#maedhros x oc

[autumnshighlady]

All I Gave You Is Gone (ACOTAR x The Silmarillion AU) - Chapter 1

RHYSAND'S SISTER X MAEDHROS

summary: The story begins with High Lord Rhysand’s sister, Ravenna, moments before her death. Before the sword is swung across her neck, she pleads to the Mother to rescue her, to intervene and get her out. Ravenna’s prayers are answered, and she wakes up in a strange land across the stars, far away from her home – Arda.

warnings: graphic violence

word count: 3.6k

DO NOT REPOST ANYWHERE

a/n: this AU is so niche that most people probably don't know what the Silmarillion is - fear not! I will be writing it in a way that you won't need to know anything about lotr or the silm to understand it, as everything will be explained. I'm super excited for this series and I hope you guys grow to enjoy it. Any support is appreciated! Huge shoutout to the Anon that inspired this!

Screams rang through the shrieking wind, rattling Ravenna’s eardrums as a coppery tang filled her mouth. It was almost impossible to see anything amidst the smoke and rain, not that she wanted to be cursed with witnessing the horrifying scene. No, part of Ravenna was glad for the masking of the carnage.

The scent of blood choked her senses, closing up her throat and making her eyes burn. Her head throbbed from the impact of its collision on the nearby rock, stomach stinging in pain from the arrow laced with faebane that was lodged in her flesh. Through blurry vision, Ravenna lifted her head, groaning as every ounce of her body protested. Up above, the few fully trained Illyrian soldiers that were stationed at the war camp were falling from the sky, their lifeless bodies brutalised upon meeting the rocky ground. Hybern soldiers swarmed them like ants, their laughter echoing above the sounds of slaughter.

Tears pricked at Ravenna’s eyes as she inhaled deeply, immobilised by her wounds and the faebane arrow in her stomach that stifled her magic. She hadn’t even wanted to come here today to the Illyrian war camp with her mother, Nienna. They had fought over it – Ravenna had even offered to go to the Hewn City with her brother, Rhysand, then accompany her mother to Illyria. She hated it there. Everything from the leering males and the icy chill, to the sight of downtrodden females with their heads low and their wings clipped. Despite being half-Illyrian, Ravenna never felt any desire to spend time there.

Her black hair stuck to her face, clinging to her skin as the rain poured down. She lifted her wings, trying to flap them enough to get her body off the ground, but it was no use. They were dead weight on her back, too exhausted from the effects of the faebane to help her. Panic began to settle in as Ravenna realised she could not make her wings disappear with the poison in her veins. Her wings were a target now, a weak spot. Unable to defend herself, she was now a sitting duck.

As she laid there half-conscious, the screams eventually stopped, her blood turning to ice at the eerie silence from Illyrians in the war camp. Ravenna let out a sob. As Hybern soldier’s footsteps echoed on the hard ground, growing closer to where she was laying beside the rocks, she knew she was going to die.

“Hey! There’s one over here!” A gruff male voice called, followed by the sound of cheering. 

No. This couldn’t be happening. This wasn’t real.

Pathetically, Ravenna tried to drag herself away, fingernails breaking and scraping against the hard rock, efforts in vain. Panic rose in her chest as the sound of the soldier’s leering grew closer, closing in on her like a pack of wolves.

Thanks to the arrow, she had no magic to defend herself. Her asshole father, Ronan, the High Lord of the Night Court, had never even let her train to defend herself. She knew a couple moves from her sparring with Cassian and Azriel, but they were useless in this situation. Ravenna could hear Azriel’s voice in her head, pleading for her to get up and take a stand. But she couldn’t. Every muscle in her body was lifeless, her head spinning and aching with pain.

“Pretty little princess, all on her own...” One of the soldiers sneered, twirling his sword in his hands as he came to stand above her. She could practically smell his rotten breath amidst the blood covering his body that was not his own. 

Ravenna tried to lift her head, but a dirty boot quickly connected with it with such force her neck snapped backwards, body jolting painfully. Fresh blood began to pour from the gaping wound on her forehead, and she cursed under her breath. Snide laughter sounded from above her, echoing in all directions as the world spun. “Nobody can help you now, princess.” One of the other soldiers said. “Not your half-breed brother, not your spy boyfriend. Certainly not your mommy.”

Ignoring the screaming pain, Ravenna opened her violet eyes and looked upwards at the soldier. Her gaze met his blood-stained face, then travelled down to his hands, eyes settling on what was grasped within them.

In his left hand was a familiar set of wings, tarnished with mud and dirt. Blood pooled onto the ground beneath them like a river. Bile rose in Ravenna’s throat as her gaze landed on his right hand.

And she screamed, raw and painfully.

In the soldier’s right hand was a severed head with long, dark locks identical to her own. Purple eyes were wide, face twisted in a frozen picture of agony, a female mid-scream. Bruises and scrapes were littered across the face, but it was unmistakable nonetheless.

It was Nienna. Her mother. The beautiful seamstress who had held Ravenna in her arms for countless nights, who taught her everything she knew. The female who kept her chin high, even as males sneered at her for her lowborn status. Dead. Dead before Ravenna’s very eyes.

Screams continued to rip through Ravenna, cursing the Hybern soldiers with promises of slow and agonising death. She didn’t care that she, too, was about to meet the same fate as her mother. As soldiers grabbed her arms and hauled her upright to her knees, she thrashed and fought like a wildcat. More hands grabbed her, steadying her slightly as she spat at them, tears streaming down her face. 

“Hold her steady!” One of the soldiers snapped before bending down to sneer in her face. “It’s your turn, half-breed bitch. But first we gotta take care of those wings. Can’t have you flying away now, can we?”

“If you cut off my wings, I will flay you.” She spat in his face, screeching as one of the soldiers reached down and ripped the arrow out of her stomach, shredding the flesh as blood began pouring out of her faster.

The soldier snickered, his dark eyes brimming with hate as his twisted face stood mere inches from her own. “We won’t do that quite yet, that takes away half the fun. Your bitch mother bled to death when we ripped her wings from her body, so we didn’t get to enjoy her. We won’t make that same mistake with you.”

Ravenna howled furiously, sinking her canines into the nearby arm of a soldier as hard as she could. A whip cracked across her back in response, cleaving flesh from bone in one stroke as it shredded the material of her black dress. She bit down harder on the arm as pain blinded her, the blood of the soldier making her gag and eventually release him. At least her scream had been muffled.

Before she could curse them out again, she felt it. The presence of a cold, small blade against her wing. Right in the very spot she had seen scars on every female in the Illyrian camps.

No. No no no no.

She hadn’t even realised she was screaming the words out loud, fresh tears rolling down her cheeks as she begged and pleaded pathetically. Flying was her favourite thing to do. She would spend hours soaring through the skies, feeling the wind on her wings as she shot through the air like a shooting star. Sometimes she had flown hand in hand with Azriel above Velaris before their relationship had soured in the last few months, admiring the dazzling view of the city below. Flying was her peace.

Ravenna had accepted that she would die at the hands of the soldiers. But to die with her wings clipped would break something inside of her.

“Rhys!” She began screaming out her brother’s name mindlessly, despite the fact he was miles away and likely clueless as to what was going on in the war camp. “Rhys! Rhys!” She screamed over and over, praying that somehow he would show up out of nowhere and save her. 

Her pleading only spurred the soldiers on more, and then that blade made an incision in the wing’s tendon near her back, the one that her wings relied on to carry her body. She barely even felt the physical pain from the slice as she screamed furiously, not just for herself, but for every female who had gone through this.

For decades, she had argued with her father over the practice of wing clipping. Gone head to head with the High Lord over it. Rhys would often have to step in, talking his father down from clipping his daughter’s own wings as punishment for slaughtering every male she could find who kept the practice going. Ravenna never cared how angry Ronan got with her over it, for she had no shame in taking it upon herself to try and end wing clipping. No matter how much he threatened her, yelled at her, she didn’t care. For she knew that she was untouchable – the people of Velaris loved her too much for the High Lord to get away with locking up or punishing his own daughter.

And now here she was, bleeding from that one tendon in her wings, rendered unable to fly for the rest of her life.

The soldiers whopped and cheered, spurred on by her tears as Ravenna cried angrily. Her body felt numb – a blessing as the Hybern soldiers began to brutalise her body with their fists, whips, and blades. Her skin was sliced and bruised and spat on, but she barely felt it. All she could feel was the hole inside her chest at the sight of her mother’s wings and head, now discarded on the cold, wet ground like trash. 

Rain mixed with blood, blood mixed with tears, mud and grime becoming her second skin as Ravenna was pummelled into the ground. A barbed whip lashed at her skin, the soldiers having ripped open parts of her dress to expose her soft flesh like meat about to be butchered. The whirling black Illyrian tattoos that marked her body were now hidden behind red blood. They had begun at her left thigh and coming up across her hips and ribs, swirling up to the right side of her body across her back and collarbones then travelling down her arm. Now, they were marred, a ruined art piece at the hands of Hybern.

Please. Ravenna begged the Mother silently, teary gaze lifting up to the darkening sky where a few stars peeked out behind the rain clouds. Please help me. Get me away from here. Please, I will do anything. Just get me out of here.

She could have sword one of the stars brightened in response. Throughout lash after lash, she kept praying silently. Grimy hands groped at her flesh, digging into the fresh wounds and twisting her like a ragdoll. She closed her eyes, feeling the cold blade of a sword line up against the back of her neck, ready to swing down on it and cleave her head from her shoulders.

And then everything went bright, instead of the darkness that Ravenna had expected. White hot fire overtook her body, and then it all faded away.

****************

The first thing Ravenna felt was the wind on her skin. It was gentler than the harsh wind of Illyria, but still strong. It soothed her body, which felt lifeless. The rocks she was laying on felt different than before, and she realised it was dirt beneath her, not stone. Her throat was dry, mouth caked with blood as she inhaled a deep breath. The air was fresh, not stifled with the scent of the war camp’s death. It filled her lungs blissfully, and it took all her strength to crack open her eyes.

She was met by sunlight, blinding her momentarily before her eyes finally adjusted. From her position on the ground, she could make out soft, windswept grass on either side of a dirt road. She was in a valley, a mountain pass judging by the steep hills nearby and the narrow windingness of the path ahead. 

Ravenna’s mind was still swirling as she fought to figure out where she was. The landscape was unlike anything she had seen before in the Night Court. There was something different here, something that unsettled her bones. It did not feel like Prythian, somehow.

Before she could go through what she knew of the landscape of the various other courts, voices sounded in the distance, along with hoofsteps. Ravenna stiffened, pushing herself up into a sitting position as the sound grew closer. But it did not sound like the rough, sneering voices of Hyberm. No, these voices were different. They were strong, but songlike, lilting up and down in tones unfamiliar to Ravenna. From the winding path emerged a small group of males on horseback. They donned silver armour, long hair flowing in the wind and revealing pointed ears. Ravenna’s brow furrowed. She had not seen fae like this before, but something in her gut told her they were different. Sure, they donned the same ethereal grace to them matched with pointed ears, but there was an unsettling difference between them and the fae males Ravenna had previously encountered. They did not have a predatory feel to them like most fae males, but seemed colder. Calculating.

And nonetheless, terrifying. 

A male with long blonde hair shouted something and charged his horse forward, icy blue eyes fixated on Ravenna as his group followed. She could barely move her aching body, merely slumping in defeat as the horses surrounded her in a perfect circle, a various assortment of blades and arrows pointed at her. On instinct, Ravenna lifted her wings to shoot herself up into the sky away from the males, but with the incision made she could barely lift them off the ground.

Once again, she was defenceless.

A male with black hair and cold, grey eyes barked something at her in that unfamiliar language. Squinting against the bright sun, Ravenna looked up to meet his stare. He and the blonde male were the only ones without helms and armour – the leaders, she presumed. An eight-pointed star marked the centre of their embroidered white tunics, and red capes flowed behind them in the wind.

When she didn’t answer, the black-haired male repeated his question, angrier this time.

“I’m sorry…” She muttered, barely getting the words out due to her dry throat. “I don’t understand…”

This time, it was the blonde male who spoke up. “You speak the common tongue?” He asked, his voice less harsh but still with a lethal edge to it. She nodded.

“Who are you and why are you in the pass of Aglon?” He continued, pressing his blade against her throat. She swallowed – never before had she seen such a beautiful blade, marked with swirling inscriptions and metalwork that would impress the most prestigious blacksmith in the Night Court.

Evenly, she met his blue eyes, which scanned her up and down. Distaste and surprise came across his beautiful features as he seemingly focused on the blood covering her body rather than her wings. Finally, Ravenna realised her dress had all but been torn to shreds, revealing her wounded skin in places she would have preferred to cover up. She curled herself into a ball, hands desperately trying to cover the parts of herself that had been revealed by the rips in her dress. 

But the males did not leer like she had anticipated. Even the dark-haired one who had snapped at her in that foreign language did not seem affected by her skin on display. He was more focused on her wings, which were covered in Illyria’s mud and dirt. Ravenna still trembled with fear in their presence, but at least they seemed better than Hybern thus far.

“The pass of… what?” She asked, even more confused. She had never heard of such a place before. Certainly not in Prythian. Where the hell was she and what happened?

“She’s a spy of the Dark Lord, brother.” The dark-haired male said, a hateful look in his eyes as he drew his bow. “Let us kill her and be done with it.”

“Put that away, Curufin.” The blonde one scolded with authority. “We are in Maitimo’s lands. He will decide what to do with her. Spy or not, she comes with us. He will have our heads if we kill her without his permission.”

Curufin rolled his grey eyes and retracted his bow. “As you wish, Tyelkormo.”

Ravenna’s mind reeled and the sound of the names being given, especially the last one. They were unlike anything she had heard before, leaving her even more confused. Was she dead? Was this some sort of strange afterlife? She shivered – by the way the wind bit at her cold skin, she knew she was very much alive. 

The blond one whose name Ravenna’s brain hadn’t wrapped around took note of her shiver, huffing loudly before muttering something in another tongue to one of his guards. He swung a leg off of his grey horse and slid down onto the ground, walking over to where Ravenna sat in the dirt. Part of her instincts told her to run, to back away from this ethereal, too-perfect looking male. But another part of her was lured in by his beauty, as if some strange spell surrounded him. 

She baulked as he came to stand over her, blue eyes mercilessly staring her down as if she were nothing more than a speck of dirt. The male was enormous, almost a foot taller than Cassian was. Long, silver-blonde hair flowed over his shoulders, two small braids behind each ear trailing down beside his neck. Jewellery adorned his pointed ears, which were similar in shape to her own. Based on his elaborate-looking attire this male was of a decent status wherever they were. 

The blonde male unclasped his cloak, tossing the fabric towards Ravenna. She caught it, the material soft as clouds in her hands as she wrapped it around herself, grateful for the warmth. 

But there was no warmth in the male’s eyes as he barked at her, “Get up.”

Keeping the cloak wrapped around her blood-soaked body, Ravenna pushed herself up. But her legs buckled, sending her tumbling painfully back to the ground. She hissed in pain, pressing her hand into her stomach where the wound from the arrow was. Her fae healing had kicked in enough that it began to slowly heal, but not nearly fast enough.

“Are you incapable of following orders and standing up?” He hissed angrily.

Despite her pain and exhaustion, fire lit in Ravenna’s veins at his attitude. “I’m not exactly in a position to do so without struggle.” She snapped, unfolding the cloak just enough to reveal the large, unmistakable arrow wound in her stomach. 

His blue eyes followed, assessing the wound with impatience. “You’ll live.”

“Unfortunate for you.” She shot back, temper heightened by the ache in her wings.

The male scoffed. “Do you even know who I am?”

“No.”

“I am Lord Celegorm, Prince of the Noldor and third son of Fëanor.” He stuck his chin arrogantly in the air. 

Ravenna took a deep breath to steady herself, slouching and rolling her eyes. “I must have hit my head pretty hard. I have no fucking clue what any of that means.”

Surprise crossed Celegorm’s face, and he exchanged an uneasy look with his brother. Curufin shrugged, muttering something in that strange tongue before turning his grey eyes back towards Ravenna. “And who exactly are you, may I ask?” He said dryly.

“Ravenna,” She said. “Princess of the Night Court. Daughter of Ronan, the High Lord.” She introduced herself in a similar manner to Celegorm, snorting at the confusion that continued to grow on his face.

“What are you talking about?” He snapped. “There is no such a court here, or a Lord Ronan.”

Ravenna shrugged. “Now you know how I feel, I guess. Believe me, I don’t know where the hell I am or how I got here. I am just as confused as you. I mean you no harm, I swear by the Mother.”

“That will be for Maitimo to judge.” Was all Celegorm said before reaching down for Ravenna’s trembling, weak body. She did not have time to protest or process what was happening as he reached underneath her wings and legs, lifting her up into his arms as if she weighed nothing. The world swayed as she was picked up. Thankfully, he did so in such a manner she remained covered with the cloak.

Still, she did not like being manhandled. “Put me down!” Ravenna hissed furiously, writhing as best she could in his grip. But it was no use – between her weakness, lack of powers, and Celegorm’s sheer size and strength, it was pointless.

Celegorm lifted her onto his horse and set her on the front end of the saddle before climbing up behind her. She winced in pain as his large frame brushed against the incision on her wings. “Watch the wings.” She snapped.

“We are taking you to our eldest brother.” Celegorm said, ignoring her protest but leaning back ever so slightly and relieving the contact on her wings. “He can decide what to do with you. It is half a day’s journey from here, so I suggest you rest while you still can.”

All Ravenna could do was sigh and hold onto the horse’s mane as the prince sent the group forward up the winding mountain pass. She had come no closer to figuring out where she was, or who these strange fae-looking people were.

And she had half a day to do her best to figure it out.

taglist (comment if you want to be added): @decadentpostnacho @

[koyunsoncizeri]

A lil maedhros animation.

I...am also finally sharing a lil fic? Ficlet with Mae x Oc - angst and fluff. Under the cut!

I would be SO grateful if y'all would tell me what ya think :') !!! Especially my writing mutuals!! ♥️

Dove彡

"Don't go…" he softly whispered to the small figure lying next to him. "You don't have to go, little dove…"

She opened her eyes slowly. She'd been awake for sometime, she'd feigned sleep to feel his hand smooth over her hair, and caress her cheek, just to savor the warm feeling he radiated.

"I can't stay, elf lord." she said slowly. He glanced away when their eyes met. She smiled. There was something so innocent and childlike about this otherwise intimidating elf.

"Don't call me that…"he sighed, and turned to lie on his back. 

"I'm sorry…my lord." she grinned. He rolled his eyes but pulled her to his side. She pressed her body against his and rested her hand on his chest. 

"Why?" he asked after some time, but there was a defiance in his voice. He still saw this as an argument he could win…and convince her to stay. 

They'd met a week ago, when she asked for a sanctuary at their gates. It was apparent she was on the run for some time. He ordered them to open the gates and assist the human, which he later realized because she was tiny. The memory brought a smile to his lips and he turned his head to press a small kiss to her forehead. She opened her eyes, she was about to fall asleep in this elf's arms. She returned the loving gesture by kissing his neck, but a surprised gasp from him stopped her. Instead, she smiled gently at him, and assumed her former position.

"There is no life for me here,"she said. 

He fell silent.

He knew she was right, she would be better off living as far from him, and here as possible, and yet… he wanted her, selfishly, irresponsibly. He frowned, he felt bad to even entertain the idea; this was not like him at all.

"There can be," He chastised himself as soon as the words left his lips, what was he saying? How could he promise something like that, when he had naught to offer, not his affections, nor security.

"I'm sorry my lord…" She leaned to him on her elbows, his eyelids fluttered at the sudden proximity. He held his breath when she reached for him, placing her hand gently on his cheek. His lip was caught between his teeth and he fought so hard not to turn his eyes away from hers. She caressed his cheek, then her hand combed lightly through soft locks of his russet hair. He sighed softly, and closed his eyes. 

"I shall remember all that you have said, all that you have made me feel," she whispered, and pressed a soft kiss on his forehead, and he quickly opened his eyes. "I shall remember the quiet and kind laughter of yours and the soft touch of your hand."she kissed his cheek. "I shall cherish every moment you have kindly graced me with your presence, every glance you bestowed upon me." She cupped his face. "You shall forever remain in my heart, and I hope to be in yours at least for a while," she gently smiled, and wiped the tear that rolled down from his cheek when he tried to blink it away. She pressed her lips softly on his, and he welcomed her. He deepened the kiss as she let herself fall on her back and he followed her; covered her much smaller frame with his large one, trying to burn how good she felt under him into his memory. 

Next day came too soon, and with that last goodbye.

"Farewell, my little Dove. May winds always favor you."

[eccentricmya]

Can I interest you in my favourite Maedhros/OC fanfiction?

I read this years ago when I first got into Silm and I recently tried to find it again since I quite loved it. Even though I read it on ffnet first, the author has posted it on ao3 as well; it's just not tagged that well, making it difficult to find. Anyway.

The fic is very well-written imo. Set during the kidnap fam days and the ofc is a human and a single-mother (which I really liked). A bit cliché in some parts but I find it necessary in romance to evoke relatability. Moreover, the premise is plausible (not an mgime btw) and fits well into canon. Idk, just give it a try!

For a Little While by DillyDilly45

[ruiniel]

Endless - IV

Fandom: The Silmarillion

Rating: M

Relationships: Maedhros/fem!OC

Characters: Maedhros, Celegorm, Curufin, Maglor, Caranthir, Fingon, Fingolfin, Amrod, Amras, Original Elf Character(s), Sauron, more to be added

Tags and warnings: alternating POV, Recovery, Trauma, Beleriand, The Sindar, The Noldor, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Dehumanization, Flashbacks, Past Torture, Canon-Typical Violence, Angst, Mental Anguish, Survivor Guilt, Past Abuse, Alternate Universe, Psychosis, Internalized ableism, POV Original Character, Maedhros POV, more tags coming

Also on AO3

IV. Before dawn

The night was cold and unyielding when Mithiel reached her tent, her mind afire over the first encounter with the king of these people.

I am not at my best.

She chewed her lip, placing the journal Maedhros had given her on the table in the corner and taking a seat. He wanted to learn their language, which would apparently become part of her responsibilities. In truth, having now seen more of his demeanor — vastly different from his earlier mood at dinner — the prospect was as good as the circumstance allowed and would suit her approach. She hoped.

And Mithiel had spoken true on the topic of escaped thralls. But what she had seen of them, what she’d dealt with treating the shells of the Elves they once were, the vacant gazes and broken wills… the scarred Elf sitting before her tonight had possessed none such traits. He was undoubtedly marked and maimed in more ways than one by his ordeal at the hands of the Enemy, but there was resilience, that same silver-gold hope brimming in the depths of a blue-grey stare, fuelling her own determination.

He was often in pain, that much was certain; both physical and otherwise, but still he’d tried his best with her and that had also been evident, apologies notwithstanding. Mithiel still recalled the jerk of his body and the brief look of caged despair when she leaned closer to touch him, to wipe his cheek.

What have you lived through? she wondered, opening the journal and skimming over the writings in the hand of one who, it is said, turned to ashes upon death, finally consumed by the fire of his willful fëa.

Undoubtedly, this was his son, Mithiel concluded with half a smile, long fingers trailing over the neat binding and crisp pages, the beauty of the flowing script. 

She pored over the notes for some time, indeed finding nothing to correct: the observations were insightful and showed an unmistakable linguistic prowess. Mithiel read on, the soft light from the holders splashing over details on her people’s customs and language, all through the eyes of a newcomer.

Once the letters began twirling before her eyes, adding to a yawn’s overture, Mithiel closed the journal. She looked to her new bed with its welcoming folded arrangements. Despite the lateness of the hour, the prospect of sleep — or rather, of lying still — beckoned little. She felt like a seabird bound to a cliff, a wave seeking shores to crash against. Her limbs moved, set to remove her outer layers of clothing while her mind roamed far. 

She did not pity him, no. She thought of the way the yellow lights gleamed on his auburn hair, a beautiful shade framing a face carved by wielders of woe and hatred. As she sat on the bed, undoing her plait, their conversation resurfaced like restless fireflies. 

His questions, the cool assessment of her on his part Mithiel attributed to uncertainty. After all, this Elf had lived through the horrors of the mountain dungeons, had borne the yoke of slavery to the endless dark. His interest in her experience with the others was genuine, she could not fault him that.

She was pacing through the tent again before long, and since sleep eluded her and would do so for a while — since the first rising of the sun, parsing the waking hours from strips of night left erratic resting patterns — she donned her outer layers again and her cloak, then exited the tent. A little reconnaissance on her own away from the watchful eyes of princes would aid in obtaining a footing besides.

“What are… what are you doing here?” Maedhros asked, eyes still feverish as he took in Fingon’s windswept hair, the pronounced hollows and dips in his features, highlighted by the tall fires lit nearby. He was much thinner than in Valinor times, the struggles marked in his yet handsome face.

Fingon shrugged, glancing at his cousin with a kind smile, one of those crooked affairs leaving most people seeking more of it. “You might think me foolish.”

“Many already do, for your deliverance of me. Say on.” 

His kinsman sighed. “I had strange, strange dreams as of late. One learns to discard some of Irmo’s nightly incursions into one’s mind, but I was restless during the day, moreso after sundown. I wanted to… I must return soon, I cannot stay. I will not linger on news, my cousins will no doubt relay all that business when they reach you,” he spoke as Maedhros regained himself. 

Maedhros nodded. Fingolfin would not look kindly upon his son’s incursions into the Fëanorian camp, that much was plain, no matter the honor Fingon had gained among them, and irrespective of the few changes it brought. Thinking of current matters pacified his mind, and the cold bit into his cheek, seeped through his thought and quelled its feverish unrest. Fingon’s presence also aided though Maedhros could do little but pull at the loose threads of his own tunic until they unraveled completely, a ceaseless habit developed since his return to consciousness.

“Shall we go to your marquee to speak?” Fingon asked, looking this way and that, to the guards and other folk staring long at him — some with respect, some with awe, most with unease still. 

Maedhros swallowed. Cowardly though it was, he could not return there, not now. “Or… or join me by the fires?” he asked, blinking away a flashing vision of sharp, white teeth. He gestured at the people already gathering to one side of the settlement. 

Fingon acquiesced, “As you wish.”

They settled for a place farther from the others, sitting side by side down on a woodcrafted bench, watching the figures hallowed by flames and the sparks from the bonfires soaring up and dying in the night.

“Your people would rally to you,” Fingon spoke suddenly, and Maedhros knew why he had come.

He threw a stick into the nearest fire. “But yours would not.” He sighed. “Finno…”

Fingon gazed at him silently, urging Maedhros to continue with a dip of his chin. 

“I have seen…” Again, his tongue was in knots though he wanted to speak of it, knowing Fingon would listen if it meant it brought him relief. But he could not. To this day, he could not even share with his brothers what squirmed and haunted his innermost burrows of the heart. He stared into his cousin's expectant, hopeful gaze. Yes, he wanted to speak of it, but each time he tried, the stench of decay stifled his thoughts, and shadows blurred his memory. And then, there was… there was… 

Fingon shifted in his place, his speech low on the backdrop of other voices rising in soft humming a distance away. “Nelyo? I am here.”

Maedhros conjured his first memories of that lair, later proven to be only a skim of what followed. He closed his eyes at the unreal pressure of savage fingers wrapped around his throat, and turned his mind to the present, latching onto the sounds of a flute playing nearby. “I stood before the creatures he breeds; I knelt before his throne.” He glanced sideways at Fingon, catching the tremor of his clenched fists. “There are... no words, for the ways they seek to humiliate our people; for the torments they devise.”

Fingon peered at him with that cutting gaze and a calculating, righteous flare of ire Maedhros knew all too well. He burned with his own fire. It urged him to continue on the same spur that, in happier times, drove them together. Past the fires he looked, where his—their people gathered and mingled despite the foul-smelling fog, sharing in sweet-scented mead, their cloaks and shawls drawn tight about them. The words inched away from his scarred lips; the Silmarilli were bright in his mind. “The way we stand, now, will not avail us,” Maedhros said at last. 

“Somehow, I knew you would say this... and then?”

“I have yet to find an answer to that. But…” Maedhros looked his cousin in the eye. He knew Fingon, like the rest of Fingolfin's people, had not wholly, if at all, forgiven the betrayal. He knew his cousin had sought to retrieve him, desperate and alone, mainly for the closeness they once shared and the love that still bound them. “We should act as one host, not two.”

His kinsman nodded, then his bright gaze sought the skies, perhaps for long lost stars.

“I will… try to speak with Ñolofinwë,” Maedhros added. “Many are still wary and resentful, as I know they have a right to be,” he looked in sorrow upon Fingon, who’d lost friends, whose brother had lost a wife to the Ice and more. “The odd fights and conflicts, while not as frequent as before, have not ceased, have they?”

Fingon shook his head. 

“I know many of our own are remorseful,” Maedhros unraveled another thread from the sleeve of his right wrist. “Many had friends and kin among your host; many had looked in wonder upon you and saw crippled families, grief and a loss that is their own.”

“And yet.”

“And yet.” Maedhros clenched and unclenched his good hand. “Penance must be shown. Somehow.”

“Please tell me you do not speak of yourself, Maitimo,” Fingon murmured, shaking his head. “Even if it were so, your penance I have seen with my own eyes. You need not do more.”

Maedhros grit his teeth at the name, though coming from Fingon, it lost some of its acquired dread in the dungeons. “Dear Findekáno, you always thought too much of me.”

“One of us has to,” Fingon muttered, not unkindly. “Tell me, what are your thoughts?“

Maedhros nodded, looking blankly ahead. “It would be a start. It must be done. And then, our deeds should match our words.”  

“Nelyo.” Fingon raised a hand, his hesitant palm close to Maedhros’ shoulder, the question in his eyes.

Maedhros could not blame his caution, for after all, he had scratched and torn at his cousin with wiry limbs before, first prey to a rabid confusion upon the eagle’s back; he remembered mighty wings spread like great sails, and a confusing warmth cocooning him after years being whipped bare by the elements. He lowered his head, swallowing at the slight pressure on his shoulder. “That is not all,” Maedhros said.

Fingon released him slowly. He curled a knowing brow. “No.”

“Even before we set out on the march, there was division, was there not? You remember; I stood by Father, I could do nothing else. I... we, loved and still love him fiercely, you know this truth though it must hurt. But it was impossible to ignore how many looked to Ñolofinwë, to you; how many refused to renounce him. Do you recall?”

Fingon let his head fall back, gazing through the mists. “I remember the arguments, the fights. I remember fearing you’d break with so much tension amid all that strife, which both troubled and drew me closer to it all. But even those who had no love for my uncle were moved by his words, and I was one of them.”

Maedhros stared ahead, then back down, noticing his restless fingers had unravelled the hem of his sleeve. “But you did not knowingly slay your own.”

“No,” Fingon gritted, his voice turned hoarse, “we did so unknowingly,” he added with bitterness. “Do you forget most of us carry the guilt for those same crimes? I have not, nor has Father. They changed us all.” 

Maedhros said nothing, and Fingon sat and pondered for a while. The murders lay thick and heavy between them, in blood and saltwater. “How strange to look upon the past. We all saw untrodden lands before us, a return to an ancient homeland, to thrive with our knowledge and skill.”

“That may still come to be,” Maedhros spoke unto the flames, his voice flat and expression thoughtful. 

Fingon hummed. “You know, Russo, there is aught I’ve come to know on these shores,” he glanced at his cousin, a glint in his eye reminding Maedhros of bygone Tirion. Fingon was much the same in spirit, he found, save for the sharper edge to his dusky features and the icy resolve in his eyes. “The shadows are deepest before dawn.”

Maedhros turned the words over in his head. He added, lighter of mood than he’d felt in weeks, with a shade of snark he used to wield well. “Then, we must be near to dawn.”

Fingon shook his head with barely a whiff of laughter. “This I will say. Father is of a like mind with you. But keep your own counsel on this, for now. Please.”

“Have I ever been loose-tongued?”

“No, indeed. My father’s always known division will cripple us after we met the Enemy on the field, faced his stronghold and leaguer. But he is loath to foster more conflict and bring forth more dissent from ones holding resentment against those who abandoned them. Some would still rather punish than forgive.”

Maedhros caught Fingon’s gaze, and with much difficulty, smiled his smile that hurt. The light of the flames danced crookedly upon his scars. “I am hoping my attempt will aid in that respect.”

“My cousins—” Fingon began.

“... are my subjects,” Maedhros countered, frowning as he stared ahead. “Leave that matter to me.” Surprising even himself, he found a strong belief in his own words.

Fingon sighed again, his dark brow lifting in tune with a pointed half-smile, both tender and sorrowful. He lowered his head in a nod. “Well. I, for one, trust you.”

The muscles in his jaw unwound into the broader likeness of a smile, and Maedhros nearly did not utter the words. “After everything.” Emotion wound about his inner being like stubborn weeds on barren mountain paths.

“Moreso, after everything.”

When done paying a short visit to see her horse, pleased at the care with which he’d been tended to and sheltered, Mithiel took to wandering aimlessly through the settlement. The chill brought a sprint to her step, her silver hair hallowed in the pale blue light shed over paths by those peculiar, captivating lamps hung throughout the wide campsite area.  Soon, this will be as sturdy as a kingdom proper, since their builders I’m told are as gifted and speedy as their kin abiding on the opposite lakeside,  she thought. Mithiel knew these same folk had already built stone dwellings there, which they abandoned upon the arrival of their bedraggled kindred who’d survived the Ice. 

She walked, and walked, until the restless discord of thought within was somewhat abated, and her spirit was soothed by the stir of life around her. Already she missed her home, the small, warm cottage with its dark wood, its strong scents of herb and poultice. Already Mithiel missed her father, but steadied herself thinking of the duty promised to fulfil. 

The night spread like a giant formless beast slumbering across the land, and somewhere not far, a flute was playing. The music soothed, and as drawn by a foreign spell, Mithiel neared, finding her way towards many tall, bright fires. They soared against the blackness as in defiance of the persistent fog, and the folk gathered round them seemed none too different to her own during such cold, endless a night as Mithrim had known, long before the rising of the Sun. 

A flat, shining surface reflected back golden light not far to the right — the expanse of the great lake. Mithiel approached; by this time, it should be layered in ice, she thought, as happened already with many pools in the area at this time of year. She looked to the fires, but though their warmth teased her cheeks and the gathering seemed merry, her feet took her closer to the water’s edge. 

Drawing nearer, she saw another standing there, alone, gazing out into the distance; she discerned a tall, lithe frame, a dash of auburn in the ever-dancing firelight. At first, she wavered. Had he not found rest yet, either?

Turning back would be cowardice, though she halted some distance away, thinking he might favor his solitude; all Mithiel truly wanted now was to look upon the great mirror. 

She gazed into the murky darkness, unable to discern anything on the far opposite side due to the brume. But the stray light behind her glittered gold and orange over the glazed body of water, and though she missed the stars, this had a beauty all its own.

“Does rest elude you, Mistress?” 

Mithiel started, not having expected him to recognize her, let alone speak. They parted amiably enough—considering the circumstances, and she wanted to keep it that way. After all, she had work to do.

“No more than it does you, my—lord,” she settled. 

There was silence again, for a long time.

“Your people were the first to inhabit these lands, were they not?” came the question after a while.

“It is so,” Mithiel replied, still watching the lake, receiving a hum in response.

Though his manner was not light, the question had been merely that: a question. And so, Mithiel dared her own. “Is it true?” she asked. “That you looked upon the faces of the Ones of the West?” She knew the Ñoldor worshipped them, more than any of their kindred, and had heard they abided by their side and thrived in the kingdoms of that realm. 

“I have,” came the answer, “Even as they cursed us, I have.”

Mithiel faltered, “I— I am not sure I understand,” she added, her damned curiosity getting the better of her; suddenly she fretted having upset him; from what she’d seen of his nerves, they were curled and strung to the point of snapping most of the time. 

“No. But perhaps one day you will,” Maedhros said, and turned away even as Mithiel, out of instinct, neared to aid him; he stopped her with a sharp gesture of his left hand. “Good night once again, Mistress. I will see you on the morrow.”

“Rest well, king Nelyafinwë,” Mithiel spoke, and thought she heard a snort as she watched his retreat, and she wound her arms around herself tighter against the bitterness in his voice. 

Part I

[lamemaster]

The Evermoor

Request: Sinister love for Maedhros, especially if it's after his fiery death ~how very SPOOKY~ he'd be scary enough as a ghost, but more terrifying would be if he survived or was resurrected, with his burns.Gosh I love Halloween

Pairing: Maedhros x Reader/ Reader x OC

Genre: Horror

Summary: He was better than ever—but not the same. It was as though the fever had washed away more than just his illness. The man you loved had been replaced by someone—or something—else.

AN: Your prompt is so awesome 😩 I loved writing it too much. Got carried away so now there's another part. I'm sorry if this does not exactly follow your prompt but this was awesome.

Chapter 1| Chapter 2

Next up- Sinister love with Maedhros chapter dos 🤭

You cower, eyes squeezed shut, muscles tense as if trying to melt into the mattress. The darkness feels oppressive, alive, crawling across the room toward you, its presence tangible in the suffocating silence.

Buried under your quilt, your mind drifts toward the closet opposite the bed. Its door, barely cracked open, looms in your vision. A door you distinctly remember forcing shut before slipping beneath the covers. A door that seems to have a will of its own, refusing to remain closed.

The house whispers around you—the creak of brittle wood rising from the old floorboards as if the very bones of the mansion are shifting in the night.

The Evermoor, ancient and untouched, resists the modern makeover your fiancé envisions, its colonial elegance holding tight against time’s slow decay.

For now, the Evermoor stands as it always has—unmoved, unchanged, steeped in shadow.

Most days, Evermoor feels like a distant memory, as if it exists in a realm between the living and the forgotten. Its old stone walls, hidden by evergreens and draped in mist, seem to breathe with the weight of centuries. It sleeps peacefully, exhausted by the passage of its long history.

That was how you first saw it—the slumbering, serene majesty of the Evermoor, drawing both you and Zaid into its mysterious hold. Your fiancé.

The decision to leave Prague had been wild, impulsive, even. Trading the city’s buzzing streets for the quiet of Viscri, nestled in a valley so still it felt like stepping back in time.

Zaid had been enchanted by the sprawling backyard, imagining your two dogs bounding across it, while you found comfort in the damp, earthy scent of the village—like fresh rain mingling with ancient stone.

This was how life unfolded for most people: years spent amid the crowded anonymity of cities, until you find the one person who makes the world slow down. Love follows, fierce and fragile, weathering the storms, if you’re lucky. Then comes the dream of escape, leaving the fast lane for something slower, more peaceful.

Work promotions had helped make that dream possible. The suburban fantasy, a far-off dream for many, had crept into reality with the right person by your side.

Zaid was that person—the flirtatious frat boy you never imagined sticking around. But beneath his charm lay a deep kindness, and that kindness made it impossible not to love him.

Loving Zaid was effortless. He made it so. Flowers left in unexpected places, candlelit dinners, soft words, and grand gestures that melted your heart. He cradled your love with a care that drew you in, little by little, until you couldn’t imagine life without him.

The once-ridiculous international student who convinced you to leave everything behind now sat beside you in Evermoor, slurping ramen as you both debated which floorboards would suit the study best.

A glittering diamond caught the light on your finger. He had proposed three months ago, under the soft light of candlelit shadows. Did you see it coming? Yes. But did you put on an elaborate act of surprise? Absolutely.

Zaid was predictable, but in ways that made you feel safe. He was a man of habit, of routines you had come to cherish. You hadn’t meant to stumble upon the hidden ring. Its hiding place in the unused suitcase had been clever—until one of your friends asked to borrow it.

The ring was magnificent, the kind that sparkled so brightly it drew gasps, making people look twice to make sure it was real.

Had you known what was to come, you would’ve never accepted it. You would’ve sent that suitcase—along with the cursed ring—to the farthest corner of the world.

The ring that stole Zaid away from you. Or was it the Evermoor?

The early days in the mansion had been enchanting. Bright, warm spring afternoons spent poring over floor plans, your future laid out before you. The wedding was to take place at Evermoor, the perfect venue. The house itself felt magical, like it had been waiting for you and Zaid to bring it back to life.

The mansion was a spell you couldn’t resist. It drew you into its labyrinthine halls, its ancient bones whispering secrets as you wandered through its forgotten rooms.

Your freelance work went on hold, and soon you found yourself documenting your journey on YouTube—a simple series on renovating your dream house. While your editing left much to be desired, the vlogs gathered a modest following of 56 subscribers, five of which were Zaid’s accounts.

You couldn’t have imagined then that those mindless videos would become relics, haunting the internet for years to come. Fame would find you, but not in the way you expected.

It all began with a cold. Zaid wasn’t unfamiliar with seasonal colds, and at first, you didn’t think much of it. You joked about him being a "frail Victorian child" wasting away in the manor’s drafty halls.

You expected it to pass, like it always did, with a steady diet of soups, tea, and Vicks humidifiers. Even your doctor friends laughed it off, teasing Zaid as they handed him a lolly for his melodramatic whining.

But as the days dragged on, your laughter grew strained. The cold didn’t break. Zaid grew weaker by the hour, his skin losing color, his energy fading. Nights were filled with his fevered ramblings, his body slick with sweat, twisting beneath the covers.

You stopped the renovations, packed your bags, ready to drag him to the hospital. But Zaid refused. His grip on the Evermoor tightened, as if the house held him captive. His sunken eyes stared at you, forbidding the thought of leaving.

You stayed by his side, your hands clasped in his, pleading with him, crying through sleepless nights as his fever raged on. His brothers flew in from the States, ready to move him to the infirmary. Your aunt stepped in to oversee the Evermoor while you prepared to leave.

And then, overnight, Zaid recovered. His pallid face transformed, flushed with sudden vitality. Every plan to leave vanished in an instant.

He was better than ever—but not the same. It was as though the fever had washed away more than just his illness. The man you loved had been replaced by someone—or something—else.

Zaid’s obsession with restoring Evermoor to its former glory took precedence over everything. The modern renovations you had so carefully planned were tossed aside, replaced by an eerie fixation on the mansion’s past.

His eyes gleamed with an intensity that unsettled you—a brightness that seemed to glow, unnatural, when he caught you staring.

And it wasn’t just you. Hermes and Zeus, once Zaid’s loyal companions, now cowered in his presence. The dogs, who once leapt into his arms, growled or fled when he entered the room. But Zaid remained indifferent, unbothered by their fear.

What disturbed you most was his fixation on the ring. His eyes followed your hand, tracking the diamond wherever it went, but he rarely touched you like he once had. When he did, he avoided the ring, as though afraid of it.

He was like Tantalus—forever reaching for something just out of his grasp.

It was during a quiet afternoon, while absentmindedly scrolling through comments on your YouTube channel, that you stumbled upon it.

A simple comment that stopped you cold.

Tevildoisapookie 5:08 Did anyone notice the elven script on that newspaper? Didn’t expect a Silmarillion crossover with cottagecore, lol.

Confused, you paused the video, your brows knitting together. The paper you had used to cover the windows during the painting of the guest bedroom doors was visible in the frame, covered in scrawled text.

Your fingers hovered over the reply button, hesitation filling you.

LadyofEvermore Can you read what it says?

Chuckling nervously at your own paranoia, you tossed your phone aside and resumed petting Hermes. The dog gave you an annoyed glance, irritated at being woken from his nap.

“I’m sorry, old man,” you muttered, running your fingers through his fur. Slowly, you drifted off, the warm sun lulling you into a shallow sleep.

You woke to the low growls of your dogs. Blinking groggily, you found Hermes and Zeus standing over you, tense and alert, their eyes locked on something across the room.

Your gaze followed theirs and froze. Zaid stood in the doorway, unnervingly still, his eyes gleaming with that strange, unsettling light as he stared back at the dogs.

You quickly gathered the dogs, leading them outside where their tension evaporated as they chased fireflies into the dusk. But as you turned to head back inside, you felt two arms wrap around your waist.

Zaid.

You forced yourself to relax, leaning back into him.

“Pizza okay with you?” you asked, your voice wavering slightly. Zaid nodded, but his eyes remained fixed on your hand, on the ring that sparkled in the fading light.

Later, when you took out your phone to order the pizza, a notification awaited you.

Tevildoisapookie www.reddit.com/r/Quenya/comments/4x2d9k/the_language_Quenya_script_more]

A Reddit user had commented, translating the strange symbols from your video-

SobbingMaia It seems to be a Quenya reiteration of the Oath of Fëanor(a pretty good one) :

Death we will deal him ere Day’s ending, Woe unto world’s end! Our word hear thou, Eru Allfather! To the everlasting Darkness doom us if our deed faileth. On the holy mountain hear in witness and our vow remember, Manwë and Varda!

[midostree-art]

Sketch commission for @maedhroes-with-the-e Thank you so much!

[annahiril]

Annahiril - Concept Art

Quick concept art of my Self-Insert Annahiril:

!!! Small Context !!!

This Self-Insert come from one of the idea I had for my OC Elmyr. When I first created Elmyr, I wanted her to be either a Maia or an Elf (and I choose the Maia option as you may know).

But I couldn't completely give up on the Elf idea, so I decided to come up with this Self-Insert based on this second concept.

♡ This is how Annahiril was born ♡

So please, do not take this character too seriously. Annahiril is mainly for my own personal self comfort and RP with my sister This is why Self-Insert are made for ♡

So don't worry, my main character will still be Elmyr/Alruna ♡

Now that you know all the story behind this new character, here's the notes I have about Annahiril so far ♡

Annahiril's timeline - The Silmarillion/ Tolkien's Books

Born in Valinor (Years of the Trees)

Around same age as Galadriel (1350/1360 A.A)

Belong to Fëanor house

Daughter of Maedhros

Have a little sister named Annaedhel

Celebrimbor's cousin

Great crafter & Student of Aulë

Follow her father to Middle-Earth

During the First Age, Annahiril will live with her cousin Celebrimbor.

During the Second Age, Annahiril will follow Celebrimbor to Eregion.

Around SA 1200, Annahiril will meet Annatar (Sauron).

They will both fall in love ♡

Annahiril and Annatar will get married around SA 1350.

In SA 1500, Annatar who revealed himself as Sauron, leave Eregion to Modor and kidnap Annahiril.

Annahiril will be a prisoner of Sauron during 100 years.

In SA 1600, Sauron will finish creating the One Ring. But his creation will cost Annahiril's life.

I hope I haven't made a lot mistakes concerning the dates and timeline...

I've done my best with my recent knowledges on The Silmarillion and Tolkienverse. But any help or corrections would be welcome ♡

Do not copy, retrace or use my art without my consent !

[hongchenzhu]

I have a dilemma, a very big dilemma and need people's help.

So I am in the middle of writing a Silmarillion fic, currently still in the planning stage and don't plan to post it until I'm well into it.

The question is who should I ship my OC with? (Oc introduction is here )

Like I'm thinking of shipping her with Maedhros cause the oldest daughter and the oldest son, both families have a f ton of family problems, and have a pretty good family dynamic, but Fingon, Finrod is also an option.

Maybe I should ship her with Maedhros cause of the angsty ideas I could come up with, but IDK

Or if nothing works, her being alone without a love interest is also an option

[autumnshighlady]

All I Gave You Is Gone (ACOTAR x The Silmarillion AU) - Chapter 2

RHYSAND'S SISTER X MAEDHROS

summary:  we're back in Prythian with an Azriel pov as the aftermath of the attack is revealed

warnings: violence, angst

word count: 4k

DO NOT REPOST ANYWHERE

a/n: this is a short chapter, i was going to add a Ravenna pov but given the recent shitstorms in my life I'm just posting what I've had in my drafts. It's not my best but i hope you enjoy nonetheless

Azriel’s shadows were incessant, swirling up his arms and whispering in his ears. Ravenna, they echoed urgently, only for his scarred hand to shoo them away. Annoyance prickled through the shadowsinger as he tried to focus on what Cassian and Rhys were saying. The three of them were lounging in the spacious living room by the fireplace in Rhysand’s family residence in the Hewn City, exhausted after a day of dealing with learning the art of politics. They were on their third bottle of wine, but it did nothing to ease Azriel. For his shadows continued to whisper Ravenna’s name, no matter what he did. They said nothing else, no indicator of what they wanted him to do. Only her name, frantic and insistent.

He cursed under his breath as another shadow flicked his ear, urging him to listen. The shadows had always favoured Ravenna, insisting he go to her after every fight – something which had increased lately. Frustrated, the shadow slithered back down his arm, ducking back behind his hands.

Rhys raised an eyebrow, noticing Azriel’s distraction. “What do they want?” He asked lightly, taking another sip of rich red wine from his goblet.

Azriel sighed, rubbing his face with his scarred hands. “For me to go to Ravenna, I believe.”

“Did you two have another fight?” Cassian asked, kicking his feet up on the opposite end of the sofa he was laying on. 

Azriel kept his tone as neutral as possible. “You could say that, yes.” He found it difficult to talk about his relationship with Ravenna when Rhysand was around. The last thing he wanted to do was put him in an awkward position where he’d have to choose between his sister and his friend. Keeping his life private was something Azriel prided himself on until recently. These last few weeks, it was getting harder and harder.

“What happened?” Rhys asked, concern lacing his voice.

For a moment, Azriel contemplated changing the subject. But his shadows incessantly whispered Ravenna’s name with increased volume. Maybe talking about her would shut them up a bit. “We fought about work for the fifth time this month,” He said, wings slumping slightly in his chair. “She thinks I’m not focused enough on her, and what I am focused on with work is on the wrong things. We argued about Illyria and the Hewn City again.”

“Cauldron above,” Cassian grumbled. “How many times have you had this exact argument?”

“Too many.” Azriel said bitterly, annoyance rising as the memories of yesterday’s argument came rushing back. “Every time I try to explain to her that the High fae are slow to change, the Illyrians even more so, she gets mad and just says we aren’t trying hard enough. That if she were in charge, shit would get done. Doesn’t matter how many times I explain that the Illyrians won’t accept change, she’s too stubborn.”

  “Well, talking down to her certainly won’t help.” Rhys said evenly, sighing. “I told you that only makes her more angry.”

Azriel threw his hands up in exasperation. “I don’t know what to do, Rhys. Nothing I say helps. The more your father makes her go to Illyria and the Hewn City, the angrier she gets that things are still the way they are.”

 Rhys nodded in understanding, his violet eyes sympathetic. “She doesn’t understand that they have to remain that way in order for Velaris to be protected.”

More shadows curled wildly around Azriel, chanting Ravenna over and over again. He swore more loudly this time, shrugging them off angrily. Concern crossed Rhys’s face as he observed their franticness. “I’ve never seen them like this.” He said slowly.

“Neither have I.” Azriel responded, trying to squash the strange uneasiness he felt. His shadows, while having a mind of their own, typically never pushed him like this. And when they were insistent on something, they typically revealed more information than this. But all the shadows did was urgently whisper Ravenna’s name.

“Are you sure everything is ok with her?” Rhys asked.

The shadowsinger shrugged. “I don’t see why it wouldn’t be. She’s probably just angrier than usual because your father made her go to Illyria today with your mother. Pretty bad timing.”

“So are you two even together?” Cassian asked bluntly, heaving himself into an upright position to interrogate his friend. “The last few fights you’ve had, you said things were over. Then you fuck, make up, and get back together the next day. It’s like you’re caught in a fucking time loop. Are you really convinced she’s your mate if this is how things are?”

Azriel shot Cassian a death glare. “Watch it. The bond will snap, I know it. We just… we just need time to get over this rough patch first.”

Rhys and Cassian exchanged a glance, which made Azriel’s skin prickle with anger. Ravenna was his mate, he was sure of it. He loved her, and she loved him. All he could do was wait for the bond to snap into place, and all of this would be forgotten. Luckily, Cassain struck up a conversation about plans to visit the Summer Court in a few weeks, and the subject was changed much to Azriel’s relief.

When Ravenna got back from Illyria, he’d fix things. And all would return to normal.

****************

By the time the sun set, Azriel felt his sanity slipping. The shadows were relentless, their repetition of Ravenna’s name only increasing as the day went by. What little patience he had left was thinning with every snap at the shadows to leave him be. No matter how many times he sent them away, they came back. He lay in his large bed, wings spread out but tense with that unexplained anxiety.

Every creak from the hallway went detected by Azriel, expecting to hear Ravenna’s soft footsteps heading towards his room, ready to talk things over. But they never came, the hollowness in his chest only growing.

The angry things Ravenna said in their fight haunted him, and his own hurtful words he threw back at her plagued his mind, too. It was their ugliest fight by far, and the fact she hadn’t come to him yet made him wonder if things were truly over. 

“Care to explain to me why every time I ask you or my brother to talk to my father about wing-clipping, you run away like a frightened dog?” Ravenna had asked him, sitting on the end of his bed with her arms crossed.

Azriel had rolled his eyes, pulling his sweaty shirt over his head. “I’m not doing this right now.” He had grumbled. His temper was short, having tried to set the mood for a pleasure-filled evening with Ravenna, only for her to stop him and demand he first answer why he had changed the subject earlier when she began discussing her plans to try and get her father to ban wing-clipping in Illyria and help the females in the Hewn City.

Ravenna had only gotten angrier. “Ok, tomorrow then? Or are you going to find some excuse then, too?”

“Heavens above, Ravenna!” Azriel had snapped, running a hand through his hair. It had been a long day, his patience waned thin. “It’s not like anyone’s forcing you to get your wings clipped or marry you off to some scumbag. So why does it matter so much?”

“If I have to explain it to you, then you’re just as dumb as those brutes in Illyria.” Ravenna had snapped. “I want to change things, and you will not stand by my side in it. Why? Do you really care that much about the opinions of people who will hate you regardless?”

Her words had hit their mark, and he flinched. “I know they hate me, I don’t need you reminding me. You know I love you, why do you need my support if you’ve just decided you’re going to do things your own way no matter what I say?”

Ravenna had fixed him with another angry glare, violet eyes stormy. “Because we are supposed to be partners, and you are supposed to back me up on this. Instead, you hide and run away every time I try to stand up for what I believe in because you’re too scared of my father and the people of the court’s opinions.” 

“I am not scared!” Azriel had growled, slamming his drawer so hard that the glass atop the wood came crashing down onto the floor. 

“Yes, you are.” Ravenna had pushed back. “You’re being a coward, Azriel. If my father suddenly ordered I had my wings clipped, you would fight him on it. Why can’t you do the same for the hundreds of females who don’t have a male to advocate for them?”

“Because they’re not you! I care about you, and the rest of Illyria can go to hell. I want to end wing-clipping, I really do. But it’s not possible, not without losing the entire army.”

Ravenna had scoffed. “That’s selfish, Az. I am no better than those other females. The only difference is you’re not fucking them, so they’re not worthy of being advocated for I guess. You can’t just pick and choose which females you want to fight for.”

Azriel had whirled around in shock, fists clenched as Ravenna met his angry gaze. “Is that really what you think? Do you really think that low of me, that I would only support the ban on clipping because I’m sleeping with an Illyrian female?” He demanded before letting out a harsh laugh. “I suppose that’s on track for a spoiled princess like you to look down upon a lowborn bastard like me.”

Ravenna had flinched, and Azriel knew his words had stung. Good. He had wanted them to. “Do NOT turn this into a pity party for your sad, pathetic childhood.” She growled. “Your daddy and brothers hurt you? Boo hoo. Get over it. Females in Illyria and the Hewn City go through exactly what you did, only you’re free of it now and seem to not give a damn about them.”

Azriel had rolled his eyes, a pounding headache coming on. “For the last time, I do care!” He had insisted. “I just don't think it’s possible to create a perfect world where we can properly ban that shit. Why can’t we just move on and let this subject rest?”

“Because we are partners and one’s attitude about such matters shows a lot about who they are.” Ravenna had stood up, glaring at the shadowsinger.

Azriel’s brows had furrowed. “What are you saying?”

The fiery female had lifted her chin to meet his gaze, violet eyes hard as she spoke with a coldness that sent his shadows running. “That I don’t want to waste my time with a coward who will not stand by my side during difficult battles simply because it’s more convenient for him to ignore all of those problems since they don’t directly affect him.”

For the first time in that argument, Azriel had been speechless. His mind had screamed at him, urging him to say something to avoid losing her. But he didn’t. All he could do was stare emptily as Ravenna scoffed, turning on her heel and storming out.

All of those last night talks, the sneaking around the last few years, the relief of finally telling Rhys about their secret… Perhaps it was all for nothing, and the sensation of Ravenna’s soft body curled into his own would grow to become a distant memory.

Azriel shook his head, refusing to believe it. No, this may have been their worst fight yet. But time would pass and it would be forgotten, surely. He would accept no other answer. Ravenna was his reason for existing, no matter what anyone said or thought. 

But that niggling worry remained. Ravenna had been colder lately, more distant. Granted, Azriel was not much better. Their productive conversations had been few and far between, most of their arguments ending in angry sex without any further discussion. It had worked so far, he had thought. Ravenna’s fiery temper thawed the icy wall he built around his rage, letting his usually well kept temper rise and bubble over. She knew just how to push his buttons, where to strike the hardest. 

Just as he did with her.

Guilt plagued him as he remembered the things he said. How the light in her violet eyes went out like someone had splashed water over a raging bonfire. The way her voice turned ice cold as she said she was done with Azriel before she turned away. Fuck, he’d have a lot of apologizing to do.

A faint knock sounded at the door, much to Azriel’s surprise. The shadows hadn’t reported any movement outside, and it was the middle of the night. He practically lept from the bed, flinging open the door to his chamber and expecting to see Ravenna.

Only it was not his lover in the hallway, but rather a sombre looking guard. His expression was grave beneath the metal helm, voice serious as he spoke. “The High Lord requests your presence in his study.” Was all he said before turning away and retreating back down the long corridor.

Confused, Azriel pulled his shirt on and followed, noting how his shadows had gone eerily silent. His meetings with Rhysand’s father were never this late, leaving him to wonder what Ronan was up to. Whatever it was, it couldn’t be good.

The shadowsinger couldn’t sink the cold feeling that washed over him as he entered the High Lord’s study, where Rhys and Ronan already were. The High Lord was still in his regal night robes, his black hair aged with grey strands hanging loosely around his chiselled face, as if he hadn’t even run a hand through it yet. An animalistic rage simmered beneath his black eyes, and his knuckles were clenched as he gripped the back of the chair he stood behind.

Azriel bowed as he entered the room, but Ronan took no notice. He only stared at the desk in front of him, motionless. Shocked, Azriel looked at Rhys, who sat in one of the two chairs on the other side of the desk. Rhys only shrugged, confirming he, too, knew nothing about this late night meeting. Quietly, Azriel took the empty seat.

It felt like an eternity of cold silence before the High Lord finally raised his head, fixing each of them with a hard stare. “What I am about to tell you cannot leave this room, do you understand me?” He said, his voice cutting through the tense air like a curved blade.

“Yes, my Lord.” Azriel said while Rhys nodded in agreement next to him.

Ronan’s black eyes were wild as he fought to calm himself. Azriel tried not to flinch as those hateful eyes landed on him specifically. “Not even your brutish friend finds out until I order it to be so, am I clear, boy?” He seethed. “The only reason you are even here is because this matter concerns my daughter, who you are currently courting.”

Azriel stiffened, his blood running cold. Panic began to rise in his chest, shadows gently stroking the scarred palm of his hand as if to soothe him. But he kept his expression neutral, merely nodding. 

“There was an attack at the war-camp in the Eastern steppes,” The High Lord said through a hoarse voice, as if he had been screaming for hours. He turned to Rhysand. “The one I sent your mother and sister to.”

Beside him, Rhys went pale. It took every ounce of self control not to have Azriel’s expression falter as his heart raced. Blood rang in his ears, and the High Lord’s voice sounded as if he were speaking underwater. “There were no survivors,” He continued gravely. “All I found… all I found was Nienna’s head..”

Time seemed to slow around Azriel, his stomach dropping as if he had fallen a thousand feet. He could feel his blood coursing through his veins. No, he begged the Mother. No, please, don’t say it…

“...And Ravenna’s blood everywhere.”

Azriel barely heard the choked scream that Rhysand emitted from beside him. All he could feel was the world crumbling around him as he strayed out of thought and time. It was as if a roaring sea echoed in his ears, muffling the sound of his High Lord’s voice and his best friend’s sobs. He wanted to go to Rhys, to offer some form of comfort, but he was completely frozen. And he knew if he moved an inch, he would collapse to his knees.

“Did you look for a body?” Azriel’s voice was soft as death, afraid if he spoke any louder it would break entirely.

Enraged, a dark tendril of Ronan’s power lashed out and wrapped around his throat, suffocating him. But he barely felt it, his body numb. “Do you not think that’s what I’ve been doing for the last few hours, you stupid boy?” Ronan hissed furiously, eyes wild and spit flying from his mouth like a rabid dog. “You think I would not search high and low for the body of my mate? And my daughter?”

Azriel welcomed the suffocation for making him feel something other than what he was feeling. This couldn’t be happening, not now. Not after the fight that they had the other morning.

Eventually after a few moments, the dark power retreated. Ronan sank down into his chair, eyes empty with grief. Azriel had never seen the High Lord exhibit any kind of emotion that wasn’t hatred or contempt until now. It was a jarring sight to behold, a chip in the heavy armour that had become a second skin for Ronan. 

Azriel’s chest felt tight, as if a bomb were about to go off inside it and shatter his heart into a thousand pieces. All day, his shadows had whispered Ravenna’s name to him and he had brushed them off with annoyance. Guilt made his stomach churn as he thought of Ravenna, suffering and fighting for her last breaths as he ignored the warnings from his shadows. Somehow, they knew something was wrong. Perhaps if he had listened to them, he’d have been able to stop this somehow. A single tear slid down his cheek, burning hot against his cold skin as the grief began to settle in, the shock fading away.

“How did they find the camp?” Azriel forced himself to ask, though his throat was drier than a desert. Illyria was difficult to navigate for anyone not born there – for a foreign power to attack so precisely was worrying to say the least.

“I have my spies looking into it,” Ronan answered, anger returning to fill the emptiness in his dark eyes. “But they must have been tipped off. There are over a dozen war camps across Illyria, for Hybern to happen across the one with my mate and daughter is no coincidence.”

A shadow gently poked Azriel’s arm, whispering his friend’s name. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Rhysand go pale. He had stopped crying, his eyes wide with horror. Realisation dawned over Azriel, and he forced his face to remain neutral. Rhys had befriended Tamlin of the Spring Court, son of the Spring High Lord – Ronan’s enemy. The two families hated each other, constantly looking for an excuse to break out into war. Azriel had not approved of the strange friendship between the High Lords’ sons, but had never said anything.

But based on Rhys’s expression, he had certainly said something to Tamlin. Something that may have caused this.

Upon seeing his son’s face, Ronan sharply turned his head towards him. Dark eyes narrowed as he spoke with a growl, “If you have something to say, boy, spit it out before I pry it from you myself.”

More tears spilled down Rhys’s face. “I’m sorry…” He sputtered. “I’m so sorry…”

Azriel could barely breathe. His heart stopped as he felt the High Lord’s dark power fill the room as Ronan rose from his chair. His shadows hid themselves as the tension thickened. Ever so slightly, he situated himself ready to leap and help his friend. That is, if he didn’t throw up everywhere first.

“What did you do?” Ronan growled. When Rhys didn’t answer, the High Lord slammed his fist down onto the table so hard the wood splintered, making both Azriel and Rhys flinch. “WHAT. DID. YOU. DO?” He roared furiously. 

Rhys’s voice was barely above a whisper. “I mentioned to Tamlin that my mother and sister would be going to the camp in the Eastern Steppes for a few days. But I swear–”

“You told that Spring Court boy?” There was no mistaking the pure rage that bled from Ronan’s voice as he stormed around the desk, grabbing Rhys by his collar and shaking them. Azriel could not bring himself to move – he had suspected that Rhys may have revealed their location to the enemy, but hearing him admit it out loud was like a tidal wave crashing over him. “You told my enemies where my mate and daughter were going to be? Tamlin must have run straight to his father, who gladly tipped off Hybern.”

“He wouldn’t have told him willingly!” Rhys protested, violet eyes desperate. “Tamlin isn’t like that–”

“Silence! I told you that you were to end your ridiculous friendship with that boy. That he would stab you in the back one day if you did not do so first. He has betrayed you and if you hadn’t told him where Nienna and Ravenna were, they would still be here!”

Anger rose within Azriel. On the one hand, part of him wanted to defend Rhys. To his knowledge, Tamlin had always protested against the brewing feud between the families only to be shut down by his cruel father. But he couldn’t help but feel like strangling Rhys for being so careless.

Rhys only stared at his father, body limp with no resistance to the rough treatment. “I’m so sorry…” Was all he could say, over and over again.

Eventually, Ronan released his son, and Rhys slumped against the back of his chair. The High Lord stared at him with hatred. “The only reason I am not ending your pathetic life right here is because you are my only heir.” He hissed. “When we get back, you will be paying for this mistake, believe me.”

“Where are we going?” Rhys asked as Ronan snapped his fingers, their night robes quickly transforming into battle gear.

 “To the Spring Court. We are going to teach that family a lesson, and you are going to help me. I want every member of that family dead by morning.” 

Azriel’s heart dropped. Rhys blanched even further, looking at Azriel for support. But he could not meet his eyes. A thousand different emotions ran through him – guilt for not listening to his shadows earlier, anger at Rhys for giving away such sensitive information to someone from the enemy’s side, and regret at the way he spoke to Ravenna during their last conversation. It was all too much, threatening to boil over if he saw even one second of the apologetic glance from his friend. Stiffening his shoulders, Azriel took a breath. He had to keep it together in the presence of the High Lord. 

Ronan stormed past him, a mighty sword in hand. Rhys followed him, and the door slammed behind him on the way out. Finally, Azriel was left alone. He winnowed to the cliffs upon the tops of the mountains surrounding Velaris, letting his shadows swallow him whole and remove him from the room where he received the most devastating news of his life.

The biting, icy chill of the wind was welcome as the shadowsinger emerged on top of the distant cliffs, where he sank to his knees on the cold rock and fell apart, letting out a hoarse scream towards the glowing stars above.

taglist (comment if you want to be added): @decadentpostnacho @lizurich @throneofsapphics @

[eleni-earye]

From the deck of a stolen swan ship, Maitimo can just see Elerrome at the front of Arafinwe's host as they reach Alqualonde. He watches her tiny, distant figure drop to its knees by the docks; hears the scream long moments later as it ripples over the sea. 'I've lost her forever', he thinks to himself as the figures on the shore fade into the blurry distance.

The ship sails out of view before he can tell whether they turned back or not, but he wonders as they journey up the coast. Sends inquiries back through the rear host; learns that they had indeed continued to follow, and she among them.

As the days go by and the cold deepens, Maitimo's concern for Elerrome grows. Long journeys drain her greatly even in the fair climes of Aman, let alone through unwelcoming cold and after facing heavy grief. He knows she is with Arafinwe's family and they would never let any harm come to her, but this does little to quell his own anxiety. When the decision is made among the Feanorians that they will abscond with the ships, he breaks away as preparations are being made, dons an obscuring cloak and hood, and slips as quickly as he can through the throngs of travelers until he finds the family tents at the front of the third Noldor host.

Her tent is easy to discern among the rest, and he calls out to her, carefully drawing the entrance and stepping inside. A slow turning of cold empty eyes is all the greeting he receives.

"Elerrome..." he begins after a long stricken pause, "the ships will make the first crossing shortly with the forward host. Please, will you come with me? I wish to see you safely delivered from the darkness and the wearying journey."

"Did you take part?" Is her only reply, voice flat and distant. He does not need to ask what she refers to.

A grim expression and averted eyes give her all the answer she needs.

After a long tense silence he speaks up, voice soft but thick with heavy emotions. "Father ... is mad with grief. He will suffer no delays in pursuit of the one who murdered our grandfather, who stole everything from us."

"And so you would inflict those same griefs upon the others in your path?"

A grimace twists his youthful features. "Father tried first to seek aid peacefully. He requested assistance of your Grandfather as would be fitting for our long friendship, but he refused us. We did not wish to harm your people. What choice did we have but to act in desperation..."

Elerrome does not respond, but her dull eyes study his face closely. Her gaze feels burning upon him.

"Please, Star...I fear to leave you behind here even for a brief time. We will send the ships back for Findarato and the rest of your family, and for Findekano and his, as soon as the first crossing is successfully made. I will even bring you with me on the return to pick them up, if it soothes you. Just let me see you safe. Please..."

She is never sure, in later years, what it was that possessed her to rise shakily and stumble from the tent to join him then. Perhaps her heart was still too weak to his influence, or perhaps the grief and exhaustion had numbed her mind too far. Perhaps she was simply desperate to escape those bloodstained shores as soon as she could.

The shores she reached were no better, of course. Centuries passed before she could look at the sea again and not see only red blood and red flames.

[i-did-not-mean-to]

Maedhros

Here's the second part of @noldorinpainter's beautiful work for my fic!

Blood

Here depicted,

Maedhros

first-born of Nerdanel and Fëanor - minder and watcher of his brothers - born a vampire - master at denying himself - having a very bad time trying to get Agnes back

Maedhros, a character who sneaks in everywhere! He'll have a really bad time until...he doesn't.

As always, please support the artist @noldorinpainter who was a delight to work with!

Lots of love from me!!!

[ruiniel]

What of their life in Ossiriand?

Ever since

(snippet)

Through the calls of birds, the cawing of ravens, and the pawing of beasts, she hears other sounds, disturbances foreign to these parts until recently: the clink of steel and ring of chainmaille, the soar of words woven in foreign tongues, unfamiliar in their musicality. She smiles, taken with the lilt of it. Some of the Golodhrim had retreated here after their last crushing defeat, and so settled among her people.

A crippled society they are and bereaved of lands, but the legacy they wrought had irreparably marked them. And if there’s one trait she learned the Deep Elves possess, it is pride, streaked with honor like veins of gold trapped in unyielding rock. They seemed distant and aloof at first, before she learned their demeanor reflected their grief.

Collaboration with the clans dwelling in Ossiriand had come naturally, for the Golodhrim have great skill in the craft of metal and stonework, and their swords helped keep the increasing aggression of the Enemy at bay with a viciousness that would have been disconcerting, were it not so needed in the circumstances.

She nears the wooded space leading to a clearing near the river Thalos and follows the path to a remote area on the north side. There is a tent, deftly built by swift hands, a circle of blackened stones that guards old ashes, and artfully cut stumps of trees crafted into seats around the fire area.

She passes the armed guards, for after all, she is one of the known assigned guides to the High Elves from her community. Looking ahead to the more populated space of the temporary settlement, she sees spent folk retiring to their own tents, or some speaking to the guards assigned watch on the nightly shift. Others are sharpening weapons or drinking by their campfires.

They had not seen her. If the Golodhrim shine with exalted might, her people master nature’s shadows and upon concealing themselves can only be found if they wish it. Moriquendi they call them: elves of darkness, ones not having basked in the light of the West. A light that meant little to her, until sharp, grey eyes reflected its radiance.

Reminded of her goal, she steps forward, closer to the stones, and sees the place is currently empty of its occupant. She raises her gaze at a sudden stir and bustle, and turns her head to see a group emerging from the forest on the opposite side of the clearing. They are armed with bow, arrow and knife, and large game is slung over their shoulders; the day’s hunt gone late, it appears. Her eyes catch one of them in particular, and her knees go weak as she watches him relinquish a deer to others in wait, assigned to plan the provisions and the meals.

His hair is tied back from his face in a long, messy braid, and steadily he treads over to where she stands, waiting and watching and shaking from the unruly elation in her chest.

He stops before her, tall and wiry. Rebel strands of auburn frame a face that is both harsh and beautiful. The dust of the hunt clings to him, and his hand is dried with blood, as are the shoulders of his faded over-tunic. He grips the pommel of the hunting dagger resting at his hip, his features shuttered. A ruse, proven by the depth of his stare and the roughness of his voice when he speaks her name.

“Seleth,” he greets with a nod, then busies himself with removing his belt and setting his weapon aside to clean and sharpen later.

He is short of words save for a few precious occasions she remembers, yet different to her first encounters, when loss was the only emotion engraved in the deep scarring of his face. She follows the pale traces of past torment he’s not shared, distantly wondering if he ever will.

“What brings you here?” the Golodhrim prince asks in an even tone as he pulls his soiled tunic over his head.

“You.” It always takes time with him, but bluntness has always worked best between them, whether as allies or the uncertain friends they’ve become.

[lanthanum12]

Niennandil Advent Calendar Day 1

Happy Holidays everyone!! This year everyday including Christmas, I'm hoping to share a short story about Yule and it's celebration in Arda in my favorite AU of the whole legendarium, the Niennandil-verse! Things are pretty complicated, I will admit (I can't keep track of my own stories XD) so at the end of each chapter, I'll include some context for the different ocs and everything! I hope you all enjoy!

---------------------------------

        Nienna’s gift list grew longer every year. New children were born and new elves sailed to Tol Eressa. This year, however, there were even more. Olorín had returned and with him came two hobbits and one being, named Sméagol, who was not truly a hobbit anymore but she loved him just the same. All of them, besides Sméagol, had received a keg of her famous lemonade. Sméagol got caviar. She had planned on giving him an outfit, but Vairë and Fíriel had supplied Sméagol, Bilbo, and Frodo with fifty outfits each. They were so delighted by the little ones.

        There was of course the Ainur she worked with. They were to have a party tomorrow as they did every year. Mairon would be joining them for the first time ever along with his friend Lómion. She was a little bit worried about how everything would go with Mairon as many were wary of him. Though she was planning on doing everything in her power to make it a success. It was the first Yule he would be celebrating with them after all!

        But right now she was going to visit the elf family she was closest to, the House of Nerdanel and Fëanor. When she came to their house for their annual Yule feast, she was met with a cheer and a tight hug from Maglor. Despite her seeing him earlier this morning. Soon much of the family joined in and she was rather crushed and crowded in amongst Fëanor, Nerdanel, their seven children, six spouses, five grandkids, one great-granddaughter, and a dog. Celebrían and Fíriel stood on the edge, laughing.

        “Can we have presents now?” Niennamírë asked. They were Gwindor’s and Maedhros’s little orcling who had been recently reembodied and adopted into the family.

        “We must wait until Lady Nienna is ready,” Niennarille, Mírë’s older brother, hissed. Nienna leaned down next to the orclings and handed them each a package.

        “It’s a little early but these are for you,” Nienna said. Mírë eagerly ripped into the paper of theirs and unwrapped a stack of books.

        “I’m going to learn how to read! I’m going to read all about ada and atto!” Mírë squealed, hugging their books tightly in their arms.

        “We do not know this yet,” Rille cautioned.

        “Of course you will, Mírë, you as well Rille,” Maedhros assured, “Rille, why don’t you open your package?”

        Rille turned his parcel over in his hand, sniffing it and feeling every corner, “I don’t know.”

        “I can tell you what’s inside it if it would make you feel better, or we can open it together,” Nienna assured him.

        “I want to know what’s inside,” Rille said.

        “Okay, I got you a plush of a warg as I know those are your favorite animals,” Nienna explained. Rille ‘s lips turned up as he slowly undid the wrapping paper. Sure enough inside was a warg with silver fur made of the softest silk and an emerald bow. 

        Rille stroked the warg’s fur, “Thank you…”

        “You are so welcome,” Nienna wiped away some tears that came at the siblings’ joy. This is why she gave gifts. It was another way for those she loved to be able to know that.

--------------------------------------

Lanthie here! Thanks for reading day one!

Okay so this one takes place in the fourth age and here are some of the changes: Sméagol lives! Mairon/Sauron gets reembodied and is now living in the halls of Nienna. I'm a big Gwindor x Maedhros shipper (and the one that I know of off the top of my head (I'm so sorry if you ship them too and I forgot >.<), I might even be one of the very first?!) and in my verse they get married and adopt two orclings. Orcs get reembodied in my verse, as orcs. Mírë and Rille have no clue who their biological parents are, Nienna and the rest of the Valar are trying to figure that out in case Mírë and Rille want to meet them someday.

Anyways this was some really fun fluff, I love Mírë and Rille! I wish I paid more attention to them tbh.

[lamemaster]

The Evermoor (Chapter 2)

Request: Sinister love for Maedhros, especially if it's after his fiery death ~how very SPOOKY~ he'd be scary enough as a ghost, but more terrifying would be if he survived or was resurrected, with his burns.Gosh I love Halloween

Pairing: Maedhros x Reader

Genre: Horror

Summary: He was better than ever—but not the same. It was as though the fever had washed away more than just his illness. The man you loved had been replaced by someone—or something—else.

Chapter 1| Chapter 2

AN: perfect gif does not exist

Next up- Glorfindel x Valyrian Reader Fall trope event list

A wedding dress fitting had been your only excuse to escape him. Zaid or whoever he was now hadn’t let you leave otherwise. He prowled the Evermoor’s every corner, confining you to the home that now felt less like a mansion and more like a tomb.

The six-hour round trip was far too short, given that the audiobook Tevildoisapookie had sent would take nineteen hours to complete. But it was your only chance to learn more.

Leaving, however, came with conditions. Zaid had insisted that the ring stay behind, "safely guarded" in his care. You couldn’t have agreed more. Whatever cursed power lay within it would hold his attention, buying you precious time.

The house seemed to breathe a sigh as you slipped out. The ring, left on the oak side table in the hallway, glinted, its polished surface catching a shard of eerie light. You shivered, almost feeling it watching you as you closed the door.

Just as you merge onto the highway, fifteen minutes and several miles from Evermoor, you press play on the audiobook, The Silmarillion by J.R.R. Tolkien..

Then, the name hits. “Fëanorian.” You almost stop breathing. The word echoes inside your soul. Fëanorian. A son of Fëanor, the elven crown prince.

Your car jerks to a halt, tires skidding, as the realization crashes over you. It was him. He was one of those seven. The being who now haunted the Evermoor’s halls was not Zaid. It was an ancient elven lord bound by a forgotten oath.

A blaring honk snaps you back to the present, the impatient driver behind waving their hand in frustration. Your hands tremble as you press the gas, heart thudding wildly as you continue down the road.

The highway stretches ahead, but you can’t shake the feeling that he’s watching, even from miles away.

Things had shifted in the past few days. The Fëanorian—how absurd it felt to even think it—had adapted. His mannerisms grew unnervingly similar to Zaid’s, so practiced that at times, he seemed almost familiar. But there were moments when the façade slipped, and you saw him—the ancient being hiding just beneath the surface.

Dark brown hair, once untouched, was taking on a strange bronze tint, gleaming faintly in the low light as if kissed by a sun that no longer existed.

His eyes, which had once unsettled you with their unnatural glow, were changing, becoming more palatable—gentler. You were growing accustomed to his silent steps, the way he moved as if the air parted for him, carrying no sound of his passing.

Even Hermes and Zeus had relented, their initial wariness giving way to a tentative acceptance. They no longer barked or cowered at his presence, though they watched him with guarded eyes, their tails stiff, as if instinctively bracing for something they couldn’t understand.

The familiarity of it terrified you, a false comfort settling into the routines of daily life. But you knew. He was not Zaid.

The first few days had passed in a blur, your mind consumed with Zaid’s lingering ailment. Between the long nights and restless days, you’d busied yourself fussing over his weakened body, tending to him as his fever waned. You hadn’t noticed, then, the unnatural stiffness of the figure beside you—the way his responses to touch felt detached, slightly delayed, as though they were learned rather than instinctive.

When you climbed into bed each night, exhaustion weighed so heavily that you didn’t register the changes. Zaid’s arms no longer wrapped around you with the warmth and ease you knew. That first night, you missed the slight twitch of his fingers as they lay there, unmoving.

Then, a week ago, you’d felt it. His arms around you, colder than you remembered, more rigid than flesh should be. Zaid’s embrace had always been familiar. But this, this was something unknown. Alien.

The master bedroom remained unfinished, half-done walls and barely-set fixtures casting shadows that stretched and loomed. You’d painted the ceiling the color of a soft sky, a choice encouraged by the recommendations in the comments on your YouTube videos.

That night, the room felt colder than ever, the chill seeping through the blankets as you burrowed deeper into the duvet, seeking warmth.

His hand slid over yours, each finger achingly careful, his eyes fixed on the ring you wore. A small, tight smile played on his lips, but it held no warmth, only fascination—a quiet reverence as his gaze traced the curve of the diamond, glinting in the pale light.

Yet, he never truly touched the ring. His fingers skated along the band, pads pulling away before contact, as though the metal might sear his skin. His reluctance to lay hands upon the object he seemed to covet so deeply twisted something sharp and cold in your chest.

You closed your eyes, willing your thundering heart to settle, forcing your breath to steady. Not yet. You couldn’t confront him. Whoever, or whatever, this was, you needed to understand more.

Rushing into a revelation could jeopardize not only your safety but Zaid’s as well—if he still existed somewhere beneath this stranger’s silver stare.

Your gaze met his, searching those terrifying, metallic eyes, desperate for a glimpse of Zaid’s warm, familiar brown. But they were gone, submerged in an ocean of silvery depths, like light swallowed whole by a storm.

The man beside you felt as though he were slipping, inch by inch, into something other, too ancient to understand, too powerful to hold back. It was a force far older than the walls of Evermoor, something seething beneath its surface, waiting, coiled, as if the house itself held its breath.

The unsettling realization settled in: Evermoor was watching, its silence as loaded as his gaze.

By night, the house was different. Its hallways stretched impossibly long, the walls narrowing in oppressive shadows that felt like they might crush you.

Corners that held charm in the daylight painted trims, playful wall sconces morphed into looming shapes you averted your eyes from. The colors, so rich and warm by day, faded to a ghostly gray under the cold moonlight, reduced to ashen shades.

It struck you that no coat of paint, no cheerful touch of modern decor, could strip Evermoor of its past. The house held tightly to everything it had ever seen, every life it had ever sheltered or stolen.

At times, you imagined the hallways shifting around you, doorways leading somewhere else entirely, a labyrinth only Evermoor understood.

Shadows pooled in corners like spilled ink, thick and impenetrable, defying any attempt to peer within. And when you walked its halls, even the familiar became foreign, twisted by darkness, and the eerie feeling that Evermoor itself was reshaping, closing in with a slow, patient grip.

Tonight, you lay beside him, feeling the house press in, the walls heavy with the weight of centuries.

The Evermoor felt alive, its past lingering in every creak and whisper, watching, waiting.

“Maedhros,” you whisper the name, and his head turns sharply. His eyes lock onto yours, a flicker of recognition glinting within their silvery depths, a knowing that tightens the air between you.

“What was that?” your aunt asks, frowning as she hands you a bowl of soup, her gaze shifting between the two of you with mild curiosity. You break away from him, forcing yourself to focus on the steam rising from the bowl.

Back from the “wedding dress” appointment, you’d asked Zaid to meet you here, at your aunt’s house, for dinner—a simple gathering, ordinary and unthreatening.

You hadn’t dared confront him at Evermoor, where each word felt swallowed by the walls, each thought snared by the shadows. The mansion seemed to be listening, as though ready to consume the truth along with your every breath.

But here, you saw him for what he was. The red tint in his hair, the metallic gleam in his eyes, the wry, calculated curl of his lips—all unmistakable markers. It was him, the eldest of the Fëanorians, Nelyafinwë. And now, there he stood, or rather, there he lurked, watching you from the corner of the room with that mocking, ageless smirk.

Maedhros. Burned and broken by the Silmaril, yet still refusing to let go, even in death. It was as if his spirit had clung to the jewel, shackled to it, drawn to it.

And now, the Silmaril rested on your finger, gleaming quietly, alive with the light that had once damned him.

In this strange, twisted tale, Maedhros had finally won. The Silmaril and its bearer sat within his grasp.

You force a smile for your aunt’s sake, lifting the spoon with a steady hand. But in the periphery, his gaze holds you fast, unbroken, as though nothing not death, nor centuries of exile could keep him from what he believed was his.

After ages of silence, he hears it—his name, spoken with trembling conviction. As if summoned by some ancient spell, Maedhros looks up at you. His eyes narrow, watching the realization settle across your face, the knowledge breaking over you like a wave you cannot outrun.

The Silmaril on your finger pulses, its light swelling, as if acknowledging the presence of a Fëanorian nearby. Its glow intensifies, catching in his eyes.

A slow, vicious curve that spreads across his face. A laugh bubbles up from his chest, low and triumphant, reverberating with a power long buried.

You figured it out. Smarter than he had anticipated, indeed. An Edain, ages removed from his own cursed bloodline, had seen through the disguise, calling him by his name, shackling him to the fate he had once tried so desperately to escape.

But the horror now dawning in your eyes does little to phase him—no, he savors it, the raw terror.

The Silmaril was already his; it had been since the moment you slipped it on your finger, binding yourself unknowingly to his doom. And with the vows of marriage, his victory would be complete, his soul woven irrevocably into yours, fused for eternity.

He can feel it now—the lingering fea of the body he inhabits, its beating heart softening his Elven light, reshaping him into something both human and elven.

Soon, his true name would blur, fading into the mortal coil of his host, diluted until not even the light of Aman could recognize it. And with his name and his soul veiled, he would slip through his doom’s fingers at last.

The Silmaril would be his to touch, his to hold in hands that could feel no burn. And one day, perhaps, he would raise it upon a crown, it would be his to possess.

He watches you, his gaze steady, gleaming with an ancient mockery. You would not stop him. You could not.

[witchofhimring]

To you who is lost (Masterlist) Coming soon!

Synopsis:

They tell the story of the men and handful of women who left Valinor, out of bliss and into woe. But this is the tale of those they left behind. Their wives and daughters lament alongside the Valar in their grief. They may fight no battles, but their trials are just as heartbreaking.

One of these women is Y/n. Already an outsider in this family Y/n finds herself an outsider in the court of Finarifin. Her husband and father-in-laws actions are condemned her. Although Prince Finarfin supports her Y/n must find a way to stand on her own accord.

Pairings: Maedhros x Reader

(Minor) Maglor x OC, Celegorm x Aredhel, Feanor x Nerdanel, Curufin x OC, Caranthir x OC, Fingolfin x Anaire, Finrod x Amarie, Finarfin x Earwen

Warnings: angst, abandonment, mentions of divorce, pregnancy, childbirth

Chapters:

Duty is the death of love

The girl with daisies

Throw up those stone walls

More to come!

[hongchenzhu]

After much consideration, I have the relationship my OC is having in my Silmarillion fic (OC intro is here)

Ita gonna be a Poloy between, my OC, Maedhros and Fingon, but the chemistry ain't gonna start until Maedhros is rescued from Morogoth's tower.