles at the edge of the light, resting on its haunches as it observes her.

Aredhel thinks she's beautiful, for it is a female wolf. Even in the weak lamplight the beast's silver eyes seem to glow on their own, piercing her very fea and enticing her to come forward, to come closer. There is a power within the she wolf, one Aredhel craves.

The white beast introduces herself as a member of Orome's hunt, and Aredhel believes it, for the she wolf looks like the perfect hunter. The wolf asks her what she, as a fellow hunter, is doing out so far away from her kin and cub.

Momentarily surprised by the ability to speak, for not even Huan can speak so freely, Aredhel responses. She shares her desire for light, her frustration with her "husband," and how she wants a different life for her son. She never wanted this, and she wishes she had the ability to take control of her own fate.

The wolf is sympathetic to her plights, and offers to help her free herself and her child.

"You do have the ability to change your own fate, young one. Asking for help is something no one else could have done for you."

So Aredhel leads the wolf back to Eol's house. They walk through the entry way, both hunters are silent as the dawn as they go. Aredhel heads towards the master bedroom, but hesitates at the door. She can see Eol on his side of their bed, snoring lightly as he does. She hesitates, seeing a vision of what will happen once he realizes she's gone. Fire, doom and death follows her, poison and a flash of fang would flicker in him before he strikes her down for disobedience, for stealing away the son he won't even name.

The wolf nudges her aside, ghosting past her into the room. Aredhel's throat closes up and she slinks away, heading towards Lomion's nursery. She leaves to go strap her sleeping infant son to her chest, then grabs some supplies from the kitchen in a bag. Not even hearing a mouse skittering in the walls, let alone her wolf companion, she steels her nerves to check the master bedroom one more time.

As she passes her bedroom, she can see through a crack in the door and her breath freezes. Standing over the now corpse of her husband, maw dripping red from the freshly torn out throat, the white wolf looms. Aredhel stares transfixed, she can almost taste the blood between her own teeth, feel the rush of the kill, ache of her gums as tendons and tissue would rub against them. The wolf turns to look at her, silver eyes wild, white fur stained with her kill. Aredhel feels the air return to her lungs, she feels lighter and free, a little giggle slips past her lips and the wolf peels back its lips and bares its dripping fangs in a smile.

Aredhel leaves the house, fleeing on foot and all the while she can hear the wolf following her, keeping pace and shadowing her in the darkness, and at some points, ahead of her, leading her out of the woods. Running like this, oh she hasn't done this in years!. The wind snapping at her hair, branches and leaves kissing her cheeks and arms, the rush of a completed hunt with another one ahead of her feels like her first real breath in a long time. It feels like days later, and seconds, heartbeats, when she can see the treeline, dawn's hazy reddish glow peaking through the trees.

Aredhel gives a joyful cry and runs faster. That laughter bubbling up inside of her finally bursts past her lips once she breaks the treeline. The sun on her skin is warm and bright and all she wants to do is laugh and cry and scream until her throat is raw and her tears run dry. But she has to keep moving, she has Lomion still with her, and she is too close to the woods to feel truly safe yet. She walks north, and east, not really knowing where she's heading but knowing that she'll cross into her cousins' land soon. As she walks, she soon realizes that she hasn't seen or heard from her she wolf in a while. Stopping, Aredhel turns to look back, but no where can she see that brilliant white coat, or any tracks that look like wolf paws. She squint, looking back at the distant treeline and sees nothing but shadow. She mourns for her companion, wishing she could have wished her well or at least thanked her for her help. She wonders if Orome set the wolf to free her, not wanting to see one of his hunters in chains.

Its about mid morning when she comes across some of her cousins men, and they're horrified. They ask if she's ok, of she's hurt, they take her to a nearby stream even though she insists she's fine, that she wants to see her cousins.

When she sees her reflection she's scared for a moment. All she can see it blood, dried and crusted down her throat, staining her lips and chin. There is red all along the collar of her white dress, her sleeves, but her hands are clean, and so is her son still asleep strapped across her chest. She looks into her reflection, not yet comprehending. Silver eyes that seem so familiar stare back above the red, above the proof of her freedom.

She bares her bloody teeth in smile.

[whovianofmidgard]

Day 1 – Maedhros – Coping

For @feanorianweek You can also read it on AO3

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[symphonyofsilence]

The tapestries covering the halls, telling tales of times long lost, went unnoticed by him. It didn't matter. He knew all of them. Made some of them. Regretted most of them.

Nor did his glazed-over eyes see anything else they came by-if there was any. At least not until he felt a soft, unsure, familiar presence approaching and raised his head.

There he was. His father. In all his glory. Long raven hair cascaded around him, arrayed in elaborate robes, all grace & royalty. just as handsome as he remembered him. Though not at all as he remembered him. Something was gone. The fire, maybe.

He halted on his way as soon as they locked eyes. In place of the proud face his son remembered he wore an unfamiliar expression... was it sorrow? Misery? Regret maybe? Shame even?

Why, aren't you proud father? I did what you wanted. The task is done.

& so am I.

He wished he had the jewel with him now just for the sake of throwing it at Fëanor's feet. Maedhros should not want to see him. He should say something. He should be raging with anger. He should scream at his father & blame him for everything. Fëanor was the reason he was here. He was the reason he wanted to be here. Maybe Maedhros jumped from the cliff, but he had fallen long before that. & his father was the one who pushed him. He should have known the burden he laid on his sons was as heavy as the fallen Vala, of all his long cruel mountains, of all the Middle Earth & the weight of all the dead.

They had spilled blood. He took them to that path. Fathers don't do like that.

Yet there he was. His father. & Maedhros' heart ached & soared as soon as he laid eyes on him. He needed his dad like never before. His mother would have been better. He had wished to see her again for a long, long time but now it was an unbearable, overwhelming, desperate need. But did she even want to see him?

He had led her sons to their death. But not before sullying their hands by bringing it upon others. Káno...poor Káno did not want to do this last foolishness. He wanted to repent. He wanted to go back home... he would have been home, with their mother. She would have got at least one of her sons back. Tainted & broken. But back. if not for him. What right did he have asking for comfort from her? She who had raised seven sons as best as she could & got seven murderers in the end. ("Stay like that." He remembered her saying as she disappeared behind the sculpture she was painting "Do not move. It will be over soon. I shall make haste lest the even fall draws near & the light changes. I want you in this light.")

But his father... They were both guilty. Both murderers & kinslayers. Worthy of each other.

In his last hour in life, Eönwë had called him "Son of Fëanor", and at the beginning of his afterlife in the halls, Mandos had also called him "Son of Fëanor" and it was very late to find out that in the end, he hadn't really been anything more.

Fëanor stepped towards him. His sorrowful eyes left his son's face and slid to his hands. And he gently held them in his own.

He had two hands now, Maedhros thought. Both unburnt. (Though not unsullied. Never again unsullied.) That was good. No, that was beyond Marvellous. That was all he had dreamt of for thousands of years. That was all he wanted. The best thing that could have happened to him. That called for tears of joy. He supposed.

Maybe some day later.

He did not close his hands around his father's. Nonetheless, they were gently stroking his. Fëanor's eyes were glistening with unshed tears when he raised his head. He bit his lips to keep the pain trying to surface at bay.

He remembered tears in his father's eyes only one time before. When he saw King Finwë's broken body. And that sight, Fëanor crying, had driven Maedhros to such a rush of emotions that he knew he would do anything for him. He would do anything to destroy the one who had brought tears to his father's eyes...no! That was in the past! It was all behind him! He was dead now. It was no place to go back to these things again and again. He had already done it numerous times in life. He was dead now. It was all over. It should have been. and Fëanor shouldn't cry.

Fëanor made to pull his son into an embrace. Maedhros took a step back.

"You-...!"

He did not know what to say. And he did not have the energy to start saying it. Even pulling away from Fëanor had taken too much will.

Fëanor said it for him.

"Yes.Yes, me. ...It's all on me."

He tried to embrace his son a second time and this time, Maedhros gave in. He did not return this either. But neither could he pull away. On the contrary. He leaned into it. He needed it. Valar, he needed it. For so, so long. & now more than ever.

"Atya. I'm tired."

"I know son, I know," He said as he rubbed his back.

So, so tired.

[ambarto]

You ever get like five different ideas from angst but none of them is long enough to stand on its own and so you just make Frankenangst? Yeah

Warnings: character death, description of injuries

----

Arakano thought once he took down the chief of these creatures they would slow down. Grow fearful, perhaps, run from him.

He should have known better. It seemed the monsters were braver than Arakano had hoped. They had laughed as he took on their commander, sneered in a circle around them, sure Arakano would have lost. Arakano won, and now they were angered.

He couldn’t take them all on. His sword fell left and right, slicing heads and arms that their armors didn’t cover well enough. Where were the others of the Noldor? Arakano couldn’t see anyone past the hordes of enemies coming for him. His sword was growing heavy in his hand. His father had not been far behind him.

With a shout, Arakano killed another enemy. His breath was beginning to come short. He couldn’t hold out on his own much longer. Everything was starting to blur together-

Arakano shouted when something hit his knee. A mace he hadn’t been able to avoid. Even over the sounds of battle he heard the crack. His leg gave out beneath him, unable to support his weight.

He wasn’t getting out of here. He had pushed on too far. His father wouldn’t be able to get to him.

The one who bent over him clearly thought Arakano was already gone. It had its guard open, and Arakano thrust his sword forward, burying it right in its neck. His hand wasn’t able to keep gripping it, and it was wrenched from him.

They jumped on him as wolves on a deer. They crowded on him, covering the light.

Arakano was a warrior. Arakano had fought his way through ice and hunger. Arakano was a Prince of the house of Finwe, and if he could not win, then at least he would drag as many of these things with himself as possible. Fear barely had time to grip his heart before he lounged.

He kicked and punched and bit like an animal. A creature squealed when Arakano sunk his teeth in its dirty skin, ripping it. He swung his arms blindly, trying to hit anything around him, not even feeling the pain of his fists hitting metal armor, only satisfied that he had indeed hit something.

They grabbed him, held him down into the mud. Briefly, Arakano had time to think that his siblings would cry. Findekano for sure. Turukano and Irisse always pretended they were too strong to have feelings, but Arakano knew them better. At least, he hoped, they would be proud of him.

Then, he only had not thoughts but to scream.

They cried, when they learnt what happened to their youngest brother. Just not upon his body. Nolofinwe was the one who found him, and he did not let his other children see him. The sight, he knew, would never leave him. He did not want his children to forever see what was left of their brother in their dreams.

-

They found some refuge in the south, near the foot of the mountains. It was not a place anyone liked, but it seemed the fire from the north had momentarily forgotten about it. There was no other place to go, right now. Armies to the east and to the west, going for the Pass of Sirion and for Feanorian lands alike. There was nothing they could do but wait.

They also didn’t know who to ask for what to do.

Someone had managed to drag Lord Angrod off the battle field. The healers crowded around him, but any hope for him had been lost.

So much of his body was covered in burns it was horrific to watch. His flesh was exposed and blackened. In some places, his very bones could be seen. How was he even still alive was beyond anyone. Lord Angrod had always been known as stubborn. Too much.

He groaned something that could have been his son’s name. The healers did not answer him. There were no news yet from Minas Tirith. Under the black smoke that still covered the sky, it was hard to hold out any hope for them.

“’Ik... ro...” he groaned. Cough shook his chest, the same cough that plagued everyone, their lungs too full of ash. A rag had been laid upon his eyes, if only to spare the healers the sight of what the fire had done to them. Not that the rest of his face was a less gruesome sight.

“The Lord Aegnor is surely alright,” an healer told him, once she understood the sounds were an attempt to saying Aikanaro’s name.

Another healer glared at her. They all knew what had happened to their Lord’s brother. She shook his glare off. She was a healer. Her job was to ease suffering. There was nothing but death that could ease Lord Angrod’s agony, but at least she could comfort his spirit.

He would see his brother soon enough, anyways. With luck, he would not pass the night.

-

Turin would come.

That was what Finduilas kept repeating herself. He’d come. He’d save them. She had to cling to that thought. He would find them. He would-

The Orcs were getting restless. Finduilas didn’t understand their horrid language, but she saw how unsettled they were. They kept looking behind themselves, as if expecting something to jump them.

Finduilas wasn’t sure where they were. They seemed to be by a river, but she could not be entirely sure of which one. The Taeglin, perhaps? They had been taking detours through the forests, she was entirely lost. She tried to think of who lived in these lands - mortals, mainly, if some of them were hunting the Orcs it would explain their nervousness.

Would Turin know anyone here? Finduilas knew very little of his past before Nargothrond. Perhaps he had friends. Perhaps soon they would reach them. Finduilas tried to strain herself, but she heard nothing. She could not even turn properly to look, bound as she was.

An Orc - a sentinel - burst through the trees, shouting. Whatever he said, it put all the other Orcs on edge immediately. They got up, hands to their weapons.

The other prisoners looked at them with terrified eyes.

“Worry not,” Finduilas whispered. “I think someone is chasing us. We may yet be saved.”

“What are you yapping about?” an Orc shouted. She stood in front of Finduilas, baring her fangs to her.

Finduilas kept silent. She looked at her in the eyes, and said nothing.

“The prisoners are slowing us down,” another Orc said.

There was a general agreement between them. Finduilas’s heart jumped. Then they were being chased, after all. There still was hope.

“She is the princess, is she not?” an Orc asked, pointing at her.

Grunts of agreement.

Suddenly, Finduilas was grabbed and dragged to her feet. Fear cursed through her, but she repressed it. She could not let herself be afraid. She would keep hoping.

She did not quite feel pain. Only a strange, bizarre pressure to her chest. The Orc had moved so fast. She had not expected him to raise his spear. Even as she looked down and saw it embedded in her chest, she struggled to understand its presence.

Perhaps there would be a way to take it out.

Perhaps Finduilas should be named Princess of Futile Hopes.

-

Feet moved around in his field of vision. Caranthir’s eyes stared ahead, fixed on the silver hair just some paces ahead of him.

He pressed his own hand to his throat. Apply pressure. Stop the bleeding. That was how Caranthir had been told to treat open wounds. Never had he thought he would be doing it to his own neck, trying to keep himself from bleeding out on the floor of Menegroth.

He had reached the throne room just in time to see Celegorm fall. Caranthir had attempted to make his way to him, and everything he had gotten in exchange was a sword he was not able to avoid. All he could do now was bleed out, as Celegorm without doubt already had. Useless.

Given the way his ears were ringing, he wasn’t being too good about keeping his blood in.

Someone stumbled on his legs. Caranthir hoped they were a Sinda. He hated them all, right now. He had not hated them when he had come here, ready to force Dior’s hand. Now he did. Celegorm was right in front of him, lying face down, fallen by a Sinda’s sword.

He couldn’t say Celegorm had ever been his favorite brother. But he was Caranthir’s brother nonetheless. His big brother. Who used to pick Caranthir up as a child and put him on his shoulders. Who was stubborn, and reckless, and impulsive, and somehow had always seemed impossible to harm.

Tears pooled in Caranthir’s eyes. Usually, he would rather be caught dead than seen crying. He had a reputation to uphold. Now he did not have the strength to hold it back.

He was losing the struggle to stay awake. He clung to awareness, but it was sleeping between his fingers together with his blood.

Where were Maedhros and Maglor? Were they not heading here too?

Tears pooled under his face. He wanted to see them. He didn’t want the last things his eyes saw to be Celegorm’s body.

He wanted his big brothers to hold him, and lie to him, tell him everything would be fine.

What a foolish, useless wish.

-

Were the Valar merciful, a stone would have struck Turgon’s head, and killed him immediately.

The Valar, it seemed, were not. Or perhaps it was Turgon who was being given special treatment.

It would not be long. He did not feel anything in his lower body. He could not seem to draw his breath in. Part of what had once been his tower was pressing heavy on his chest. Was this gurgling sound his blood in his lungs?

What a fool he’d been, hoping that Gondolin may hold. He should have listened to Ulmo.

So many things he should have done. He should have protected his sister better. He should have been closer to his nephew, help him through whatever led him to this. There were so many things he wished he could have told his daughter, his son-in-law. His grandson, and may Eru make it so that the child was saved.

Such a great King, such a great kingdom. And now, in the end, only him and his regrets.

As his fea was squeezed from his body, he wondered if this was what it felt like to drown. Buried in rock and not water, but was the principle of the thing not the same? Darkness, no air, and no one to comfort you as you died.

Perhaps this was his penance for not having been faster in saving Elenwe.

[arofili]

The Second Kinslaying

for @feanorianweek, day 5: Curufin. this fic is my headcanons for how the Second Kinslaying went down. this is a dream/flashback from chapter 4 of a longer fic about the Feanorians’ rebirth, but it stands on its own and i’m quite proud of it so i wanted to share it again!!

CW: canonical character death, graphic depictions of violence

~

Maedhros tells them to hold back as long as they can. Curufin tries to listen, but he is so full of anger; the Oath pushes him forward...

They are met by a line of guards—marchwardens summoned home to protect Menegroth from attack. They are not enough, not without Melian's protection. Maedhros orders not to kill them unless they must. Curufin tries to obey, he truly does, but the first marchwarden cuts down one of his warriors and he sees red. Before he knows it, he has killed again.

It's never easy. Looking into the glassy eyes of another elf, their blood on your hands, their fae drained away... Your own fae is tattered at the edges, bleeding out its light. Curufin isn't just tattered, he's shredded into pieces.

Caranthir charges forward, wreaking a path of destruction. He screams Dior's name, taunting him, goading him to come out and fight. "Or are you content to let your people die for you?" he cries. Curufin is too caught up in the battle to feel anything other than a brief pang of fear for his brother. Caranthir fights alone: it is his way, has always been his way.

Maedhros and Maglor are together, bellowing commands to their warriors, trying to keep the bloodshed to a minimum. Maglor weaves between Maedhros' swordstrokes, dancing in a rhythm only he can hear. He is preparing for something, Curufin knows. Something powerful. Maedhros stands tall, defending. He cuts down only those who come for him, never seeking out an opponent. He doesn't have to: he is the leader, the eldest, the fiery beacon burning through the gaping wounds in his fae. He is the target.

The twins are hidden in the trees. They and their archers rain arrows upon the warriors; the strategy is not as effective as it would have been in their own lands. The marchwardens know their home too well, and clamber up the branches to fight them closer.

He and Celegorm are back to back, working together as they always have. They are better as a unit, fiercer and sharper and faster. United with his brother, Curufin is unstoppable. Celegorm is wildness, he is cleverness. Together they are a force to be reckoned with.

The carnage outside the throne room is sickening, even to Curufin. He wades in blood, widening his stance so he does not slip; he watches less experienced fighters trip over the bodies of their fallen kin. When one marchwarden falters in such a blunder, Curufin lunges, splitting him open from groin to gullet.

At last they see Dior. He is radiant, glowing like a Calaquendi, but all seven Fëanorians can see at once that he has hidden the Silmaril. It may still be on his person, or it may be elsewhere—where is it? where is it? where is it?

Caranthir screams and rushes forward into the throne room. He babbles some nonsense about a Maia's bastard, coming completely unhinged. Curufin exchanges one look with Celegorm, and they hurry to their brother's aid.

They can't get close enough. Behind him, Curufin can hear Maglor's voice raised in a song of power, and the earth trembles—the walls outside the throne room collapse. They are trapped inside. The fighting intensifies; Curufin and Celegorm protect Caranthir's back, holding back anyone who tries to assault him in his march to Dior, but they cannot reach him.

"What is he doing?" Celegorm bellows. "This is madness! He'll be killed!"

Caranthir has cast down his shield. He holds a blade in either hand, and he leaps toward Dior, who catches those twin blades with his own curved sword.

Madness. Yes, that was the right word. Caranthir had gone mad, heedless of his many wounds, completely berserk. Celegorm cried out to him, but Curufin knew it wouldn't work. Caranthir was too far gone inside his own mind.

"NO!" Celegorm shouts, and Curufin can't find words, can't find air, can't find meaning—

Dior's blade has sliced through Caranthir's armor, through his skin, through his belly, straight through to the other side of his body.

Caranthir goes still, staring into Dior's gleaming eyes. "Kinslayer," he says through a mouthful of blood, before he falls limp, Dior's blade sliding out of him.

Fool. A damn fool, that's what he was. Curufin's hot tears blind him as he rushes forward, heedless of who he's killing as he fights his way to his brother's body. Celegorm roars, and he's no singer like Maglor, but the sound sends a wave of force throughout the throne room. Every elf tumbles to the ground—only Curufin, standing in his shadow, keeps his footing. He darts forward, slicing throats, slitting wrists, stealing life from all those around him. He isn't sure if all his own warriors had already fallen, or if he had killed them all too, but by the time he regains control of himself, only he, Celegorm, and Dior are standing.

"You know," Celegorm growls as he advances on the murderous king, "if you had surrendered and given us the Silmaril, we would have spared you. Even if we'd already started fighting. But now?" He lunges forward, nicking Dior on the arm before his blow is deflected. "Now, I don't care what you do. I'm going to fucking disembowl you."

"Oh, yes," Curufin hisses, mirroring his brother as the duel begins in earnest. "You killed our brother. I am going to enjoy your suffering, Dior Eluchíl."

(The worst thing, Curufin thinks later, after it is all over, is that it is absolutely true. He never took pleasure in murder, despite what the stories may have said. He accepted it as part of the Oath they had sworn and didn't waste time obsessing over the guilt—not the way Nelyo did—but he never liked it. But this time...)

This time, he relishes every second of Dior's pain and fear. He draws it out, longer than he needs to, balancing Celegorm's impatient fury. Dior knows he's losing, but he holds his own against the two most fearsome warriors left living in Beleriand. He must have known this day would come, must have been raised in fear of the Fëanorians.

Well, good, Curufin thinks as he cuts one of Dior's sleeves off, then the other, grinning as Dior gasps from the pain of the shallow grazes on his arms. He deserves every second of terror, for what he had done to Caranthir.

"Shall we finish him, brother?" he asks Celegorm.

"I think we shall," Celegorm growls. He raises his sword for one final, heaving blow—

And Dior, faster than Curufin thought anyone could be, twists away from Curufin and drives his blade right into Celegorm's chest.

Celegorm finishes his movement, thrown off balance by the deadly wound but still managing to slice open Dior's stomach. His guts spill across his body with an acidic stench that rises to Curufin's nostrils, but he barely notices as Celegorm heaves his last breath and falls, glassy-eyed, to the blood-drenched floor.

Dior tumbles to the ground, groaning horribly, his sword clattering out of his hand. Curufin turns away from him, kneeling beside Celegorm's body, howling his grief. He feels as if half his soul has been torn from him. Celegorm is dead.

Curufin rises, trembling. He casts aside his own blade and picks up Dior's sword, advancing on his fallen foe.

"Where is it?" he hisses. "The Silmaril! Where is it?"

Dior laughs, an awful, guttural sound. "You'll never get it," he rasps. "Never. Not even—" he coughs, choking on his own blood— "not even if you slaughter everyone in Doriath. You'll never find it."

Curufin's rage is controlled, precise. He has honed it over his entire life like he would any other weapon, and even now he does not lose that control.

"My brother was always true to his word," he says softly, almost conversationally. "He promised to disembowl you." Curufin prods the mass of putrid guts spilling out of Dior's stomach, chuckling. "And he did it. I, however, am a known liar. I said I would enjoy your death. Now I am not so sure. Perhaps I will let you lie here until the rats come to feast upon you. I should let you bleed out, long and slow. You are going to die, you know."

Fear flickers in Dior's eyes. Curufin smiles.

"Yes, I think I'll do that," he says. "Let you go at your own pace. That will delay the inevitable."

"You..." Dior rasps, but Curufin cuts him off.

"Ah ah ah," he tuts. "Talking only makes it worse."

He shifts as if to turn around, letting Dior think he's gotten off the hook, that perhaps there may some way his Ainur blood could stitch him back together. He sees Dior relax slightly out of the corner of his eye.

Then he spins back around, shoving Dior's own blade down his throat until he chokes on it, bursting through his esophagus and pinning him to the floor. Dior screams, as much as a dying man with a sword through his throat can scream, and the awful noise causes a thrill of sadistic joy in the pit of Curufin's stomach.

The scream trails off into a hideous gurgle, and Curufin's shoulders slump. Grief at last overtakes him, and he shakes as sobs rack his body. Caranthir is dead. Celegorm is dead. Dior is dead, also, but the Silmaril is not on his body. Unless the others have discovered it, this horror is all in vain...

The others. Maedhros, Maglor, Amrod, Amras. He must tell them what had happened. He must be the one to deliver the heartbreaking news that two of them had fallen. He must—

"Oh," he says softly as he feels cold steel run through his back and watches as a sword slides through his belly. He is dizzy all of a sudden, though his rhaw has gone numb and all sense of pain is dulled.

Curufin topples backward, falling on the hilt of the sword, the weight of his body pushing the blade deeper into his torso. He looks up, mouth hanging open in surprise, to see a slight and silvery figure hovering above him, her bloodstained hands clasped over her mouth in horror. Nimloth has taken vengeance for her husband.

He locks eyes with her. He is barely aware of what he whispers in his dying breath, but she hears it, the echo of Caranthir's last accusation:

"Kinslayer."

~

[read more about Curvo’s thoughts “after it is all over” in ATATYA, the fic i pulled this snippet from! and please, please leave a comment if you enjoy!]

[turin-too-deep-turambar]

They look 10x better as thumbnails. Part of the problem is I’m drawing on very bumpy painting paper, the other part is that I am not an artist, I’m a cut-rate costumer at best.

Disclaimers on historical accuracy: This is a shameless blend of 17th and 19th century Polish noble (szlachta) costume. Some artistic liberties have been taken. Most of these fabrics should be brocade, but I’m not about to draw that by hand. The sashes (pas kontuszowy) should also be much more heavily embroidered. I haven’t seen any paintings of wolf skins worn in the manner Curufin is wearing his, but heavy furs were very common. Cheetah and tiger skins are depicted in several contemporary paintings, but usually not with the heads. Many modern reproductions of szlachta armor include them draped in this way. Usually, the hat is worn by the person, not the cheetah.

I have decided not to style the hair in a historically accurate manner just to save us all the pain. I’ve kept the long elven hair for all our sanity.

The szlachta costume consisted of the żupan, kontusz or delia, hat, szabla, pas kontuszowy and, optionally, a cloak/mantle/animal skin.

The żupan was the button-up shirt of the ensemble. It showed a bit at the chest and sometimes the sleeve. It often had buttons. It could also be worn alone, if you were poor. Here, Maedhros, Maglor and Curufin are wearing żupans. Maglor’s has fancy puffed sleeves.

The kontusz (no one here is wearing a delia) was an overcoat with often oversized slashed sleeves, called false sleeves. They could also be sleeveless. Here, Maedhros, Caranthir and Celegorm wear the sleeved variant. Mags is wearing the sleeveless variant.

The hat had to be worn by all polite gentlemen, which is why Celegorm isn’t wearing one. They generally had one or two feathers in them. I can’t find the name for them. Konfederatka springs to mind but I’m not sure that’s the actual name.

The szabla is the most important part of the ensemble. The middle ground between fancy dueling rapier and crusader sword, the szabla is most effective on and off horse and can be wielded as honorably or dishonorably as one likes. Truly the most versatile weapon to grace Middle-Earth, save perhaps the rolling pin.

Cloaks were worn for warmth (gee, thanks, whoda thunk) and were often made in part of a thick, warm hide, wool, and sometimes finer materials like something that looks like immensely heavy velvet were wasted on them.

Speaking of fabric, the rich man’s żupan was commonly made of silk brocade. The kontusz was also silk, generally lined in part with fur for winter, or with a complementary lining that was shown by the false sleeves, standing collar, or a particularly vindictive swish. Here, the characters are wearing mostly russet, brown, gold and black. Very festive of them, as it’s just coming up on fall!

Now on to character notes!

Maedhros is dressed the most historically accurate by a slim margin. He turned out quite a bit lighter here than I anticipated, for whatever reason.

Maglor is holding a suka (I know), an instrument sort of like a lap violin, evidently. Those puffy sleeves were a real thing. They just *screamed* Mags. Those aren’t even a particularly egregious example, if you can believe it.

Celegorm’s armor is actually not that far from an actual hussar, minus the wings and gold trim. Instead of a cross, I’ve included the Fëanorion star. In this universe, his cheetah drape has been affectionately named ‘Curvo’ and wears a hat that his namesake wore as a child. Tyelko’s shitty diadem is a quirk of his character and not something that was ever worn. (Fun meme: Celegorm invents the diadem by accident because he can’t get his tooth necklace over his big fuck-off hair).

That all-black outfit Caranthir is wearing is present in two paintings I can think of, and several photographs. Why doesn’t he win most accurate? That’s a mail shirt peeking out of his collar.

Curufin is wearing a wolfskin named Tyelko and branded on the paws with his insignia and his father’s. That hat is a bit more Russian than Polish, but eh, whatevs. This whole post is a middle finger to anyone who cares about Polish costume at this point anyway, everything’s all over the place and not the least accurate. Pengolodh would have my head.

The Ambarussa are tragically absent. They were both burnt at Losgar in this universe (actually I just ran out of space on the page).

Anyway, I’m feeling entirely too proud of what I’ve done here, so let’s say I stop the self aggrandizement now and let you notice the two or three fun details that remain (assuming fuckin anybody sees this post, lol). How about some other Finwions when I get around to this again? Could be Tuesday, could be November, we’ll just have to see.

[feanor]

@oneringnet favourite relationships event — celegorm & aredhel (platonic)

he remembers • 1107 words

summary • celegorm learns of aredhel’s death and reflects

Ao3

Warning: Major Character Death

-

Celegorm remembers the first time he met Aredhel. They had been at a ‘family reunion’ (Finwë’s attempt at pretending his family all got along; no one had the heart to begrudge him) (that didn’t mean that their atars didn’t fight) and he had been trying to tie the string to his bow (a gift from his eldest brother, who had grown out of it). He’d been failing miserably, unable to hold the bow and tie the knot at the same it, when Aredhel had walked up to him and asked if he needed her to hold the bow. He had known his father didn’t like Aredhel’s father, as evidenced by their fighting very, very loudly, but he’d figured it wouldn’t hurt to be friends with Ñolofinwë’s daughter, so he accepted. Besides, Maitimo was friends with Findekáno, so what could it hurt? He’d handed her the bow, tying the knot while she held it firmly and steadily.

“Do you like to hunt?” he had asked when she twanged the drawstring, mimicking the sound of an arrow wooshing through the air.

“Yes!” she had said, giggling.

They’d been best friends ever since.

-

Celegorm remembers the first hunting trip they went on together. They had both worried about what their fathers (fighting, as ever), would think of them going hunting together (this was illogical, he thinks, Maedhros and Fingon had been hunting together long before then), so they had asked their mothers, who had agreed so long as they promised to be safe. They’d agreed immediately.

(later, Celegorm remembers, his father had come into his room and told him that he didn’t care who his hunting partners were, so long as they were competent. And, he had added, eyes shining, he had heard Aredhel was quite good with a bow)

(by Eru, he misses when his father was good like that. but that’s not important right now.)

They had gone overnight in the forests, not scared of anything because how could they be? Their best friend was right beside them, watching their back. They had stayed up late, lying on the ground, laughing together as they looked up at the stars, talking about everything from proper hunting techniques to Maitimo and Findekáno’s relationship to ‘why can’t our fathers just get along?’.

The next morning, Aredhel had shot a little squirrel. He had felt so proud, they walked home beaming. It had been one of the happiest adventures of his life.

-

Celegorm remembers the first time they fought. He had made a passive-aggressive comment about Ñolofinwë (something that tended to happen the more time you spent with his atar), she had made a passive-aggressive comment about the silmarils and all of a sudden they were screaming at each other in the middle of the forest, no holding back.

“At least my father loves me more than he loves some stupid gems!” Aredhel had screamed at him, and he had flinched so hard he dropped his bow. He felt like he had been slapped, the truth to her words laid bare in front of him.

He had known, of course, how his father was losing himself to the silmarils, but hearing the words from his best friend had made it real in a way it’d never been before.

“Tyelkormo?” she had asked, harsh tone disappearing in favour of a softer, worried one, as he stood frozen, tears streaming down his face. “Tyelkormo, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it-”

“It’s true, though,” he mumbled. “He spends all his time… locked up in his forge with those stupid silmarils and he doesn’t even come out to say goodnight and I don’t know what to do Írissë I just want him to be my atar again.” He had sobbed, crying into Aredhel’s shoulder when she wrapped her arms around him, assuring him that his father loved him (how pathetic, really, that his father couldn’t tell him that himself). The reassurance had been enough, for then.

“I’m sorry I was being a jerk,” he had said after his tears had dried. “I shouldn’t have said that stuff about Ñolofinwë.”

“I’m sorry, too,” she had replied.

When they fought after that, they left their families out of it.

-

Celegorm remembers how Aredhel cried for him after he swore his father’s oath. He remembers drying her tears, telling her there was nothing to be upset about. He and his brothers and his father would sail east, to Arda, take the silmarils back and they would come home.

“We’ll be back before you know it,” he had said, right before his uncle announced that he, too, would be joining them on their quest and all three of Aredhel’s brothers would also come along.

“See, look,” he said, watching Maitimo and Findekáno hug at the news. “Your father isn’t an irrational man, he wouldn’t risk your brothers’ lives if this weren’t a simple mission.”

She had nodded, taking a shaky breath and announced that she was coming too. He spun her around and smiled, glad for his dearest friend agreeing to join them.

-

Celegorm remembers the women did not take part in the Kinslaying at Alqualondë and he is grateful that she had no blood on her hands (he does, and he hates it).

-

Celegorm remembers the burning of the ships. He had known that the only other way to get across to Arda was through the Helcaraxë and he had wondered if his father had truly gone out of his mind.

“What about Írissë?” he had shouted, complementing Maitimo’s outraged ‘What about Findekáno?’ quite nicely.

“My sons,” Fëanáro had said, holding his hands out to appease them. “The point is not to force my brother and his people to go over the Ice, but rather to get them to go home.”

Maitimo had protested still, but he (foolishly) had believed him.

When he had found out that Fingolfin and his peoples had crossed the Ice anyways and that many of them, Arakáno included, had perished, he had been sick to his stomach.

-

Celegorm remembers coming back home and finding he had just missed Aredhel. He had been disappointed, but he had understood why she had left so soon, come and gone without seeing him. The inability to stay in one place for too long was something that they both knew rather well.

He understood why she had done it. He still wished he could have seen her again (one last time).

-

Now, Celegorm tosses aside the memories of his best friend, his Írissë, his Aredhel. They hurt too much when he gets the news.

Aredhel is no longer someone he will ever make memories with again.

Aredhel is gone.

[elesianne]

A Silmarillion fanfic

Summary: As a child Caranthir loves quiet mornings and Celegorm loves getting up early, so of course they fight at the breakfast table. Sometimes there are casualties, but luckily they can be fixed with a little help from brothers and a few stolen tools.

Tag-type thingies: rating: General audiences; characters: Caranthir, Celegorm, Maedhros, Maglor, Curufin, Fëanor; some keywords: brothers, kid Fëanorions, family drama/angst/fluff

A/N: I feel a bit bad making Celegorm the 'villain' of a Caranthir-centred piece again, so let me assure you that I don't think Celegorm is always a little devil towards Caranthir or his brothers in general – just some of the time. When they are children Moryo likes cats and Tyelco likes dogs, and they fight like cats and dogs much of the time.

I don't know anything about mechanical toys, so please suspend your disbelief if my ignorance makes it necessary.

Many thanks to @maedhrosrussandol for looking this over and spotting my mistakes! Any that remain are probably ones I inserted afterwards while editing.

(Also posted on AO3 etc.)

*

Brothers and other beasts

Mornings are the time of day when Morifinwë likes his family the least. He is slow to wake up, and his brothers and sometimes even his parents irritate him by behaving noisily when he is still half-asleep and trying to rouse enough to eat his breakfast.

And then at the breakfast table, Maitimo and Macalaurë converse much too spiritedly with each other and with their parents, and Macalaurë often finishes his breakfast first to squeeze in a little practise before leaving for his music lesson. Moryo doesn't understand why he is allowed to do it in the room next to the breakfast room with the door open. There's quite enough noise there already without Macalaurë's playing and singing drifting in.

But the worst source of noise, and the worst irritant of Moryo's mornings, is Tyelcormo. Like his recently given mother-name attests, Tyelco is a morning person, always the first up of the family, even before baby Curufinwë who like most infants is fond of beginning his day early by screaming for food and attention.

Moryo hopes that Curvo will also turn out to be a morning person, or at least that Tyelco will go bang on his door at an unacceptable time before breakfast and no longer on Moryo's, which he still does even though Moryo has shouted at him many times to go away to bother someone else. Maitimo and Macalaurë are not as early risers as Tyelco but they are not quite as grumpy in the mornings as Moryo either.

Which is why Moryo can't understand why Tyelcormo has to bother him, of all people, at the breakfast table on so many mornings. Surely Tyelco should know by now, when Moryo hasn't been a baby for many years, that he wants to eat his porridge and fruit in peace.

'Shut up, Tyelco', he snaps when his next eldest brother asks him for the second time if Moryo will come see the neighbours' puppies with him. 'I already told you, not today. Mama promised to let me try making something of my own on her pottery wheel.'

'Mother isn't home yet, so we could go before she returns if we finish our breakfast quickly', Tyelco says and casts a beseeching look at Athyallë, their nurse who is supervising breakfast this morning. Their parents are at an early meeting with grandfather Finwë at the palace.

Moryo rubs at his eyes that still feel like they want to stay closed, not take in the bright golden light in the breakfast room, and he wishes that Tyelco were not sitting right next to him. 'I told you no. What is wrong with your stupid ears?'

'Boys', warns Athyallë but neither of the quarrelling brothers heeds her warning.

'You're just scared of the puppies, I bet', says Tyelco, his mouth set in a sour, stubborn line. 'You're a little scaredy-cat yourself.'

'I am not!'

'A little red-faced scaredy-cat', Tyelco taunts him.

Moryo clenches his hands into fists and stares hard at his plate of fruit. Mama and Papa have explained that he mustn't let Tyelco's taunting incite him to violence, because hitting one's brother is wrong. Moryo wishes it weren't so very hard not to. Somewhere in the background he can hear the nurse chastising Tyelco and possibly consoling him, but he can't even make out the words through the haze of anger around him.

Then Tyelco makes a meowing noise, apparently not hearing the scolding either, and Moryo swings at him, earning a loud 'Moryo!' from Maitimo and a shocked 'Morifinwë!' from Athyallë.

Moryo's swing only catches Tyelco's shoulder, but he knows it is enough to earn a punishment. He jumps down from his chair to run to his own room; he'd be sent there anyway.

'You're forgetting this!' shouts Tyelco and throws something after him. Moryo turns back to catch it but he is too late and the object falls on the floor with a loud crashing sound that worries Moryo.

Slowly he bends to pick it up. It is the emerald-eyed copper cat that his father gave him on his recent begetting day. The cat is the nicest thing that Moryo owns, and he brought it to the breakfast table because baby Curvo likes watching it in the morning treelight, and because Moryo himself is very proud of it and of his papa's beautiful workmanship.

The cat has a clever mechanism inside by which its tail swishes when one strokes its ears, but as soon as Moryo lifts it from the floor and hears a tinkle he knows it's broken. Despondently he tries anyway, just in case, to make the tail move, but it doesn't. One of the ears is crooked, too.

'I'm sorry, I didn't mean to', says Tyelco who has also left his place at the table and stands staring, wide-eyed, at his little brother and his broken toy. 'Moryo–'

'I hate you', Moryo shouts at his most hateful brother, and runs to the refuge of his own room.

*

If there was a lock on his door he would lock it, and indeed he has petitioned is parents for one to be fitted, but they say that he is too young for it.

So Moryo just shuts the door with as loud a bang as he can manage and crawls into the space in the corner between his desk and wardrobe, a spot which is getting too small for him but remains the best hiding place in his room as long as he can squeeze himself in there.

Tears burn at his eyes as he cradles the broken cat in his arms. He promised his father that he would take good care of it, that he was old enough to be trusted with something so precious. And even though it was Tyelco's fault that the cat broke, Moryo knows that father will be disappointed in him as well. If he hadn't lost his temper and hit Tyelco first–

No, he will not cry. He is old enough to not do that, at least. Stubbornly he rubs away the threatening tears and swallows past the lump in his throat, and holds on to his anger instead.

Soon he hears the door of his room opening, and though he can't see the person from his spot in the corner, he guesses who it is.

'Moryo', says Maitimo gently, and his long legs enter Moryo's field of vision.

'Go away.'

'You're upset.' Instead of going away Maitimo sits down in front of Moryo's hiding place and pokes his head in. 'Mother and father are going to be away for a while longer, and Curvo is fussing so the nurse is busy. But I'm here, for a while anyway before I have to leave for my lessons.'

Moryo doesn't say anything, just stares at his own feet that are still clad in slippers because he had been too sleepy to dress properly before breakfast.

'Tyelco apologised, you know, and I sent him to his room as well. He's not going to see those puppies today.'

Unexpectedly this doesn't make Moryo feel any better, and he still doesn't say anything.

Maitimo sighs. 'I'm sure that your cat can be repaired. Father made it, of course he can make it work again.'

'I told you to go away', says Moryo who doesn't want to explain to his eldest brother how it twists his stomach to think of the disappointed look he'll see in their father's eyes when he finds out that Moryo hadn't been responsible and sensible enough to take care of his fine gift.

Surely Maitimo, who excels in his studies and rides as well as grown men and gets along with everyone without ever losing his temper uncontrollably like Moryo seems to do every day, doesn't even know the terrible weight of disappointing Fëanáro.

'I just want to help. Talk to me, Moryo', Maitimo asks, and his kind tone is the only reason Moryo doesn't snarl his answer.

'I don't want to talk', he says. 'Please go to your lessons now, Maitimo.'

A pat on Moryo's knee and Maitimo is gone, though Moryo hears him hesitate for a moment at the door before he strides down the hallway.

*

The next one to arrive is Macalaurë who stops by Moryo's room before leaving for his music tutor's house.

He knows Moryo's hiding places as well as Maitimo, but instead of coming to the corner where Moryo still sulks, Macalaurë sits cross-legged on his brother's bed and strums the lute he is already carrying with him.

'Not that song, I don't like it.'

Macalaurë smiles, knowing his irate little brother can't see it. 'Which song, then?'

Moryo tells him, and Macalaurë obediently plays it. At the end of the song he says, 'I'll come home to practise after my lesson. You can come to my room then if you want to listen. Or talk.'

Moryo likes both of his oldest two brothers since they are not as annoying and terrible as Tyelcormo, but he rather prefers Macalaurë because he doesn't try to make him talk, just tells him that he can if he wants to.

'Have a good lesson', Moryo says, his anger slowly evaporating, and Macalaurë plays one last note for him as a goodbye.

Moryo starts thinking about the mechanism inside the cat and whether he could perhaps fix it himself… But he finds himself getting sleepy sitting in his quiet corner now that his anger doesn't burn so hot anymore.

*

Tyelcormo doesn't come through the door; he arrives by the window that no one has closed after it was opened to let in fresh morning air, and he startles drowsing Moryo.

When he hears the clatter that Tyelco's clambering in through the window and jumping down from the sill makes, Moryo sticks his head out of his hiding place.

'I thought you'd been told to stay in your room', he says grumpily but not very angrily because Tyelco looks very contrite.

'I was. But Maitimo was too busy to remember to lock my window, and Athyallë always underestimates our cleverness. So I escaped that way and came through the garden.' Tyelco takes an apple from his pocket and rolls it along the floor to Moryo's corner. 'You didn't finish your breakfast.'

Moryo takes the apple, wipes it on his shirt and bites into it since he is indeed hungry.

'Are you going to tell on me? That I left my room?' Tyelco plays with the hem of his tunic, pretending not to care.

'Why did you come here?' asks Moryo. The apple is delicious, tangy yet sweet and still warm from the bright light of a late summer's morning.

'I wanted to apologise again. I'm really sorry I broke your cat. I know you care about it a lot, and I didn't mean to break it. I was just really angry.'

'I know.' Moryo touches the copper cat's crooked ear. He knows how Tyelco felt because he was just as angry himself. It's the way they are so similar in this, he and Tyelco, and so different in other ways, that makes it difficult to get along.

'I'm not going to tell on you', he says after a moment, at the same time as Tyelco says, 'I can try to fix it for you–'

Both boys stop speaking; Tyelcormo begins again first. 'If I manage to fix it you won't have to tell Papa.'

'That would be good', says Moryo, even though telling their father would get Tyelco into more trouble than it would him. 'I've been thinking about it myself – you're not that much better at fine mechanics than I am, you know. I have a few tools here in my room, enough to open up the cat, and perhaps we could… but you will get into trouble if someone finds out you're not in your room.'

Tyelcormo looks a little hesitant. 'Maybe I will stay here for just a little while, to help you get started.'

Moryo crawls out of his hiding place and sets the cat on the floor between himself and Tyelco. They investigate the toy and discuss what to do, and soon come to the conclusion that Moryo doesn't have enough tools secreted away in his room to complete the necessary repairs.

'I know where father keeps his home toolbox', Tyelco says with a determined look. 'And it's not in a locked room right now. I can go get what we need from there.'

'If you get caught, you'll be in a lot of trouble', Moryo reminds him. 'Father doesn't like us touching his things without permission.'

'It will be my act of penance to do this for you', says Tyelcormo, mimicking the pompous manner Macalaurë sometimes assumes, and it is almost enough to make Moryo smile for the first time this morning. 'And I am good at sneaking anyway', Tyelco adds.

Moryo opens up the cat while Tyelco is gone and determines that he can probably set the little cogs and gears inside the cat back in place if his brother manages to secure the right tools. But oh, how sad the cat looks split in two. Moryo strokes its shining copper-wire whiskers and promises it that it will be all right again soon.

Tyelco returns after a short time, carrying both the tools and baby Curufinwë.

'What did you bring him here for?' Moryo hisses, quietly because the door is still open. He closes it while Tyelco sets both of his burdens down on the floor.

'I ran into him in the hallway and he grabbed my leg, I had to bring him or he would have started making noise.'

Moryo eyes his baby brother suspiciously but to his relief, Curufinwë doesn't look like he's about to eat the small parts on the floor. He just sits and looks at them keenly, making noises that are almost but not quite words.

'He must have escaped nurse too. But she is going to come looking for him pretty soon, he's too small to be left to wander around the house alone.' Tyelcormo looks rather uneasy now, and Moryo decides to be kind to him.

'You have done your act of penance, you can go back to your own room before Athyallë finds you here', Moryo says. 'I can fix the cat on my own now that I have the tools, and I'll keep an eye on Curvo.'

He has very recently been granted the dubious honour of being allowed to look after the baby on his own for short periods of time. He is not sure whether it is because he has been deemed responsible enough, or because Curvo has grown big enough to not be very easily breakable anymore.

'Good', says Tyelco, and he is on the windowsill before Moryo can even blink. 'I'll see you later', and then he is already gone.

'You are very good at sneaking around, too', Moryo remarks to the baby as he chooses one of the delicate tools and begins to set the little pieces inside the cat in their own places. 'Not good enough to fool mother, of course, since she seems to have eyes on her back. And you never escape from father, do you?'

Curufinwë makes an insistent noise and points at the shiny metal piece in Moryo's hand.

'Do you want to know what this is?' Moryo asks, and Curvo lets out a yelp that could charitably be interpreted as 'yes'.

So Moryo explains what he is doing while he repairs the cat. It takes him much longer to do so than it would his father, but he is confident that he will eventually succeed in getting all the little pieces to stay in the right place at the same time.

*

That is how the nurse finds them a little later, sitting on the floor with the disembowelled toy cat between them, Curufinwë's bright eyes following every movement of Morifinwë's hands.

'Just don't let him eat any glue', says the nurse, and then the exasperated woman has already left to go do laundry before Moryo can say that he isn't using glue.

'If I was then the mechanism wouldn't work, of course', he explains to Curufinwë instead.

Moryo has just put the halves of the cat's body back together and is testing the tail-swishing mechanism when his father appears at the door.

'How has your morning been, Morifinwë?' Fëanáro frowns but his tone is friendly enough. He joins his sons on the floor and lifts Curufinwë onto his lap. 'I heard that there was some unpleasantness at breakfast.'

'It's fine now.' The cat seems to be in perfect working order, so Moryo lifts his gaze to his father. 'I figured out how the mechanism works, Papa.'

'Did you now? I expected it to take you a while longer. Well done.' Fëanáro isn't one for excessive praise, but he runs his hands through Moryo's messy hair in a gentle gesture. 'Well done for looking after Curvo, too.'

'He was quiet and still and just watched what I did so it was easy', Moryo says, his face glowing for something other than anger for once. It is not such a bad morning after all.

*

A/N: Some people may have noticed that I have developed quite a big soft spot for Caranthir...

Thank you for reading! If you liked little Moryo and his brothers' antics, please let me know :)

[sweetteaanddragons]

And Love Repaid

When he eventually returned them, Gil-Galad would accuse him of kidnapping the twins which Maglor thought was rather unfair. He was guilty of many crimes and had written a song that admitted to most of them, but kidnapping was still a crime that belonged solely to two of his brothers. Kidnapping required intent and a removal of someone from people or places they were supposed to be with, and by the time he’d found the twins, there was none of the latter, and he was barely in a state of mind sufficient to intend to keep walking forward, much less anything so complicated as kidnapping.

Kidnapping also failed to fully appreciate what had actually happened, although to be fair to Gil-Galad, only Maglor and the twins knew what had actually happened, and the twins had quite possibly forgotten. Maglor had never told anyone because it wouldn’t have been fair to the twins to tell the story that way, since - Since -

Since when most people heard what had happened, they pictured Maglor finding them quite intentionally and making the calculated decision to take them while the twins screamed and cried and struggled.

While what had actually happened was - 

Elrond had been crying, actually, which was quite understandable even setting aside what had happened to Sirion because his leg was pinned beneath a fallen rafter and was most certainly broken. Elros had been futilely tugging on the rafter. Given that he was six years old and small for his age, he had not been having much luck.

Maglor might have walked right past them, not for any reason, good or bad, but simply because in the blank numbness that came from the fact that two more brothers were dead, another city was sacked, and still they had nothing, he was in no real state to notice them.

Elros, however, was shouting at the top of his lungs for help, and when that didn’t manage to pierce through Maglor’s fog, he came over and started tugging demandingly on his clothes.

It was entirely understandable, really. Maglor was so covered in filth that it was impossible to tell that he was in Feanorian red, and the boy was six. He had no doubt been told that if ever he was in trouble to find the nearest adult. Likely no one had anticipated that the closest adult would ever be a kinslayer.

So Maglor had done the only thing he could, really, and lifted the beam and then sang healing and painlessness to Elrond in a soft lullaby as he lifted him up in his arms. Elros had latched determinedly onto his cloak, and it was only then that Maglor realized that whatever Elros had seen, it had already been more than enough, and he shouldn’t have to see more. 

He crouched down and said, “You can climb on my back if you like,” and Elros had, and he’d even obeyed Maglor’s instruction to tuck his head down so he couldn’t see.

Elros hadn’t stopped talking the whole way back to the ruins of the main square where the remnants of their army was gathering - About how long Elrond had been there, what all Elros had tried to get the beam off, about how Elrond had only screamed the once when the beam first fell and never after that, about how that was a nice song Maglor was singing, only it wasn’t the one their mother sang when they were sick, that one went like this -

To this day, Maglor wasn’t sure if Elros hadn’t understood what was going on or had understood but been in shock. He never asked about it because - 

Well, because the typical image in people’s minds, of Maglor carrying off two valiantly fighting princes, one under each arm with a scowl on his face was easier for most elves, narratively speaking. Because it captured the core roles of each of the players better than the truth, which was that Elros hadn’t even known to be afraid until they reached the square and he’d looked up and hissed, “No, the other way, the bad men are there - “ before Maedhros, with relief in his eyes, had greeted Maglor, and Elros had understood.

He’d grown very, very still on Maglor’s back and then said, in a voice that shook remarkably little for a boy his age, “But I don’t want to die in the woods,” like that would make all of this somehow go away.

Maedhros had gone stiff.

Maglor had said, very firmly, “You aren’t going to die. In the woods or anywhere else.”

Which in hindsight had been a stupid claim to make, given everything, but it had been the truth for as long as Maglor had watched over them, and that was more than he normally got.

Later, most of those closest to him would come to Elrond with some variation of the same question: Why didn’t you tell me you were looking for Maglor again?

The answer, which he explained calmly, patiently, and above all repeatedly was that he hadn’t been. If he had, he very much doubted he would have found him.

He had looked for Maglor throughout much of the Second Age and had finally been forced to conclude that his foster-father had died in the sinking of Beleriand, or, if not then, in the later wars against Sauron. It was the only explanation he could think of for why no one had heard even a whisper of him. The Sons of Feanor were many things, but unobtrusive had never been one of them.

That Maglor would avoid Gil-Galad’s camp he understood; that he would avoid the remnants of his and his brother’s followers, Celebrimbor, Elros, and Elrond himself . . . That was less comprehensible.

He and Celebrimbor rarely spoke of him directly but given that Celebrimbor was not nearly as done with the house of Feanor as he sometimes claimed, Elrond did have to wonder -

- Well, Celebrimbor had been proud and had kept his family colors, and had been determined not to repeat his grandfather’s mistakes and so had trusted freely, and had, at the end, not gotten along with Galadriel, probably due to Sauron’s influence. One exhausted conversation was not enough to jump to any conclusions about just how desperate Celebrimbor might have been to cling to the last reachable remnant of his immediate family.

Regardless, the point was, Elrond hadn’t been looking for Maglor. He’d been looking for orcs.

He ended up finding both.

The general story that spread the quickest was that Elrond and the patrol that was with him had rescued Maglor from the orcs; the slightly subversive story he’d heard whispered suggested it was the other way around. The truth was not nearly so clear cut.

They had fought, hard and fierce until Elrond was forced to spring off his wounded horse and wade into the fray, and that was about the point that he’d noticed that there was one more elf whirling through their foes than there should have been.

Maglor wasn’t singing. If he’d been singing, Elrond would have recognized him at once. Instead, he was cutting his way towards Elrond with grim determination until they were fighting back to back. 

And then all the orcs were dead and Erestor, who meant well but did not always think quite as much as Elrond would wish before he spoke, said in a voice of incredulous accusation, “Maglor?”

Elrond turned to face his foster-father - Scarred, starved, and dressed in little more than rags but still with the light of Aman bright in his manic eyes.

For a frozen moment Elrond was sure the last son of Feanor would bolt, or that the wary positioning of elvish swords would provoke one last fevered kinslaying.

Instead, Maglor allowed his sword to fall from his hand onto the bloodstained beach. His knees hit the sand seconds after it, and he stayed there, silent and unseeing, until someone finally thought to move. 

“Are spiders edible?” Maglor asked with weary hope as he let himself into Maedhros’s tent.

“No,” Maedhros said without looking up from cleaning his weapon, but for a moment he sounded like the older brother Maglor still remembered instead of the brittle iron he’d been forced to become. He finally looked up with a frown. “I haven’t had to answer that question since the Ambarussa were seven. Why do you ask?”

“Because the scouts found a nest of them to the north of us,” Maglor said, “and we’re running out of other options.”

Maedhros’s face darkened. “Ah. That kind of spider.” He looked away. “It is . .  . possible,” he said. “But I would not at all recommend it. Ungoliant’s children devour hope as easily as their mother did light, and ingesting them only internalizes the problem, as it were.”

Maglor didn’t ask when Maedhros had learned this. He didn’t have to. Maedhros only got that look on his face when thinking of one forbidden period of time.

“He enjoys killing them as much as we do,” Maedhros said distantly. “I suppose it allows him to feel superior to Her.” Maedhros shook himself and some of the brittleness faded from his eyes. “We’ll keep heading south. There will be more to hunt there.”

They hoped, at least, much good it would do them. They could never stay south not long, not when their father’s gems called them from the north. 

“Until then, we’ll just have to cut rations again,” Maedhros went on, and Maglor was forced to step in.

“The twins are barely getting enough as it is,” he pointed out. He had seen some of the children of Men who had been given too little to eat. Seen how it had twisted their bodies and stunted their growth. He would not allow the same to happen to the children under his care.

“We will move quickly,” Maedhros promised. It was all he had to offer.

Maglor shut his mouth, nodded, and left to tell the quartermaster.

The twins’ rations were not cut. He cut the extra out of his own until Maedhros noticed and began to share a bit of his so that the difference would not be so great. Not long after, the rest of the camp noticed, and then they all went with a bit less to make sure that their bright gleams of hope endured.

But when rations had to be cut yet again, even the children had to make do with less. Maglor sang to distract them from their hunger, and it worked, more or less.

“You have to eat,” Elrond said quietly. 

Maglor just sat on the bedroll he had been given. If he recognized the bowl of soup in front of him as food, he gave no sign of it.

Whatever force had propelled Maglor to survive all these years on his own seemed to have deserted him now. Elrond was determined to call it back.

He began humming a song he’d not heard in an Age or more. Maglor used to sing it during mealtimes when food was scarce, and he hoped that somewhere Maglor would still associate the sound with hunger.

Maglor’s fingers twitched as if reaching for the strings of a harp to accompany it.

But he at last looked at the bowl and began to eat.

The cloak had once been as red as the flames of his father’s forge. By now, the color had dulled, and it was tattered besides, but it was still thick and long. Long enough that if he cut it carefully, he could, perhaps, manage to make two cloaks of it, one for each tiny elfling.

That would, of course, leave him without a cloak, a prospect that even an elf did not relish when faced with the Enemy’s bitter winters, but there wasn’t enough cloth to make two new cloaks, however small, without sacrificing something old. Elves bore the cold better than men did; who knew how the half-elven would fare? Elrond and Elros would need cloaks far more than he did, and he had not been overly fond of warmth since the Dagor Bragollach in any case.

It was, he determined quickly, the right decision. Even with their new cloaks, the twins grew cold quickly as the days shortened until it grew bitter enough to outweigh their fear and they took to pressing up against him to soak up whatever warmth they could.

He convinced Maedhros to help him hunt down enough beasts and cure enough fur to line their cloaks so they wouldn’t have to. 

The shivering lessened, but they kept doing it anyway, and Maglor couldn’t really claim to mind.

Elrond was almost of a height with Maglor now, so it was his own clothing he raided to give Maglor something better to wear for the ride back to Imladris. 

“You don’t owe him this,” Erestor pointed out from behind him. “You don’t owe him anything.”

Elrond wasn’t sure if that was true or not. He supposed it depended on your perspective. Regardless -

“It was never about owing.”

Elrond hadn’t cried since his leg had first broken. Maglor was fairly sure that wasn’t healthy. Elros had, some. Angry tears, mostly, but other, quiet ones too when he thought he was alone with his too silent brother. Elrond didn’t. 

Not until that winter, curled up against Maglor, right after Maglor had started a cheery song about home.

Maglor’s voice faltered

“Don’t stop,” Elrond whispered.

Maglor sang on.

Elrond hadn’t meant to let his composure slip in front of Maglor, but there was only so long it could hold before that blank mask.

“Ada,” he whispered, voice breaking a little. He started to turn away so that Maglor wouldn’t see his over-full eyes.

But he saw a flicker of movement and stopped.

Maglor had frowned and then -

Then he started humming, every note still perfect, and Elrond recognized it as one that sang of home.

[elesianne]

A Silmarillion fanfic, chapter 1

I’ve written a lot of stuff during the last week but this is the first thing I completed, so have a bit of Maedhros/Fingon!

(Also posted on AO3)

Summary: Fingon and Maedhros can't declare their love publicly, but in private they find many ways to celebrate their devotion to each other.

And things like colours and emblems are important for elf lords.

Chapter 1 summary: Two young lovers celebrate their first anniversary, open with their affections behind closed curtains.

Tag-type thingies: rating: Mature audiences; relationships: Maedhros/Fingon; some keywords: romance, secret relationship, some humour, light fluff, making out, implied sexual content

A/N:I had the idea for this fic when making plans for anniversary celebrations with my boyfriend, though we are no Noldor princelings and thus celebrated our anniversary somewhat differently from Maedhros and Fingon.

This fic is fairly light-hearted and humorous, and probably the sexiest thing I've written so far? Still nothing explicit, because if I'm working my way towards writing smut one day, I'm doing it very slowly.

*

Your colours

Tirion on a summer's day during Years of the Trees    

The first kiss of the night is breathless for both Maitimo and Findekáno, if for different reasons. Findekáno is breathless after running across the garden and climbing up a tree and then jumping to Maitimo's window, and Maitimo is breathless just out of anticipation and worry.

'I'm always worried you're going to fall. I know you have been climbing trees all your life, but what if one day your jump is too short?' Maitimo whispers against Findekáno's lips, unwilling to let go of the kiss but also feeling a need to make his concerns known.

Findekáno entwines his hands in Maitimo's hair, long and red and left to flow freely down Maitimo's back just like Findekáno likes. 'Then my screaming while I fall will scare your baby brothers and the unholy racket they will undoubtedly make will allow me to make a swift and undignified exit from your parents' garden, picking out thorns from my backside.'

'I had the rosebush moved away from under my window, there are no thorns there now', Maitimo says distractedly as Findekáno's strong fingers massage his scalp to relax him.

'So you've even taken precautions! All is well.'

Findekáno pulls Maitimo in for another kiss but Maitimo opens his mouth to speak at that very moment, and the kiss turns to spluttering.

'What now?' Findekáno sighs, his patience fraying.

'What if you don't fall on your backside, what if you fall on your head–

'My head has sustained worse than a fall into a soft flowerbed from the second floor. It can withstand a lot, you know that. Just like my backside.' Findekáno wiggles a brow, and Maitimo cannot help but blush and chortle at the terrible innuendo.

'Now, if we are done with your fussing, let's move on to more pleasant matters.' Findekáno bends down to pick up a parcel he dropped in his hurry to kiss Maitimo.

Maitimo wants to protest the word 'fussing' but before he can do so, Findekáno is passing the parcel to him.

'What's this?' Maitimo turns it in his hands. Whatever it is, it is light and soft, wrapped in linen and tied with a golden ribbon like the ones in Findekáno's hair.

'An anniversary gift.' Findekáno's smile is uncharacteristically diffident.

'Anniversary of what?' Maitimo asks, the dread of having forgotten something important creeping in.

'The day you finally let me kiss you.' Findekáno shrugs with a studied nonchalance that fools few, and never Maitimo.

'Oh', is all that Maitimo can think to say.

It had been a rainy day and the drops of water in Findekáno's hair sprayed onto Maitimo's face when Findekáno whirled around and kissed Maitimo after Maitimo admitted in half-choked words that he wanted it as much as Findekáno did. Findekáno had already been turning away from him, about to give up on persuading his cousin that it was all right to act on the feelings they shared.

Now every time it rains, Maitimo remembers that first kiss, the smell of summer rain in the air and the coolness of Findekáno's skin that soon turned to searing heat as they kissed like their hearts would break if they stopped clinging to each other…

But Maitimo hadn't remembered that today is the anniversary of that day, and he feels terrible. 'I'm so sorry, Finno, I don't have anything for you.'

'It's all right, I know you've been absurdly busy lately', Findekáno says, and his smile convinces Maitimo that he means it. 'Your gift to me will be seeing you wearing my gift.'

Brows raised, Maitimo begins to unravel the gold ribbon. Wrapped in the linen is a garment of much finer fabric, finest silk that flows through Maitimo's fingers like water, cool and smooth.

It is a dressing robe, beautiful and luxurious, perfect for lazy summer days – not that Maitimo has much time to laze around – and it is a deep blue, like the sapphires Findekáno's father is fond of, with gold trimming at the sleeves and collar and a golden sash.

'It's in your colours.' Maitimo strokes the fine fabric. Blue for Nolofinwë, and gold for Findekáno himself; these are the colours Findekáno has chosen as his own.

Findekáno nods, his gaze intense. 'Put it on.'

A year has been just about enough to make Maitimo able to strip in front of his lover without getting self-conscious. The way Findekáno looks at him in those moments, or how eager he is to do it himself, makes Maitimo feel more worthy of his mother-name than any amount of praise from others ever could.

This time Findekáno doesn't rush to tear off Maitimo's clothes; he closes the heavy curtains and then leans against a wall and watches, the warm flickering light of candles reflected in his eyes.

It feels like such a waste to put on clothes when he is looking at me like that, Maitimo reflects, but Findekáno asked, so he pulls on the new robe as soon as he has shed his old clothes.

Maitimo glances at the mirror on the far wall. He is not used to seeing himself in this shade of blue, and the contrast between the deep colour and his pale, freckled skin and reddish hair is startling. He ties the sash and considers going to take a closer look at his reflection. But this moment is for Findekáno, not for himself, so he clears his throat and asks, 'Does it look like you thought it would?'

'It looks even better than I imagined.' Finally Findekáno comes to Maitimo and touches him, glides his fingertips across his silk-covered chest. Maitimo shivers when his lover presses his hand over Maitimo's heart; surely Findekáno can feel how it races, and the hardening of a nipple when fingers pass over it caressingly.

'You are very beautiful', Findekáno tells Maitimo.

'Thank you', says Maitimo who has learned that this is the right way to answer; objecting or demurring will only make Findekáno unhappy. 'So is the robe. Thank you for that too, Finno.'

'I'm really glad you like it', Findekáno murmurs and slides his hands down Maitimo's arms now, feeling muscles shift beneath the silk as Maitimo fights to stay still in his excitement.

'It is very short, though', Maitimo observes to distract himself from how marvellous Findekáno's touch feels even through the fabric. He looks down at his knees that the robe leaves bare. 'Shouldn't you have learnt by now how tall I am?'

'Oh, believe me, after a year of standing on my toes to kiss you, I know exactly how tall you are, and I also know how much I like looking at your well-shaped legs.'

Maitimo's lips barely have time to curve into a smile before Findekáno rises up on his toes once again. Maitimo gives up on the smile and gives all of himself to Findekáno instead, stepping closer so their bodies are flush against each other, and he bends his head so Findekáno doesn't have to stretch so much and twines his arms around Findekáno's waist. Findekáno holds him just as tight, his hands again gently twisting in auburn hair, his lips firm and warm and wonderful on Maitimo's.

Their relationship is forbidden and secret, still fairly new too, and sometimes Maitimo fears that it is fragile, but  Findekáno himself is solid and strong, and steady and safe, and Maitimo never doubts a thing when Findekáno holds him.

'I love wearing your colours', he breathes when they finally break the kiss. 'I hate knowing that I will have to keep this beautiful robe hidden most of the time.'

'I know, darling. I hate it too.' Findekáno plays with Maitimo's hair, drawing long locks to flow down the front of the blue robe, enjoying the contrast in colours, and guiding Maitimo towards the bed with gentle nudges at the same time. 'But I think you don't always mind secrecy so much. I'm fairly confident that on a few occasions you have burnt all the hotter for knowing that we might be discovered in a compromising position.'

Aware that Findekáno is trying to raise his spirits, Maitimo makes a show of protesting. 'That is an outrageous accusation, Finno. I really can't remember any such occasions.'

'There was that dinner party in uncle Arafinwë's house where we told everyone that we would go to a tavern together afterwards while our families went home and instead we snuck into a guest bedroom and the lock wouldn't work but you still let me have you on top of that counterpane aunt Eärwen was so proud of embroidering–'

'I didn't want to be discovered; I stuck a chair under the door handle!'

'You didn't choose a very sturdy chair.' Findekáno grins and slides his hands up Maitimo's thighs and under the hem of the robe, a movement made easy by the robe being indecently short. Maitimo's breath catches, and Findekáno drawls, 'Come now, Russandol dear, admit that you burnt hot for me that night.'

'Oh, Valar', replies Maitimo at first, to what Findekáno's hands are doing, and then to his words, 'I always burn for you.'

'Unyielding tonight, are you, unwilling to admit I'm right?  I will persuade you to see things my way.' Findekáno draws his hands up and pushes Maitimo on to the bed.

Maitimo falls back happily and settles on the pleasantly cool sheets. Feeling wanton, he spreads his legs and beckons Findekáno to join him. 'Come here so I can take your clothes off.'

'Quicker if I do it myself', says Findekáno and proceeds to do so while Maitimo laughs, delighting in the mingling of happiness and desire that fills him.

When Findekáno joins him on the bed, kneels between his legs and begins to undo the golden sash of the blue robe, Maitimo draws his hands away.

'I want to have your gift, your colours, on me when you take me', he tells Findekáno and watches his beloved's eyes darken.

'That is more than I dared to hope, and exactly what I meant when I said seeing you wearing this would be your gift to me', Findekáno says hoarsely.

Maitimo takes his hand and pulls him closer, always closer, as close as they can be.

Later, when they are curled up together and the robe is draped over them both like an decadent, impractical blanket, Maitimo whispers, 'I still feel a little bad I didn't get you anything.'

'You do that another time, my love', Findekáno murmurs sleepily and settles his head more comfortably in the crook between Maitimo's neck and shoulder. 'Now I need to sleep off winning this anniversary.'

*

A/N: People who have read a lot of my stuff may have noticed that I'm sort of giving in to spelling the Quenya voiceless velar plosive with a k rather than c in names where k is the convention, because it is the sensible thing to do. But I will never spell Maglor's father-name Canafinwë with a k because I don't want to turn him into a chicken, so I will continue to spell everyone's names with c in fics where he appears.

There will be a second chapter; it is shorter and takes place many years later in Beleriand.

Thank you for reading! I appreciate feedback very much :)