#silm fanfics

[beatles4ever65]

Courage of Stars, Chapter 25

Manwë’s herald stands before them, all silver armor and white light as he carries a banner with the sky blue and white standard of the Vala. The brown feathers of a golden eagle peek out from under his pauldrons. “High King Elrondo Perelda Eärendilion, Lord of Imbeláris, High King of the Noldorin Exiles, you have been summoned to the Ring of Doom.”Elrond blinks. “What?”

An eldritch Maedhros gets more than he bargained for when he attempts a daring rescue in Angband. Meanwhile, in the Third Age, Elrond faces the Valar and Fingolfin, Fingon, and a flamboyance of Fëanorians arrive in Rivendell. Rediscovering family ties and what it means to be at peace whilst finding romance and learning to deal with emerging eldritch powers is a lot harder than it sounds.

To Begin Again:

As the lava burns his fëa away, Maedhros is reforged and returns to Valinor before the Darkening. Meanwhile, Maglor simultaneously finds himself in Third Age Eriador. The two brothers must do their best to understand their new powers while simultaneously saving their people from the Doom of the Noldor across the span of three ages.

Part of a time travel eldritch alternate universe about family, hope, grief, healing, and redemption.

Courage of Stars, Chapter One.

Link to the beginning of the whole series here.

[blueflipflops]

Have you ever read a really good fic then looked up the author's other works and lo and behold a treasure trove of fics that are exactly your kind of shit? Because god that is what euphoria feels like. I love you random fic writers i unexpectedly find

[kazz-brekker]

tolkien's tendency to leave women off of family trees is annoying to me not just because it's an overall trend in fantasy novels that i wish wasn't a thing (to quote arya stark, the woman is important too!) but also because i desperately need to know who celebrimbor's mom was and which elf lady made the bold yet fantastically bad decision to marry into the house of feanor.

[ylieke]

"And Melkor entered his realm. And the Dark bowed before its Lord, and came apart in the light of Silmarilli. The creatures of the night prostrated themselves on the ground in hopes that they would be spared and his heavy gaze wouldn’t fall on them. Sauron bowed low, pinned down by the terror that like a cape was draped over the Fallen Vala. He relinquished all the power he held in his absence and laid it for him, as a servant must." An illistraion for the "Play with fire" fanfic by @eternal-fear

[sandmoer]

“Sorry… my city can no longer provide shelter for a creature as beautiful as you. ”

A rare respite from two years of torture.

[hippothebrave]

Gil-galad Is Secretly Eärendil

think about it.

two Finwëans raised by Círdan at the end of the First Age?? how likely is that??

one mysteriously disappeared... one mysteriously appeared...

how do we know Eärendil's REALLY up there in the sky anyway? has anyone checked?

what does "Gil-Galad" mean? STAR.

their crests look basically the same

related to Elrond

In summary:

(anyway, I wrote a fic about this! nine chapters, already finished, posting daily: https://archiveofourown.org/works/63670309/chapters/163211869)

[leucisticpuffin]

A tiny Elrond in a very big forest, inspired by Chapter 5 of @polutrope's excellent fic And Love Grew.

[likesdoodling]

So y'know Chapter 44 of the Harrowing by Chthonion? I was gonna do a couple of pictures- then I got ~ideas~ - and now it's like nine pages long- but it was completely worth it 😎

I was originally going to try and do a genuinely 'serious/dark' retelling of this scene, but that didn't last longer than a page, so we have both :D

@chthonion

[edennill-archived]

edit: vague warning for... slightly weird/positive explorations of mortality? I feel like a non-zero number of my fics should come with this label.

***

reasons elros became mortal:

i. Ever since he was a child, there was sometimes, at the very deepest reaches of the night, a longing that threatened to swallow him whole.

ii. Elrond handles the charred edges of philosophical texts by candlelight, and Elros looks over his shoulder and is struck with a flash by the way he is looking for something that doesn't seem to exist in the world. His brother doesn't like to hear him speak of it, but they whisper about it in the night, days they are both at camp and share a bed against the harsh northern cold, and there is a togetherness in those moments that mere wondering cannot break.

iii. His people need him, don't they — those bright-spirted, brightly-burning, strong-willed remnants of three tribes, four, maybe more, whom war has formed into one. He doesn't know when they became his, but they are, and he will not forsake them.

iv. All the Vanyarin commanders would stop saying that at fourty-two he is still a child. Hopefully.

v. He could not stand it if he had discovered everything there was to see in the world and found the last path into mystery closed.

vi. There was a young soldier, a boy almost, with such very wide open eyes as he watched him die on his command and he'd like to say sorry one day.

vii. He has not yet been asked if Maglor and Maedhros mistreated him by a mortal stranger instead of a greeting.

viii. Conversely, no mortal has yet offered him whispered help in disposing of Gil-galad.

ix. That little girl of four or so in a dress of pale Telerin sailcloth who pressed what must have been the last wildflower in all of Beleriand into his hand.

x. Her great-grandmother who fed him broth and said he reminded her of her sons when they were younger.

xi. He'd be able to tell lightbulb jokes about elves.

reasons elros almost didn't become mortal:

i. Elrond.

[pursuitseternal]

Hello my partner-in-crime!

Could I pretty please have Sauron x Reader with prompt number 7: "Can you feel how much I want you?"

Love you! ❤️😘

“𝕿𝖔 𝕭𝖊 𝕽𝖊𝖒𝖆𝖉𝖊…”

First Age Sauron x f!Reader | Dead Dove | 3.7K

Summary: There is no hope in Angband, in the dungeons of the Dark Vala…. But there is the Servant. Sauron.

A master craftsman and artist, forever seeking perfection, obsessed with creating his own beauty, and yet a victim of torment by his master that twists his sense of creativity to something vile and precious only to him.

CW: Dead dove: Do Not Eat, graphic violence, torture porn, bondage, temperature play, forge sex, corruption, marking branding biting, mind breaking, mind control, body worship, First Age Sauron, if evil why (literally) hot

Ao3 link | Tolkien Masterlist

You can see your breath, hear your heart beating slower and slower with each passing hour. Languishing. A slow death. A painful death. A merciless one that meant to break you without hope.

There is no hope in Angband.

Even the floors here are ice. Not even prison rats scurry around your cell. Your pointed ears have long grown deaf to the noises of the dungeon, numb from the icy chill of this evil frozen North. The chains on your neck and wrists have long since frozen to your skin. Death will be a relief, you sigh, when once again you’ll see the shores of Valinor and find comfort in the Halls of Mandos.

That thought makes your heart warm just enough to last a few more beats. But then you hear them—footsteps—lighter than Orc, more graceful than Balrog… and your body stiffens as you hear that sound on the icy air.

Humming. Music. Means one thing. Ainur.

Please not the Dark Lord, you beg to divine forces too far away to hear you. Your pleas have fallen on deaf ears. But you hope not this time.

“Do not fear,” that voice croons from the shadows. His presence seems to instantly thaw your extremities, warmth seeping in where there had only been cold for so, so long. You see eyes and movement in the darkness, but from his stature and bearing, you know it’s not the Lord of Angband…

It is the Servant.

His gaze is sharp, eyes darting over your crumpled mess of a body nearly frozen to the floor. His hair is bright; reds like blood and oranges like flames hang in long waves down his back and shoulders. His voice seems to tickle right in your ear, even at this distance, even as he stalks closer towards the bars of your cell. “Do not fear, I’m here to free you.”

“Wh-what?” You croak, the truth of those words do not deceive you, no matter how much you long for them to be true.

Those lips twitch as with a wave of his hand, the iron door swings open, the groaning hinges echoing against stone. “Well,” he suddenly sounds sharp, exacting, “free you from your cell, Elf. You are by no means free, not in body or in will, nor will you ever be again.”

Reality smacks you, your chest constricting.

“The Dark Lord has no need of such a small, frail Elf like you,” he strides in, grasping your chin in fingers impossibly hot. His touch sears like the fires of the forge, the stink of brimstone and smoke fill your nose. “You’d make a weak, pathetic Orc.” Then he shoves you by your face back to the ground at his feet. Your manacled hands catch yourself just in time to keep your nose from smashing against stone.

“Fortunately, what is unfit to serve the Master is deemed worthy of his Servant,” that voice returns to such silken, lilting tones, and you look into his face. His bright brown eyes rake over you, assessing and evaluating your worth, as if you were a precious gem examined for the flaws in your cut.

Those eyes, the more you stare into them, the brighter they seem to shine, a mix of golden browns that bubble and simmer with flame. You see them, the ripples of his power that creep beneath this disguise of a mortal form. “Come,” he orders you, those frozen irons and chains melting from your skin to clatter on the floor around you. “There is much work to be done.”

His grip on your wrist tightens, and you realize with certainty that his skin is hot… flushed and searing you by touch alone. It would frighten you, if it wasn’t for the sense of reprieve it gives from the biting cold that has settled in your bones from your imprisonment. If anything, you draw your scantily clad body closer to his, seeking that thawing sensation…his black robes barely brush your flesh, The bared skin of your arms, even patches of your torso where your gown has shredded to rags with violence and time crave to be nearer.

It feels so… good. After so long in the cold alone, to feel another’s touch, it makes you melt. He guides you through the dark, and even though your jaw aches from that fleeting ferocity in your cell, you can’t help but wish for more warmth shared against your skin.

The memory should terrify you but… it doesn’t. Your mind only remembers how good those fingers felt, their warmth, their command…

And you crave more against your better judgment. You would call it hope, but there is no hope in Angband. No hope. Only craving. As if you know that the only thing that awaits you is fire and blissful burning.

Shadows deepen as you walk, those brown-orange eyes flicker at you beside him as you both ascend the darkened stairs. That scent of smoke and ashen stone that clings to his skin suffocates you. Your frail lungs burn with every inhale, and as you reach the ascent, you see why.

No ice prison, he’s brought you to a massive forge. Torches burn and flicker, but no light is brighter than the gaping maw of a furnace. Orange flame reflects in his eye as he scans you. Grip deathly tight on your wrist, he leads you with graceful movements… lithe and sinuous. Like a snake.

Like a predator stalking his prey.

The faintest of smiles turns his full lips, and he stops you beside a great metal anvil… wide and long and big enough for any great creation. You recall the tales of such things from those of your kind who had come from Valinor, from the workshops of Aulë himself, or of Fëanor and his descendants.

It is on this warm, dark metal that he effortlessly lifts you up to seat you. Its surface is roughened with divets and grooves, the scars of the Servant’s work spanning its face. That relaxing heat creeps through the skin of your ass and climbs your spine until you feel a smile stretch on your cracked lips.

His fingers wander their soothing touch over your collarbone, the slightest push guides you to lay back on the heated anvil. You stare into the ceiling, seeing only the gathering darkness offset by rippling steam and flickering light. His touch continues to dance on your chest, tracing the parts of you where starvation has prodded your bones towards the surface.

And that sharp face, that handsome face, smiles… so warmly. “The Dark Lord insists that we each are forged in the shadows, that what has once been bathed in the light is made anew in the dark. Morgoth’s way is to maim… to ruin and torture and kill the light of beings he drafts into his service…”

You see a flicker behind his eyes, a memory of his own past perhaps, you surmise. A recollection none too pleasant as it darkens his gaze and stiffens the corners of his smiling lips.

Then, he turns that smile down upon you, spread so perfectly on his anvil. “But such is not my way. I am no jailer or executioner. I am an artisan, a craftsman of greatest skill, and I shall make you anew, my treasure.”

His fingers trace your gaunt face, warming it, caressing the spots that have grown stiff and lined with fear. His voice is dulcet, sweet and singsong as he purrs down, and you want nothing more than to feel those full, smirking lips on your skin and taste the sweet promises that drip from his tongue. Before you even realize your need, before you can name your inner burning as desire, two words fall from your panting mouth. “My Lord…” you whisper.

And the Servant smiles. It’s radiant, a flash of brightness in his eye and a brilliance to his grin. But he tuts his tongue, chiding you for the youthful creation you are. “Tsk, none of that. I am no Dark Lord. I am called many things… Admirable, Abominable… Gorthaur… Sauron…”

His hands come to rest at the top of your throat, a slight pressure around your neck as his thumb traces your lower lip.

“But you, my treasure, you shall call me by one simple word…. Hîr.”

Master.

Your breath catches in your burning lungs, your tongue already noiselessly testing out the syllable as it dances at its tip.

His reddish brows arch, pleased at your submission as he can see every little twitch of your mouth.

“You are a rare beauty,” he whispers, “the undiluted blessing of the One shines in the skin of the Elves, their eyes still bright with the memory of the Two Trees…”

He peers into yours, almost wistful, as if he longs to catch a glimpse of that Starlight to capture for his own. Sauron lowers his mouth, hovering just out of reach of your own lips. The scent of his forge is so strong, you can taste it, you are lost in the wash of his singeing breath on your face. “Hîr,” you obediently rasp, arching off the anvil to catch his lips.

And he lets you, lips and tongue so overwhelmingly warm, there is no sensation in your body other than his mouth as he devours.

Wave after wave of his mouth on yours, you fail to sense the snaking of chains around your arms and legs until they have chinched themselves bitingly hard into your flesh. Then you panic, your heart thundering no longer from pure arousal, but that wild rhythm of racing fear. You tug at them, fight them, and with one last desperate plea, you beg for Manwë, Varda… Eru himself to hear you.

But there is no rescue, no whisper of a reply to your prayers.

There is only Sauron’s shimmering toothy smile in the dark as his eyes dance over your form… spread so perfectly for him to work with. “Do you know, my treasure, why I’ve loathed the beauty of the Elves? Eru chose to bless you, to gift your kind the wisdom and graces first given only to me, to my kind… and you squander them. You cannot fathom, cannot see the greater purpose such power could serve.”

He’s pacing between your body and his tools, spread so evenly and orderly beside him. A long iron brand in his grip, he sticks it in the opening of the furnace.

The hissing of metal heating makes you shiver. Makes your skin crawl.

Fingers pull away the rest of your rags, baring every bit of your taut skin to his flickering gaze. “You are beautiful, but it is shallow, it is false. And I, my treasure, will purify you. I’ll remake you in my image and likeness, a thing of incomparable radiance ....” You whine as his hands wrap their warmth around your breasts. “You now are a thing to be admired… as I once was,” he croons down at you, pulling your ass to the edge of the anvil, your chain impossibly tight around your arms, breaking you in their unyielding hold as your legs hang down precariously.

Those lips press searing kisses down your neck, over the places where your mortal heart is thundering. His eyes flash up at you, and in that moment, you swear you see the reflection of the furnace beside you. Or perhaps it is more… the power that lies barely concealed in this handsome, sensual form. Those full lips wrap around one nipple, then the other, an inferno drummed up at his call races through your veins.

It is agony, hot and wild, that courses in your flesh. Never would one of your kind be so… wanton. Lust feeds your form, every bit of your skin wants to be touched… and the more he caresses your breasts and trails his mouth lower over the hollow of your belly, the less you care if that contact is pleasure… or pain.

They are one under his command, your mind purrs to your reason. Every thought reduces to the mere sensation of his mouth, his hands that press now between your spread thighs. The moment his tongue touches you, parting your folds to taste you, an unholy sound tears from your lips. Flames pulse through your veins, every lick and swirl of his tongue draws ungodly ecstacy. You weep for the feeling, the overwhelming waves of pleasure he coaxes from your nearly-broken body as if he drew your very soul, your fëa, to the surface.

Words tumble from your lips, nonsensical and varied in language until it is one word over and over again. You rasp it, cry it, scream it as he brings you right to the edge of your climax… Hîr… Hîr… Master.

His laughter tickles your flesh and your mind all at once, the sensation of his presence in your skull and his tongue in your walls throws you into oblivion. Your climax slams into you, all fire and heat and tension as he withdraws from you in that moment of bliss. Your chain grows impossibly tighter as you convulse on the metal beneath you, and for a split second, you wonder where he has gone….

At first you think it’s the ice of your prison again that slices through the warm pool of pleasure in your belly. But then, you open your eyes… it is not ice but white hot fire on your skin as his brand marks your inner thigh. The hissing, the steam, the scent of charming flesh takes over your pleasure, stealing it from your body. And all the while, he smirks down from between your soaked thighs. Orange hair catches the glow of the brand as he lifts it, a satisfied glint in the flames of his own gaze.

Fear races down your nerves, every corner of your being screams at you to fight, to run and resist… the pain almost breaks through those tendrils of shadow that have woven into your senses. And now, as you inhale, you can smell it.

Death. Ashen and purifying. You see him, eyes ringed in flame and breath blackened like smoke… your heart could burst from your need to resist…

Until you feel his hands on your skin again, that warmth somehow driving the dread back into the recesses of your mind.

That teasing touch traces the prongs of his mark, three of them, ugly and deformed, a perversion of the pronged crown that rests on the Dark Lord, the Dark Vala’s head.

Your body shakes with the shock of pain, even as he presses his lips to kiss that angry flesh. “Ninya,” he whispers against it. Mine.

The pain intensifies as he removes his touch, the euphoria of your climax dulling to leave you with only the searing agony he’s caused in its wake. “Mine, and like me, you shall be remade from admirable to abominable… and I will always possess you.”

The sound of liquid swirls in glass, the soft tapping of a brush against its rim… he stands over you, eyes roaming your bared form and lingering on the places he deems most worthy… or is it unworthy?

“The light of the Valar still shines too brightly on your skin, so soft almost like pearls of the Sea… it too shall have to be remade,” he rasps. The black bottle in his hand coming closer, the wooden brush wiping the excess fluid before he brings it to your legs.

The bite of acid eats at your skin, burning you, tearing you inside out. That music in his voice invades your mind, warping the pain into a warm sort of pleasure. Every drip of acid on your flesh as he paints higher and higher… your thighs, your belly… it shifts into that hot coil of need roiling behind your navel.

He doesn’t slather you, he’s not destroying you… it’s painstaking and exact the way he draws into your skin, making it burn and hiss and bubble anew. Remaking. Whirls and swirls and swipes in the precise places his critical eye deems worthy.

It’s agony… blissful agony… Every scream from your throat breaks into a moan. The perversion of your pain into bliss brings a drugged sort of grin to your face. The grin of a fool.

He sets the brush back inside the bottle, his hand tracing the rises and valleys of your face, your sharpened cheekbones, the hollows of your cheeks. His fingers dance on your wincing face, warm and burning, a herald of the pain you know he’s about to inflict. Your heart will surely explode, and your death might just be the final offering you make… But then, he cups your cheek, fingers laced in the mess of your long and knotted hair.

“Don’t be afraid, my treasure. You are being oh so brave… oh so valiant as you are remade.” His kiss instantly numbs your pain and slows your heart, the torture of resistance in your mind instantly silenced. That coil of need flames anew as his hand wanders back over your mound, dipping that addictive touch into your slick.

You gasp, eyes rolled back, spine arching off the anvil’s metal. Then you look into his face, the abyss of fire and darkness behind his eyes sucks you inside, lost to anything but the sensations of his fingers that tease you and torture you in a different way. A more pleasing way.

His fingers slide so easily, playing you like an instrument in his grasp. Your moans are the melody of his composing, the bucking of your hips keeps a steady rhythm, one perfectly timed to the thrust of his fingers. His mouth on yours once more, the biting of his teeth on your lips, the growls of his own pleasure in his throat form a counterpoint so intoxicating, there is nothing left but the music of him finger fucking you.

All that pain that is bound in your nerves and coiled in your belly bursts… white hot and violent as you come. Then, you scream until your voice cracks, until your vocal chords are fried from the force and volume he demands from your spent form.

“Good, my treasure…” he rasps against your lips as they fall silent. “Ninya… you’ve done so well,” he purrs into your pointed ear as the world grows dark to your vision, as your body gives in and falls unconscious. Those little praises bring a twisted smile to your face as you drift into oblivion. “When you wake, you’ll be mine alone, mine forever… the most beautiful abomination I have yet crafted…”

And the final sensation to pierce through the veil of your slumber is the sting of acid on your forehead and cheek… the flicker of pain plunging you completely into the darkness at long last.

There is no hope in Angband… There is also no time. Only darkness and craving. Hunger and satisfaction.

Pain. And pleasure.

It’s a lesson you are taught nightly, at least you assume it’s nightly… whenever it is that Sauron returns to his chambers where you are kept sequestered away. The chains from his forge are gone, replaced with elegant links of gold and gem-entrusted trappings that hang on your frame. Your hands fiddle with them, where they drape down your arms in layers, where they sweep over your bare skin to your middle.

You’ve long forgotten the feeling of clothes. There is only the bed and your elegant chains, the heat of his touch and the sting of his biting teeth and burning brand and lashing whips.

You wish that your memories would dim… that the burden of your elven heritage would forsake you as easily as that fair, starkissed body you once called your own. Tears prick your eyes, your own fingers steadily tracing your once soft skin, touch dancing over blade scars and the rough ridges of his burning… the brands of his possession forever glaring at you from your thighs, not unlike those ghostly flickering eyes that haunt you each day… whether Sauron visits you or not.

“Mairaza…” the whisper brushes your mind before it settles in your ear. “My precious…” you’ve learned his new tongue… this speech he’s created for his servants, for you.

The warmth of his body seeps into you from behind, that scent of fire, of ash and smoke and forge excites you now… it conjures that swirl of damp heat in your cunt. Already you grit your teeth, craving in excess, hungering for more. The thin chains of gold and jewels clink and jingle as those calloused hands caress your body. He lingers over his marks, the scars of his pleasure-pain that have molded you into his own creation.

“Can you feel it, Mairaza, can you feel how much I want you?”

You clench around nothingness, hoping beyond hope that he fills you soon and grants you release this time.

Soft words of his own invented tongue purr inside your brain, praising your scars, the healed-over bubbles of flesh from that day he claimed you…

Sauron turns you, your attention lost in the bottomless depth of his eyes as those magical fingers caress the scars that curve in serpentine shapes over your cheeks. “Beautiful, so beautiful,” he rasps. “Can you feel how much I want you, body and soul?” his lips whisper against your own. “Can you feel how much you are mine, Ninya?”

The words do not come to you outloud; they flood your very being, racing to your awareness down the tether that binds you to him.

That taste of his mouth swallows you whole, and there is nothing left of hope and peace. All that remains is the fire of lust and the darkness of desire. You cannot escape, nor would you seek to anymore. No lies or deception are required any longer, for you feel his want and crave his attentions…

He is always in your mind, his marks always on your body… his greatest creation. For now.

A gift to @myfavouritelunatic for her ask, for @marimosalad for betaing and inspired by @ogyscrypt and his masterpiece of a nsfw audio you should totally check out… Link on Reddit

[whovianofmidgard]

Day 4: Carnistir

for @feanorianweek, also available on Ao3

"No! Bad Moryo! Spit it out!"  

Tyelkormo didn't know how his baby brother got his grubby little hands on their mother's golden clasp, but Carnistir happily chewed on it with his non-existent teeth.  

Despite Tyelkormo's best efforts to wrest the object away from the baby, Carnistir held onto it with an iron grip, and stuffed it further inside his mouth. The boy tried once more to pry the tiny fingers off of the clasp to no avail until he was finally fed up.  

"Atya!!!" He hollered. "Moryo is eating jewellery again!"  

"What!" came the alarmed response all the way from the other side of the house, and soon after the rapid thuds of running footsteps rang out in the halls.  

Fëanáro took one look at the scene, then immediately hoisted Carnistir into one arm. With his free hand he cleverly picked the clasp out from between tiny fingers and his son's mouth.  

Carnistir's face turned an angry red in an instant, reaching for the shiny gold item in his father's hand. To stave off the incoming tantrum, Fëanáro quickly replaced the clasp with his own larger finger and popped it into the baby's mouth.  

The roose worked for maybe half a minute, Carnistir chewing and chewing on his father's finger. However, he pretty soon spat it out, the first mewls of discomfort passing through his lips and he reach for the clasp once more.  

"Ah, he's teething," Fëanáro observed.  

"What's teething?" Tyelkormo asked.  

"It means that Moryo is growing his teeth out," the father explained, and headed for the cupboard that should hold all the baby items, such as his sons' used teething ring, Tyelko trailing after him.  

"Growing teeth is a painful thing, so Morifinwë is trying to smooth the process by chewing on things. The gold of your Ammë's clasp is cool, a sensation which distracts him from the pain, and gold is a soft metal, so it's not so hard on his gums to bite down on it."  

"Huh..." Tyelkormo processed this new information for a moment.  

Finding the teething ring, Fëanáro offered it to Carnistir. The baby latched onto it, chewed it a bit, then that too he spat out, making a scrunched-up face of disgust. After a while, the ring was forgotten, and he went for the gold clasp yet again.  

"...Seems like he's got a taste for the finer things," Fëanáro said.  

"He's stupid," Tyelkormo proclaimed. "What if he swallows it?"  

"At least Moryo's not trying to cannibalise other elves like you did," Makalaurë chimed in as he passed the hall on his way out.  

"Hey! Elves are more food than metal is!" Tyelkormo yelled back, and he set off after his elder brother to continue arguing.  

Fëanáro left his sons to their bickering and finally allowed Carnistir to have Nerdanel's clasp again. He then headed for his study, ideas of making a teething ring made if solid gold floating before his mind's eye.  

[beatles4ever65]

Courage of Stars, Chapter 18

Manwë’s herald stands before them, all silver armor and white light as he carries a banner with the sky blue and white standard of the Vala. The brown feathers of a golden eagle peek out from under his pauldrons. “High King Elrondo Perelda Eärendilion, Lord of Imbeláris, High King of the Noldorin Exiles, you have been summoned to the Ring of Doom.” Elrond blinks. “What?”

An eldritch Maedhros gets more than he bargained for when he attempts a daring rescue in Angband. Meanwhile, in the Third Age, Elrond faces the Valar and Fingolfin, Fingon, and a flamboyance of Fëanorians arrive in Rivendell. Rediscovering family ties and what it means to be at peace whilst finding romance and learning to deal with emerging eldritch powers is a lot harder than it sounds.

To Begin Again:

As the lava burns his fëa away, Maedhros is reforged and returns to Valinor before the Darkening. Meanwhile, Maglor simultaneously finds himself in Third Age Eriador. The two brothers must do their best to understand their new powers while simultaneously saving their people from the Doom of the Noldor across the span of three ages.

Part of a time travel eldritch alternate universe about family, hope, grief, healing, and redemption.

Courage of Stars, Chapter One.

Link to the beginning of the whole series here.

[thetiredprometheus]

Of Maglor and Celegorm

Celegorm and Maglor do NOT get along. They never have. While Makalaurë Kanafinwë is named for his loud voice, he prefers a quiet house. When Tyelkormo is born, he screams almost as much as Maglor did when he was a baby, and Makalaurë HATES it. Also this new baby is getting all the attention! No one has time to listen to his music anymore.

You'd think it would get better when Tyelkormo reaches toddler age and stops crying all day, but no. Now this little menace can walk and get into Makalaurë's things, which is bad because Makalaurë is very particular about every piece of paper having it's place, and Tyelko completely destroys any order, intentional or not. They both admire Maitimo and want to be his favourite. Of course Nelyo only smiles and says he loves all his brothers equally, but that only frustrates Makalaurë and Tyelkormo more.

Tyelkormo is now a teenager and they still don't get along. The birth of Carnistir has done little to change that, as little Moryo is a quiet child who prefers to be left alone. Makalaurë is Tyelkormo's favourite victim to annoy. He drags mud across the carpet of Makalaurë's room, "accidentally" pushes music sheets of the table, and hides frogs in his bed. Their screaming-matches are the bane of the entire family.

Things are a bit easier after Tyelkormo gets accepted into Oromë's hunt. He is in the woods more often than not and sometimes only comes home after months, and then only for a few days. They can keep the peace for that time, especially as Tyelkormo seems more interested in his newest younger brothers. Curufinwë has a sharp wit for his age and enjoys Tyelkormo's attention, and the Ambarussa are wild children who don't mind a bit of rough housing. Makalaurë locks himself in his room most of the time anyways.

After the kinslaying at Aqualondë Maglor is the most distressed of the seven. He cowers in a corner of the ship, shakes and quietly sings to himself. "Stop being so dramatic, Kano", Tyelkormo says. "It isn't that different from killing deer or rabbits. They also beg for mercy, and they bleed just the same." Maybe he wants to provoke Makalaurë to stop thinking about the pit in his stomach. Makalaurë doesn't talk much for the rest of the journey.

Their father is dead and Maedhros is captured. This means that Maglor is king now. Celegorm thinks a king must be strong, and he does not see strength when he looks at Maglor. He wants to take their soldiers and march on Angband. Maglor forbids it. To him it is because he can not risk losing another brother, to Celegorm it is weakness and cowardice. Celegorm pushes and prods and questions every single order Maglor gives. Maglor begins to truly resent him.

Maedhros is returned to them and while it makes somethings better, the tension between Maglor and Celegorm won't ease. When Fingon tells them how he found Maedhros through song Celegorm doesn't say anything, but the glare he gives Maglor is accusatory enough.

Beleriand makes them all cruel, but there's non of Maglor's brothers where it is as jarring as with Celegorm and Curufin. When they are driven from Nargothrond for their crimes, Maglor refuses to talk to them for a good few decades.

There are rumours that Dior the son of Luthien has the Silmaril now. When he does not answer their letter, Celegorm speaks of war. Maglor, hating the thought of more blood staining their hands, begs Maedhros to try diplomacy once more. But Dior will not give in, and they can feel the oath tightening around them, so Maedhros orders them to march on Doriath.

Celegorm thought he wouldn’t mind dying on the battlefield. And he shouldn't. By all accounts it is a good death; being slain by Luthien's fair son in a glorious fight, dealing him a lethal wound in return... but somehow, as he lies bleeding out, he finds that he doesn't really enjoy dying after all. He knows Curufin is somewhere close, but he is out of reach and has already taken his last breath and so has Dior, and the only sound Celegorm can hear is his own rattled breathing. It is cold, and quiet, and terribly lonely... that is until he hears the falling of feet running towards him. A person sinks to the ground next to him. He cannot see clearly anymore, but then the person start crying and saying his name, and he recognises the voice as Maglor's. Bloodstained hands pull his head into his lap. As Celegorm's sight grows dark and he begins to drift away he feels warm fingers brush through his tangled hair, and hears a shaking voice sing him a lullaby that he hasn't heard since his childhood, and he thinks... maybe he doesn't mind his brother's softness after all.

Maglor holds Celegorm close, kisses his head and refuses to leave his side, until his little brother's corpse has grown cold.

[ylieke]

My cover for @eternal-fear's Silmarillion fanfic! Which they are still to finalize a little bit😅

[aylen-san]

Sauron in the Second Age:

"I am no longer a villain. I have a new profession: jewelry designer".

[laly]

I would like to personally thank every silmarillion fanfic author who has mentioned maedhros' knee joints cracking loudly in their work. This is the representation I need. I feel so seen.