#silm phrase prompts

[polutrope]

Violence of its voice + Luthien 💖💖

Thank you for the prompt! This one took me a hot minute (three months), but I finally landed on a concept. Did you realise Lúthien probably knew her grandsons? I hadn't.

Lúthien gives tiny Eluréd and Elurín their first taste of a Song of Power. 365 words. On AO3.

Since the Silmaril came to Tol Galen, Lúthien has gone down to the banks of Adurant each day at dusk and sung to the waters. A mortal hearing her song would think it sweet: a lullaby or hymn. But in it she winds the same power she harnessed to unbind rock, topple the world’s mightiest foe, and divert the course of Doom.

Tonight is the first time her grandsons have joined her. Eluréd’s wide, star-grey eyes are fixed on her. The light of the Nauglamír, resting on her breast, blazes on his round little face. He has a thumb in his mouth—a habit he should have lost by now, but he is nervous. Awed: it is the first time he has seen the Silmaril. He reminds Lúthien of herself: curious, innocent, unaware of his strength. She gently pulls his hand from his mouth, squeezes it in hers. 

“Don't worry," she says, "I will ensure you know your power."

Elurín is crouched down low beside her, watching the sparkle of the sinking sun in the water. With his silken silver hair, he reminds her of her father, and she is glad that the image of Elu Thingol is not altogether lost to the world. She hopes he will be guided towards greater wisdom.  

She lays a hand on his back. “Come, little one. It is time to sing.”

Elurín straightens. “Sing how, Nana Lu?” he asks.

“Listen and follow me. Your heart will tell you how.”

Lúthien closes her fingers around their tiny hands, one in each of hers. Her eyes fall shut. She sings her gentle melody, scarcely louder than the ripple of the river. But deep, deep beneath the current she buries a violent music. One that will break the will of any who dares the crossing with ill intent. 

The two children join her, their voices small and faint, but laced with quiet power even now. 

The song ended, she scoops them up from the ground, one small body balanced on each arm, and kisses the tops of their heads. Tears sting the edges of her eyes. She has always sung to protect those she loves, and she has never failed. But soon, she will not be here for them—and, for all her bliss, she is afraid. 

[melestasflight]

Holiday Silm Prompt Fest

✍ Taking writing prompts for December!

Send me a Silmarillion 🎭 character(s), or 👬 relationship (any type), and/or 🌄 place + 💡 one of the prompts below along with 🚫 any DNWs.

great beauty has been wakened into song

silences yet unmoved

all the secret thoughts of thy mind

filled with wonder and delight (Elrond/Celebrían)

call upon her name out of the shadows (Aredhel/Eöl)

crowned with the Sun (Galadriel/Celeborn)

haunted by monsters and shapes of dread

love would lead me (Argon & Lalwen)

met never again until many ages were past

in the youth of their days

graven in the memory 

to dwell or to depart

I shall break my heart (Fëanor&/Fingolfin)

through sorrow to find joy

no other home (Fëanor&/Fingolfin)

as a naked flame (Aegnor/Andreth)

their hearts were stirred (Aegnor/Andreth)

only as a rumour

without the counsel of any

an oath of abiding friendship

bearing greetings from the King

as they journeyed night came upon them

winter there was cold (Fingon/Maedhros)

still hope may seem bright (Idril & Tuor & Eärendil)

things strange and beautiful

some fair dream (Fëanor & Míriel)

there was now no returning (Maglor & Maedhros & Fingolfin)

quick to anger and to laughter

swore allegiance

glad in the midst of battle

in ages uncounted and forgotten

Bonus: You can send me your favorite Silm phrase/passage instead of one of the prompts on the list.

[thelordofgifs]

silm phrase prompt! maedhros + shadows of madness and despair

Thank you for the prompt! Have a little tfs missing moment for my first EVER tfs reader ❤️❤️

Even in his sleep Maglor’s fingers do not loosen their hold on Maedhros’ – tight enough that he cannot move them, but somehow still careful not to bruise.

He is always so careful, thinks Maedhros, even when—

Don’t think of it now. Maglor is here. He is living.

“Thank you,” Maedhros says aloud. “For staying. Even after—”

How can he even begin to enumerate his sins?

A sound at the door. “He is well?” Fingon asks quietly, coming to stand beside Maedhros’ chair. He radiates warmth.

“They said the danger is passed for good,” Maedhros says. “Yes. Yes, he is well.”

Fingon tilts Maedhros’ head gently towards him, and examines his expression in the moonlight. “And you, my heart?”

Maedhros leans forward to hide his face in Fingon’s clothes.

“It’s over,” Fingon says, putting an arm around Maedhros’ shoulder. “You’re safe now, Russo, both of you. No harm will come to you at Barad Eithel.”

“The shadow of my madness clings to me yet,” Maedhros murmurs.

“You are not mad,” says Fingon.

Maedhros has no heart for arguing seriously, when Maglor’s complexion is yet so pale that his face almost glows in the light of the Moon. He manages a smile. “Are you the best judge of that, beloved? Some might say walking up to Angband with a bow and a harp was not the very sanest course of action anyone has ever taken.”

Fingon snorts with laughter, before glancing at Maglor and stifling it guiltily. “I’d argue that it was,” he says. “Hope is not insane, Russo. And I hoped for you.”

“Do you still?” Maedhros whispers.

“All the time,” says Fingon, his voice very low.

Maedhros smiles and tilts his face up to be kissed.

When they have broken apart Fingon says, “Will you sleep here tonight?”

Maedhros nods. “In case Káno needs anything.”

Fingon frowns. “Sleep, then, Russo. You will do no one any good staying awake all day and night.”

“I will, I will,” Maedhros says; but once Fingon is gone he finds he is content to sit by Maglor’s bed and watch the play of light and shadow on his face, and listen to the soft sound of his breathing, more soothing than any lullaby he has ever sung.

“I’m glad you’re getting better,” Maedhros whispers. “I am – so glad, Káno. It is much more than I deserve.”

Maglor stirs and opens his eyes. “Nelyo,” he murmurs, his voice thick with sleep. “I knew you’d stay.”

Maedhros squeezes his fingers. “I’m here, Káno. Go back to sleep.”

“You too,” Maglor insists. “You should sleep.”

Maedhros smiles, although his throat is stinging. “You don’t always have to,” he begins, and then pauses.

It is hard to put into words all that Maglor does for him – all that Maglor is to him.

This is what he nearly lost. No, what he nearly destroyed.

Maglor has fallen back asleep, anyway. His grip on Maedhros’ hand has loosened a little.

Maedhros takes the opportunity to crawl into the bed next to his brother, mindful not to jostle his still-healing wounds.

The memory of what he did remains; but in this peaceful chamber, with Maglor’s warm living body close against his, Maedhros finds it is not so heavy as before.

[searchingforserendipity25]

For the Silm Phrase Prompts, any character(a) + Ossiriand + without wish or purpose?

Thank you @polutrope! It took a while but it's here. A more whimsical approach to one of the most heartbreaking line about Túrin, now with Finrod and his problematic cousins on their famous road trip. 

-

Tourist Traps 

Finrod rose, tottering a little on his feet, and grasped a helpful bough with one hand.

“No, hearken to me. There is no danger of us being eaten, therefore we should go. We are, indeed, obligated to go on. For are we not hunters, we are scholars, and, most of all, we are princes of the Noldor. We are, seekers and inquirers of every wonder in the great kingdoms of Beleriand -” 

“Speak for yourself. The flesh-eating begonia was enough. If I wanted to chat with deceitful creatures set on dominating my spirit and eating the remains, I would have stayed at home and hosted the dragons, or invited my brothers for a visit.”

Maedhros did not need to open his eyes to tug at his brother’s plait. 

“I did not wish to use the Ice as such petty leverage,” Finrod said. “But.” 

“But,” Maedhros said, not bothering with inflections, nor to open his eyelashes from his doze.

Maglor at least had the grace to stop braiding his damp hair to look at him with a vaguely solemn look. He had drunk too much cider for it to be very convincing - like Curvu and their esteemed father, he went terribly pink all around the ears after three glasses - but he did try. 

Finrod lifted his nose. “I am surprised at you, cousin. The journey was your notion. It is a diplomac endeavour. We are on a hunting trip, as is the way of noble princes, and restablishing ties of kinship, and the like.”

“Methinks Finrod has had enough reestablishment,” commented Maglor slyly. That could not be blamed on the drink. “With us, at least. Really we are very easy and steady people, and very boring; it has to be the poisonous flowers for Felagund to enjoy his holidays, and nothing else will do.” 

“This orchid is not said to be malicious,” Finrod says, coaxingly. “It merely makes forceful osanwë contact on very rare occasions, by all accounts.” 

“I am not following you into the maw of a ravenous plant because of remorse,” Maglor told Finrod, very seriously. “You get a sorrowful song about it, and you have already said you do not want the song.”

“No one wants the song,” Finrod reiterated with feeling. Turukáno had been very clear about that. 

“And that is fair! But it does not mean I am willing to abase myself merely to please you, or please myself into feeling better about past errors; therefore, I am regretful, Ingoldo, but not enough for ravenous plants. I do not think this is unreasonable.” 

“Children, please,” Maedhros said, from somewhere underneath his impressive straw hat. “You are both too bony and, frankly, stringy to an unappetizing degree. No self-respecting flora, or fauna, or uruk would take a bite out of you.” 

“See,” Finrod said, quite pleased. Maedhros’ say-so was powerful leverage, among the grandchildren of Finwë; it was said to have a powerful effect even upon king Fingolfin. “Maedhros is an expert in his field, and he agrees with me.”

 Maglor wrinkled his nose, in very much the same way he always did when Maedhros agreed with someone that was not him. 

“Besides all else,” Maedhros added. “The Laiquendi have given us leave on condition of our best conduct, and we all known Finrod’s naturalist efforts do not always mind such things as local legislature.” 

Finrod splashed his feet in the water, just at the right angle to dampen Maglor’s hems. “Bah. Spoilsport. The two of you!“

“Cowards,” Maedhros said dryly. “Dreadful faint hearts, truly.”

Maglor tied off his hair and bend down with the wooden comb to start brushing his brother’s, not without tugging at him in retaliation.

“Poor Felagund, stuck in such wretched company. I am most sorry, of course; your quest is high-hearted, but there is nought in this world that would urge me to go into the mazes of caves under the wood for the pleasure of inquiring into the mind of a sentient plant.”

“Nought,” Maedhros agreed, in a tone that was like the closing of a door.  

There was silence, for a little time, such as there was ever silence in the sweet green light of the glen. A dragonfly wove its way between the reeds; the wild doves spoke earnestly at each other above their eyes. 

Maedhros deigned at last to turn his head and open one eye of burning white. “Shall you go alone, if we do not follow?”

“Oh, very likely,” said Finrod, quite unembarrassed.  “Tis a patrolled land, safe as much as any in Beleriand, and safer than most.” 

The trick of getting his cousin to do anything, Finrod knew, and Maglor knew, and Fingon knew, was to be cheerfully self-interested, and tug him along into his own enjoyment. The fact that Maedhros tended to know when it was happening did not make it any less effective. 

They did, of course, go with him. 

-

Finrod, he felt, could be excused some complacent smugness; for all things had gone quite as well as he had contrived them to be. Art, lore, and culinary pleasure: half-way through a long trek down the talan road and the charming road by the high canopies, he started entertained the notion of writing a little travel guide when he returned to Nargothrond, for truly there was a great deal to be said of the beauty of Ossiriand, and all that one might do and see in it.

 It was a hunting journey, even, in the sense that they had followed both orc tracks and harts on the way to the forest, before entering it properly. 

The peace the Green-elves kept was quite perfect, however, and the herds of deer were only to be hunted a few scant times a year; for they were friends of the trees and friends of the beasts, the singers of the forest, and even their diet was mostly of those untended plants and fruits that grew in plenty out in the wild, carefully stewarded over long, long years. 

They had pledged solemnly to respect the peace of the Green-elves, and even mostly done it - Maedhros had a talent for interrupting whenever Finrod’s inquiries and interviews on the lore of the Avari grew wearisome, and as Maglor would as much talk to the streams as those who kept them clear, he fit in quite well with the people of Ossiriand. 

Dutifully - his itinerary notes, Finrod had noted, were quite strictly planned and unpleaseantly reminiscent to his maps of war - his cousin had lead them from sight-seeing landmark to landmark: Tatië’s Parlour, the beautiful caves with remarkable drawings left behind during the Journey, and the the great salmon-leaping competition down the Legolin and the great singing circles of celebration afterwards, and even, at Finrod’s insistence, timed their trip to coincide with the famous Laiquendi Bicentennial Berry Tour. 

 (Fifty different kinds of blackberries in a single biosphere was really quite remarkable. Finrod had a number of interesting conversations with the bush-stewards all throughout, while Maedhros stood tall and grim beside him, with his pale mouth juice-stained and his great arms holding a growing number of baskets whenever Maglor came back from his mercenary wanderings from stall to stall.) 

 He was very thorough, Maedhros, enough to become a little more at ease: and when all dramatic waterfalls and interesting ancient trees were met, he went about the high grass and the wildflowers with the fierce determination of an elf looking for optimal levels of sun-dappled sunshine and healthful photosynthesis. At which point, when it was found, he laid down his very, very long self, arranged his hair charmingly about himself, and fell asleep into a stillness greater than the stillness of the boulders by the water. 

Maglor liked to complain, and to make his yielding cost a great deal to everyone involved if it could be arranged, but he had been the one to connive with Finrod to decide upon the times and the places of their escape.

Between his cunning references and Finrod’s insistent offers, they had gained a slow victory in the long work of convincing Maedhros that Himring would not be attacked by surprise or fall into rubble if her lord went to the forest for his health for a year only, not even that long.

 It had been a great effort top prepare for such a journey. It was only afterwards, when they rode idly under the green leaves of Ossiriand, that they came to find all the planned excursions paled before the plain pleasure of swimming in the clear rivers and fishing trout to eat when hungry, with no hurry and no duties to attend. For a time it was a little like a return to the Noontide, when all was joy, at least never so great a trouble a journey through Aman could no diminish out of sight. 

Finrod had known the peace of green Ossiriand would do Maedhros good, and it did. Maedhros, who had little chance for warmth in Himring, shed his furs only when it proved untenable, and went about the endeavor of enjoying himself with a steady vigilance that was more unnerving for being so constant. 

It was not an arrangement without self-interest, and Finrod was not sorry to admit it. He had so long wished for such a journey, and set about elaborating all his collecting of stories and specimens with care. 

And he suspected Maglor had only been half-jesting, when he wrote saying he was to be exiled for the year out of command; he became ever more impossible to bear, the less time he had for his art; a little time to retreat from the Gap was a considerable benefit to all his loyal riders.

After the first fortnight of discourses and re-acquaintance, and all the great events and views had been sharply scratched out of the list, Maglor had gained a distracted look in his eyes, and started giving the strong impression he would far rather be left to his devices and his harp for a short eternity, without having to speak to anyone, and be perfectly content in this way. 

Finrod enjoyed the opportunity for collaborations, when they came; but this was not that. Mostly they laid about in the shade drinking cider and eating a dozen variety of nuts, hunting for the best place riverside rock to sun-bath on.

It was not, it had to be said, particularly exciting stuff. Finrod started to grow a little mad by the second fortnight of peaceable, thorough journeying - there was, after all, so much wisdom found only in the hidden wonders of the wild, and his own list of places that must absolutely be perused at length.

 In all fairness, the orchid did blossom fully into mind-contact very rarely. It made its displeasure known in more straightforwardly most of the time. There was, perhaps, a reason why the land around it was kept so secure.

(And then Maglor put his foot down and decided he really did need to finish his composition, and bullied Maedhros’ into taking an appointment in the hot springs while he was occupied, quite well-deserved after he was through with the grueling work of explaining matters to the local ranging authorities; and Finrod did go on alone, in the end.

Singing as he went, he sought beauty with no aim but to seek it, well-inclined to find a new marvel under every canopy, finding it indeed in the least expected of guises - thought his cousins never did cease to tease him for his hankering for strange specimens, begonias and orchids and slumbering Aftercomers all.)

[that-angry-noldo]

this blog has recently hit a milestone!! big thanks to all of you <3

i currently have some free time so feel free to send me prompts from silm phrase promt list, kissing promt list, or this sentence prompt list! (feel free to combine multiple, too :3)

once again, thanks to all of you! you are amazing <3

[ao3feed-tolkien]

What creeps underneath

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/cY12iNS

by firstamazon

Fëanor goes to the theatre and is impacted by the experience.

Words: 200, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Series: Part 6 of Tumblr prompts - Silm phrases, worldbuilding, kissing

Fandoms: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien, TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms

Rating: General Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: Gen

Characters: Fëanor | Curufinwë, Fingolfin | Ñolofinwë

Relationships: Fëanor | Curufinwë & Maglor | Makalaurë, Fëanor | Curufinwë & Fingolfin | Ñolofinwë

Additional Tags: Years of the Trees, Theatre, Double Drabble, Tumblr Prompt

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/cY12iNS

[shinraelectricpowercom]

Aiya Eärendil, elenion ancalima!

A beach cryptid!Maglor landscape for today’s Inktober prompt, “tear”.

[stormwarnings]

fic writer interview

i was tagged by @lemurious thank you :D

name: im stormwarnings on tumblr/ao3

fandoms: all for the game, tolkien (silm and lotr), and got dragged back into supernatural kicking and screaming

where you post: mostly ao3, but i put stuff thats less polished on tumblr too

most popular one-shot: doubt thou the stars be fire, my aftg fall exchange fic! its not my best, but i guess people like it which makes me happy

most popular multi-chap: black, the night that ends at last which was actually the first fic i ever wrote. i think its alright - i think my writing has definitely improved a lot since i started it in april. im glad people like it though, and its a wip but itll get finished someday :)

favorite story youve written so far: either my silm ‘fix-it’ bone of my bone and flesh of my flesh or my legolas/gimli orpheus and eurydice retelling we raise our cups

fic you were nervous to post: probably black, the night that ends at last because it deals with things pretty close to my heart, and also - first fic ever lmao

how do you choose your titles: music? random phrases that float into my head? a line of poetry thats just chilling? absolutely no clue its random

do you outline: lmao sometimes not frequently tho, id definitely benefit from doing so and maybe id have less wips but then again im bad at finishing stuff so probably not

complete: im not gonna leave any of my stories incomplete - ill finish them eventually. rn 19/23 fics on my ao3 are finished

in progress: ahaha ive got 4 fics according to ao3 that are incomplete - black (aftg longfic), see your face wasn’t quite as i remember (lotr era eldritchyness and sibling vibes), bone of my bone (silm fix it), and people like us (silm modern au with crime families). once i finish bone of my bone, i intend to add more stories to the 'verse (like the dawn) including ones centered around characters, and a chapter fic centered around the line of elu thingol and doriath. plus, ive still got a few more characters to go in my eldritch peredhil series, whatever we call beautiful, we quiver before it

coming soon/not started yet: my aftg rbb fic, which im super excited tho slightly stymied by! plus my tss fic, which is almost done, but after that i intend to update some of my wips. im also writing a genderbent spn au bc im gay and love girls and terrifying angels

prompts: sure go wild i enjoy writing short things for other people when i can muster the productivity

upcoming work youre most excited about: the dang supernatural fic how did i get here i swore id never go back - but also seriously hyped to write more of my silm fix it whenever i manage to get around to it

i tag: uhh i dont actually know who hasnt been tagged? @thatfeanorian, @withfantasticgarlands, @xirinofarvada, and anyone else who wants to

[elesianne]

Fic Writer Interview

I was tagged by @arofili, thank you so much!!

Name: Elesianne on AO3 and Fanfiction.net and many other places

Fandoms: The Silmarillion + The Lord of the Rings for my Lothíriel/Éomer fics.

Where you post: AO3 and Tumblr at the same time. Then when I have the spoons to deal with fanfiction.net's horrible posting system, there as well.

Most Popular One-shot: By hits, Seven sons which is actually the first fic I posted on AO3. It's tiny, humorous, and about the Fëanorians. That seems to be a recipe for success… since the most popular by kudos is My sons are the best which is exactly the same kind of fic as Seven sons. By comment threads, more pleasingly, it's Brothers and other beasts, about little Carnistir and his toy cat and problems with brothers.

Most Popular Multichapter fic: Your spirit calling out to mine. Utterly unsurprising since it's over 100k words and was WIP for over three years.

Amusingly, the second most popular by hits out of all my fics is Mid-year's night, the two-chapter story of Éomer and Lothíriel's wedding night. It was only posted seven months ago! It can be read fandom blind, though, and the combination of wedding night & arranged marriage pushes a lot of people's buttons, it seems.

Favorite story you’ve written so far: Your spirit calling out to mine. I've wanted to write a romance novel for over a decade, and I did, even if it is fanfiction about elves.

Fic you were nervous to post: Many, but chief among them for various reasons that I can elaborate on if someone wants: Seven sons, Her unwilling presence, Your spirit calling out to mine, Riding lessons, Ever-beloved, Pink dress and high heels, suit and tie, Kirje kotiin

How do you choose your titles: Usually they come to me easily or early, either as a phrase from the fic or some other one that captures its mood or character's attitudes well.

Do you outline: Not properly, not often enough. I've done some sort of outlines for most of my multi-chapter fics but even those were skeletal.

Complete: I complete most fics that I start posting, though there are many unfinished ones on my laptop. The one fic I have as uncomplete and abandoned on AO3 is Quality of light which was the first Silm fanfic I started writing back in September 2016. As I started outlining and researching it after having written a bit, it grew into an epic and overwhelmed me, and I never managed to finish it even though I tried to do it bit by bit – and to pressure myself to write more chapters by starting to post it unfinished. Never doing that again. I did use some of the characterisation I developed for it in The faithful, though, so not all was wasted.

Another sort of incomplete thing is the Merelaineth series, another early endeavour. I have posted two parts of it and those are complete little fics in their own right. But there were going to be more parts, including one with mutual pining Maedhros/Merelaineth romance. I don't know if I'm going to try to tackle that again.

In progress: Listing here the ones I have even vague plans to actually finish: TSS fic about Finrod, Turgon/Elenwë courting fic for FLW (…), fluff/family one-shot about Curufin and his family teaching Netyarë to dance, next part of Caranthir/Tuilindien, Lothíriel/Éomer sequel and its many sequels and possibly one prequel, 'The way you –' part III.

Coming soon/not yet started: Only thing actually coming soon is the TSS fic. Not yet started: Ever-beloved sequel, one-shot about Tinweriel/Maglor during unrest of the Noldor, Russingon wedding as final (?) part of Fëanorian marriages.

Prompts?: I take prompts occasionally, not often and not now, and can never make any promises about them.

Upcoming work you’re most excited about: The big, angsty Caranthir/Tuilindien sequel even though it is going to be a beast to finish.

I don't know who's actively writing and hasn't been tagged yet so apologies if this is weird but umm I'll tag @cycas and @alkarinqque!

[polutrope]

Finrod, Helcaraxë and 11. 'because he is the son of his father' for the prompts if you want!

Thank you for this one, an excellent prompt!

Finrod and Turgon on the reasons for crossing the Helcaraxe, 515 words.

* * *

“You must slow down,” says Findaráto, reaching for his cousin’s arm. “You will weary and fall behind.”

Turukáno jerks the arm away and whirls on him. The skin around his lips is flaking and chapped red as blood. His eyes flicker with cold fire. 

“Do not counsel me with your soft words,” he snaps. “I feel no weariness. Every step I take carries me closer to the retribution I will take from those who took Elenwë from me. Who robbed Itarillë of her mother.”

“What retribution will satisfy you? It won’t bring her back.” At once Findaráto wishes he could pull the words back into his lungs. 

Turukáno’s fist stutters at his side. 

“I am sorry,” Findaráto says. “That was rashly spoken.”

“But it was spoken.” Turukáno comes to a standstill and pins Findaráto with his eyes. “What of you? Some might say you have more reason to hate them than I do. Elenwë was—is everything to me, but she is only one. Hundreds of your mother’s kindred were robbed, murdered at their hands. What of them?”

Findaráto shakes his head. “And should I then hate your brothers for their part in that dreadful deed? Do you hate them also?”

The muscles of Turukáno’s jaw ripple and clench. “No,” he says quietly, as if admitting a weakness. “But you would be right to.”

“And where then would my hatred stop? It would consume me from within.”

Turukáno opens his mouth to speak then pinches it shut again. A dry gust whips through the taut silence between them; whips through the cavity in Findaráto’s heart that ought to be aflame with feeling. He told the truth. He is not angry. And despite his assertion, he wars with doubt that it is not some fault in his nature. 

“Why did you follow us?” Turukáno asks at length. “Why did you not turn back with your father?” 

“As I have said before,” Findaráto answers, “for love of my brothers and sister, who would not go back, and for you.” 

Abruptly, Turukáno laughs. The sound of it stings Findaráto’s heart. 

“You do not believe it?” Findaráto asks.

“I do, I do.” Turukáno sighs. “But I do not believe it was for that alone. You came because we needed you. We needed your wisdom, and you knew that. No, no,” he waves off the protest on Findaráto’s lips, “I know you will deny it, for you are ever ruled by humility. It is but one way that you are most like him. But you are also wise, and a wise man knows his strengths. Valinor needs Arafinwë. Endor needs you, Ingoldo. Because you are the son of your father.”

Findaráto’s lip trembles. He extends a tentative hand towards Turukáno and this time his friend does not draw back. Rather, he pulls Findaráto to him and holds his head close against his chest. The warmth of him fills the empty places in Findaráto’s heart. With sadness and affection. With courage—and with pride. 

“Thank you,” he says.

“I spoke only the truth.” 

“Yet had you not, I may not have seen it.”

Thanks to @cuarthol, Finrod connoisseur, for help brainstorming this one.

[polutrope]

Hello your highness… could I perhaps request some Celegorm/Orome reunion sex with “you still I love”? Love youuuuu

Thanks for the prompt! Delighted to add a spicy piece to the collection 🔥.

820 words, rated M. On AO3.

The day Celegorm came forth from the Halls, Oromë planted the seed of a linden tree near the gates of his home. 

That tree’s many branching arms now reach far over the open space before the gates, thick with whispering leaves. Oromë often stands beneath its shadow, breathing its breath, his spirit seeping through the soil and nourishing its roots.   

The day Celegorm comes to him at last, the tree is bursting with butter-yellow blossoms. The bees flitting from flower to flower scatter as if in deference to the elf. Their sudden flight sets the flowers trembling, and the air is dense with their honey-lemon scent. 

It is how Oromë, deep in the knotted recesses of his forest dwelling, knows that Celegorm has come. Should Oromë take the form in which he first appeared to the Quendi? The Huntsman: antlered and huge, terrifying, majestic, commanding reverence and obeisance. There are those of his brethren who would do so, invoking fear to test the blasphemer’s repentance.

Oromë will not. With Celegorm, he has never been a god. From the first time his spirit brushed up against the white flame of Fëanor’s third-born son, Oromë has cleaved to him as the steadfast wolf cleaves to its mate.

For all the transgressions of Celegorm's former incarnation, Oromë does not want to see his beloved abased and pleading. He wants to see him unbowed, strong: Turcafinwë as he was and should have been.

So it is that Oromë dons that raiment in which he so often took delight when they coupled flesh-to-flesh. A nimble hunter, muscled but lithe, smooth brown skin painted with black ink, eyes of starlight.   

Still, Celegorm drops to his knees when Oromë appears on the threshold. His pink mouth silently quivers around the words My lord. So Oromë too falls to his knees before him, and cups his pale face in one strong dark hand. He searches the bleached white of Celegorm’s eyes, the pure but light-sapped silver of his irises. The black wells of Celegorm’s pupils swell, and in them Oromë seeks out a confirmation: that death and this new milky flesh he wears have not diluted the restless, ravenous spirit Oromë has lusted for oh! these long years.

Under Oromë’s gaze Celegorm’s cheeks flush, his frown quirks up into a hungry smile, and once more Oromë is ensnared by that ancient fragment of the One’s imperishable flame. Lo, how he burns. 

But as he is Celegorm’s, so Celegorm is his. Oromë claims him with hands and lips and tongue and teeth. He tumbles him into the dirt beneath his linden tree, and Celegorm laughs. Panting into each other’s mouths, Celegorm bucks and writhes beneath him, driving his heels into the spongy soil. But Oromë resists, resists the insistence of his lover, revelling in the blissful straining of his body, all hard and brimming with want. 

Besides this, he discovers Celegorm’s new body coiled tightly against any intrusion. 

In answer to the question in Oromë’s hooded eyes, Celegorm, his voice taut with desire, says, “For you. I saved myself for you.” 

At that Oromë groans and clutches the heaving chest of his beloved, nails marking tiny pink crescents in his taut skin. Celegorm arcs his body and begs, begs to be filled, but Oromë silences him with a thought. Then Oromë winds a song between his fingers, and Celegorm unspools, his arms falling limp to either side of his shining chest, his head twisting from side to side, catching browned leaves and dirt in the fine silver strands of his hair. His blushing crown shines, leaking white over his stomach, and Oromë bends to taste him, sticky-sweet and slightly salty with sweat. 

Enraptured, Oromë is unaware of the forward thrust of his own body, of finding purchase in his beloved, until he is taken entirely into Celegorm’s supple warmth. Oromë's pleasure howls. Overtaken by his need, he rocks his hips, claims his lover again and again with each long and purposeful stroke, chasing friction, chasing release.

It is the spurt and tremor and cry of Celegorm’s climax that brings Oromë to his. It thunders through him, scarcely able to be contained in this humble raiment he has chosen. But contain it he does, holding himself in this form. For thus can Oromë imagine that they were created alike and might suffer like fates; that he will never know a severance from his beloved more permanent than that which he has just endured. 

His lust spent, Oromë collapses over Celegorm’s body and twines him in his limbs. Yellow blossoms fall from the tree above them and brush over their bare skin, still prickling with pleasure.   

At length Oromë says, “Why did you not come sooner?”  

Celegorm hums and winds one long black braid around his hand. He confesses, “I feared you would no longer have me.”

“No.” Oromë pulls himself up onto bent elbows to look into his eyes. “No, Tyelkormo, dearest. You still I love.”

[polutrope]

maglor, daeron, and 11! (romantic or platonic)

Hey, I finally managed to write some humour-fluff with one of these prompts!

Post-canon Aman, Daeron/Maglor featuring Fëanor, with a special guest appearance by Nerdanel. 2.7k words (!!). Rated T. On AO3.

For the prompt "because he is the son of his father".

* * *

To Canafinwë Macalaurë (Maglor), esteemed colleague, from Daeron, chief minstrel of the Eldar and loremaster of Alqualondë, greetings. 

Let me begin by expressing my regret that I have not attempted to reach you sooner. My time has been so full since coming to the Blessed Realm, you would not believe! There is simply so much to discover here, so many extraordinary people to meet, so much to learn. But I have been primarily occupied with gathering the lore and wisdom of my people—I still cannot comprehend how the Teleri of Aman kept no written records for five ages. 

I have recently returned from a journey to the Telerin fisher villages along the northern coast where some of the more reclusive of my folk reside, and it brought you to mind. Have you been? I think you would like it. Though perhaps you are quite sick of the sea, I do not know.

In any event, I would say that we two are long overdue for a visit. Do not worry—I will come to you. I have been meaning to make the journey to the country around Formenos and this is an excellent excuse. So, it is likely that I will already be on my way (on foot, as usual) by the time you receive this letter, but I thought it would be rude to show up unannounced. I do not wish to intrude on the privacy of your family, especially at this time.

I will be staying at the inn in the village and will send a messenger when I’ve arrived. I look forward to seeing you there. 

For the third time that afternoon, Maglor flipped the parchment face down and dragged a thumb along his jawline.  

“What is so strange about it?” asked Nerdanel. “You have a great deal in common. Minstrelsy. Arrogance. Legendary self-pity.”

Maglor glared. Without averting her gaze from the vase taking shape on her pottery wheel, Nerdanel smiled smugly. Then, twisting up her features, she asked, “But what did he mean by that bit about ‘especially at this time’?” 

“I assume he means Father’s return.”

It had been over a year since Námo had dismissed Fëanor without the slightest fanfare or warning, not even to his family; but it had been done so quietly that others were only beginning to hear of it. Fëanor, who was greatly enjoying being alive again and did not wish to have any drama spoil it, was keeping his existence as private as possible.

Nerdanel bit her lower lip. “I suppose that’s considerate of him.” She sighed. “I am surprised you have not corresponded at all before this. How long since he sailed to Aman?”

“I have no idea,” said Maglor, throwing up his hands. As a matter of fact, it had been one hundred forty-five years and seven months that Maglor had held off on being the first to reach out, but he did not tell his mother this. 

“You were acquainted in Beleriand, were you not?” 

“Yes,” Maglor hissed impatiently. “We met, once.” 

“Only once? Endor is large but I would think in several millennia of wandering you might have run into each other, no?”

Maglor glared, again. ”No. Only once.” Nerdanel gave him that gentle but withering glance every mother everywhere gives when she knows her child is lying to her. “All right,” he admitted. “Yes, we crossed paths a handful of times.”

“I see,” said Nerdanel. “You slept with him.”

“What!” Maglor slammed the desk and whipped his neck round to face her. 

“Please, Lauro, you may be thousands of years older than you were when I first learned to recognise the meaning of that blush on the tips of your ears, but it is as obvious as ever.” She flicked her eyes at him again. “You really ought to grow out your hair again. You have such nice hair. Well, did you last part with Daeron on good terms?”

Maglor bit down on the flesh of his cheek. Sneaking off before sunrise was impolite, certainly, but it could have been worse. It also could have been better. 

“Neutral terms,” Maglor answered, and sighed. What was the use of discussing it? He could not very well refuse an invitation from the minstrel of the Eldar and loremaster of Alqualondë, and Daeron’s tone made it clear that he knew as much. 

It was Maglor’s suggestion that they meet in the morning. To have it over and done with, but also because he was less likely to make a regrettable decision by the light of day. 

After glancing longingly over the list of the sparkling wines, Maglor settled on black tea. Daeron ordered the same, and a tray of scones. 

“How long until you are allowed back in Eldamar?” asked Daeron, marking the end of meaningless pleasantries and the beginning of awkward unpleasantries.

“What?” said Maglor. Tea sploshed from the spout of the teapot as he set it down. “I am not banned from Eldamar. It is my choice to live here.”

“Oh, my mistake. I suppose I assumed since you made the decision to sail here that you yourself deemed the term of your exile ended.”

Maglor huffed. “I live here because I like living here. Besides, I didn’t—” he started to say. “Never mind.”

“Didn’t what?”

“Well, I wouldn’t say that I chose to sail.”

“So she did find you!” Daeron laughed that bright, musical laugh that had never left Maglor’s memories. It sent a rush of warmth through him, momentarily distracting him from the realisation that—

“Wait. You told her where to find me?”

Daeron winked. “I figured if anyone could force you to board a ship West it was Galadriel. She was right, you know. It’s not really up to us to decide how we ought to atone for our mistakes, is it? Anyway, what was the judgement of the Valar?”

“That my self-imposed exile was more than sufficient punishment and I am forgiven.”

“Hah!” Daeron clapped his hands. “She must have hated that!”

“She did,” Maglor said. “And she hated the subsequent release of the rest of my family even more. She’s convinced that was my doing, and she is not alone.”

“Yes, I’ve heard the rumour. That you sang before Mandos. I never believed it. Not even you could sing a song like that.” At the allusion to Lúthien, Daeron’s eyes clouded like one who is far-off, walking in wistful memories. To Maglor’s surprise and embarrassment, he felt a prickle of jealousy. 

“Yes,” said Maglor, “and that is another reason I don’t visit Tirion—let alone the other cities of Eldamar. People do not like me there.”

“The Valar do seem more willing to forgive than our own kind, don’t they? Your father for example! That was a surprise!”

“Mm, yes.” Maglor brushed a few crumbs of scone from the tabletop. 

“How is he?” asked Daeron.

“What?”

“The great Curufinwë Fëanaro. How is he since his re-embodiment?” 

Exuberant, thought Maglor. Delighting in life, more brilliant than he ever was, inspired, and positively overflowing with the most eloquent and heartfelt apologies. 

“He is well.”

“Really? Wonderful news. Will he return to Tirion, do you think?”

“I do not think so, no.” (What Fëanor actually said was, “Oh no! Not this time. This time I am staying well away from it all! With all due respect to our noble kindred, I have no interest in getting myself entangled in that marble-domed, gem-encrusted pit of vipers.”)

“A shame,” said Daeron. “Though I can understand the impulse. It must all be a bit tedious for a brilliant mind like his. I find it a bit tedious myself, but well. My talents were needed in Alqualondë. And then the High Kings approached me about my newest position, and I am sure you of all people understand that one does not simply refuse an invitation to become the official minstrel of the Eldar.”

“No,” said Maglor, swirling his tepid cup of tea. “No, that is not a title someone simply refuses.”

“In any case, I was wondering— Well, I’ve become familiar with his works since coming here— It is difficult not to when half the library of Tirion consists of his works and those building upon them— What a relief none of it was destroyed! It is fortunate that the Noldor value lore and wisdom as highly as they do— I think I would have made a good Noldo, you know— Funny, you would have made a good Teler—”

“Daeron,” Maglor interrupted. “What are you getting at?”

“Sorry.” Daeron knit his excitedly fluttering hands on the table in front of him, then looked into Maglor’s eyes. “I’d like to meet him. Your father.”

The first elf Maglor had courted had been a gorgeous, silver-haired Teler. In addition to being one of the most talented flautists in Alqualondë, Halorniel was charismatic, clever, and had an excellent sense of humour. It was with great pride that he had brought her to dinner with his family for the first time. 

It was with burning envy that he had watched her held thrall by his perfect, brilliant, and captivating father through the entire evening. Halorniel was the first, but not the last; just as Maglor was the first, but not the only of his brothers to suffer this indignity. 

Maglor had all but forgotten about this consequence of being a son of Fëanor when Fëanor himself was alive and available for comparison. Until Daeron had expressed his enthusiasm to meet Fëanor. 

Maglor also realised that, despite setting the early morning date, he had held out hope of reigniting something with Daeron. How foolish, to imagine the loremaster of Alqualondë and chief minstrel of the Eldar had had any interest in him, the Noldor's notorious hermit-bard. 

Not even an intellectual or artistic interest, it seemed. Maglor was not sure that Daeron or Fëanor had noticed when he rose and left them together in the sitting room several hours ago, having been left out of the conversation for at least a half-hour before that. 

He had spent some time walking in the gardens, and accepted Maedhros’ invitation to help with pruning the grape vines to distract himself. But, incapable of focusing of the task, he kept cutting back too far, and had been somewhat brusquely dismissed. So he found himself back at the house and listening outside the window to the excited exchange of ideas between his father and Daeron. 

“It is extraordinary,” said Daeron, “I could find no commonalities, no relation to any other linguistic grouping in Arda. It is almost as though the whole people came from outside.” Daeron laughed. “Which is of course impossible.”

“You think so?” said Fëanor. “I am not so convinced that Arda is the only place in Eä with speaking peoples.”

“What do you mean?” said Daeron, a charming tone of wonder in his voice.

Maglor could practically hear his father’s self-satisfied smile. “I have created an instrument that can allow one to see across great distances in the heavens—well, my grandson invented it, but I have improved upon it—and I have discovered that there are other bodies like to Arda throughout Eä.” He lowered his tone conspiratorially. “I have not told anyone besides Telperinquar, lest the rest of the family think I have gone mad, but I do not believe the Quendi and Atani are the only Children of Ilúvatar. I believe there are many—dozens! hundreds!—of other peoples, with their own cultures and traditions and languages.”

Daeron gasped. “Do you think they know of us?”

“Perhaps,” said Fëanor. “Perhaps. I intend to find out. I am devising a language based on the principles of music, since music is after all the language of Creation and underlies all things, that could be reduced to simple waves of sound capable of travelling across the vast distances required to— Say! You might be just the person to help me!”

Maglor punched the side of the house. They both fell silent.

“Did you hear that?” asked Daeron.

“Yes.” Fëanor paused a moment. “Probably nothing. But what do you think? I know you must be terribly occupied with your various roles, but your expertise would be invaluable.”

Maglor did not hear Daeron’s answer, for he was trudging through the garden, away from the house, with his fists clenched at his sides. When he reached the river, he kicked the bank and let out a petulant cry of frustration. 

“So I am going to stay in Formenos!” said Daeron, beaming. “To help your father with a project.”

Maglor grunted and did not look up from his book. “That’s nice.”

“You are not pleased.”

“Very clever observation,” said Maglor, and flipped a page.

Daeron sat down on the bench beside him, his hands folded over his knees. “Hm. Have I offended you?”

This got Maglor to look up. He shut the book. “Yes, actually. You have.”

“How?” Daeron’s thick silver-grey brows beetled over his deep-set black eyes and sharp nose. His pink lips gathered in a little pout. 

“You are arrogant, presumptuous, and a shameless abuser of friendship.”

“Abuser of friendship?” asked Daeron. His laughter was disarmingly nervous. “I admit I can be the first two, but what friendship have I abused?”

“Ours!” Maglor cried, and came close to hitting him on the head with his book. “You used me to befriend my father, and now you are—” Maglor gestured helplessly. What? Claiming his father’s attention? Taking Maglor’s place? That sounded absurd, when he actually considered it. “I know what your project is. I heard you. You are going to help him devise a language. A language of music. Hah! It is as if he has forgotten—” Maglor broke off, suddenly aware of the tremor in his voice.

“What!” Daeron seemed genuinely taken aback. “You clearly did not hear all. I told your father you would be better for the task. He’s afraid to ask for your help. He does not think you have forgiven him.”

Maglor felt as if he’d been struck in the chest with a hammer. “Oh.”

“Have you?” asked Daeron.

“What?”

“Forgiven him?"

There was a long pause. Maglor rested his chin in his palm and considered. He had. Or he had thought he had, a long time ago, when it was just him and his musings and the sea, and forgiveness seemed easy. But he’d never expected Fëanor to live again. He’d never expected to see him again, thriving and well. He resented him for it. He resented all of his family, he realised, for the healing he’d never received. The healing of which he’d deprived himself. 

“No,” he said at last. “I haven’t.”

“There, you see,” said Daeron, and he took Maglor’s hand. Maglor’s fingers naturally fell into place between his. “I see how it looks that way. That I abused our friendship, as you say. I think I actually used your father’s re-embodiment as an excuse to finally write to you, and to pretend it wasn’t because of you. For that I have deserved your accusation of arrogance—or pride, at least. I did want to meet him, and I am glad I have, but…” Daeron sighed. “I know how it is. To have had no rest. Our situations are obviously different, so I won’t presume,” he looked at Maglor and a smile played at the corners of his lips, “I won’t presume to know what it is like for you, but I think it is much harder to start over when you’ve just kept on living and living without pause. I hoped that coming here would help you. That’s why I told Galadriel where to find you. But I suppose—well, I know now—that it’s not simply a matter of being whisked away on the Straight Road and having all your pain trail behind—mmph!”

The end of Daeron’s sentence was trapped in his throat, for Maglor had grabbed his face in both hands and planted a kiss firmly over his mouth. The utterance of surprise turned to a honeyed whimper of delight as Daeron graciously received the kiss.

Maglor pulled back, smiling. “I’m glad you’re staying." He patted Daeron's pinkened cheek. "Though you may find my father no longer requires your assistance.”

Daeron shrugged. “I think I’ll stay awhile anyway, if that’s all right with you.” 

“I’ll allow it,” said Maglor, and kissed him again. 

On AO3

I should mention the idea of the 'Telerin fisher villages' comes from this beloved Fingon/Maglor fic by mangacrack.

[polutrope]

"green things even among the pits and rocks"+maglor? (you already know all my potential ship preferences if ships were to come in :D)

Thank you for the prompt! From this list. 

Probably not a relationship you were expecting, but I have a Caranthir and Maglor agenda (re-ignited by this character ask), so here we are. Post-War of Wrath in the ruins of Rerir and Helevorn, 775 words.

* * *

Strange, that one of the few tracts of land not to sink into the sea is a place that Maglor knew so well. 

Not so well, any more; that is true, for it has greatly changed. The soaring white peak of Rerir has been brought low. Its slopes, once thick with blue-green pines, are mostly shorn down to bare rock. In its collapse, the mountain has filled the deep basin of Helevorn so that no more than scattered pools of the lake’s dark waters remain.

But the land is not so changed that Maglor cannot remember. 

* * *

Dawn is heralded not by the Sun, whose warm light will remain hidden behind the mountains for some time yet, but by the chorus of birds outside. Maglor and his brother have kept each other awake through the night, meandering pleasantly between story and jest and debate. Now Caranthir has a mind to ascend to the summit of Mount Rerir. Today. And when Caranthir has a mind to undertake some bold, and possibly ill-advised, adventure it is little use trying to stop him. Besides, Maglor is eager to gaze east over the vastness of Endor. 

“It is liberating, Macalaurë, to feel so small, looking out over that endless expanse of wilderness,” said Caranthir, topping off Maglor’s goblet with the last of the second bottle of wine. “You must see it.”

It is rare enough that Caranthir will suffer the company of another, let alone extend an invitation. So Maglor will go with him.

“But first,” Caranthir says, rising purposefully from the chair he has occupied for the last several hours, “I must swim.” 

“Swim?” Maglor says. “Isn’t it cold?”

Offering no more than a grunt and a wave of his hand in answer, Caranthir is on the way out. It takes more effort for Maglor to pull himself away from the comfort of Caranthir’s plush furniture and well-appointed chamber. When he catches up to his brother, Caranthir is already standing on a rock beside the black water, stripped naked. He looks over his shoulder at Maglor and dives, as if he had been waiting for him to witness the bold leap into the lake. Caranthir’s skin is pink with the cold when he surfaces, but he is grinning. Steam swirls around his body from the heat of his own breath in the frigid air.

“Won’t you join me?” he shouts at Maglor. 

Maglor scoffs and scuffs the stone beneath his feet. He is about to cross his arms over his chest and say, “I think not,” but then he catches his brother’s eyes, wild and careless, and he laughs. Before he has the chance to think better of it, Maglor has made a heap of his own clothing on the damp ground and is bounding towards the edge of the rock. The cold is knife-sharp and squeezes the breath from his lungs. It bursts out as a yelp, and Caranthir laughs that rough and raucous laugh that Maglor has always delighted in coaxing from his morose little brother.

Then Caranthir takes off, arms whirling, cutting a path over the glassy water. Maglor goes after him. The cold slips between the tight knots in his muscles and loosens them. In the wake that trails behind his fluttering feet are the cares of too many anxious nights. All the warmth of his body gathers around his heart. 

He gives up the chase, rolling onto his back to float on the surface, limbs splayed in surrender to the sky. The rising Sun purples the ridge of the Ered Luin. 

* * *

The bond between Maglor and Caranthir was not well understood by others. Even Maedhros, when Maglor enthused about his visits east, would furrow his brows and shake his head; perplexed, if not a little envious. 

It was the poetry in the way Caranthir experienced everything—as quick to anger as he was to laughter. As skilled at finding fault that others missed as he was at finding beauty that no one else could see. And it was Maglor who could best translate that acute, often wearying, experiencing of the world into something that made sense. 

Maglor surveys the wreckage of the land his brother had loved. A beam of sunlight thrusts itself through the clouds and catches on a pool of water in the distance. The reflection glitters between heaps of jagged rock and churned soil tangled with roots. Maglor looks down at his feet. Where a trickle of water has found its way between the rocks, hardy leaves, holding the promise of a flower, have sprouted. Green is filling in the veins of the land once more.

* * *

The idea of Caranthir enjoying icy swims in Lake Helevorn is inspired by Dawn Felagund's Caranthir, who also does this.

[polutrope]

Hi! If you're still taking the Silm phrase prompts, Finrod + shadows of things that were yet to be? — @emyn-arnens

Thank you for the prompt! This is quite a bit different from my usual. I experimented with writing a draft by hand, and this is what came out.

~1400 words of child Finrod, recounting the experience of one of his first forebodings. On AO3.

I was born in Tirion, in my father’s wing of the Palace, but I was still a babe when Mother first brought me to Alqualondë.

When I told Father this story, he asked, “How do you remember that?” But I remember everything, like Grandfather Olwë who they say has the longest and clearest memory of all the Eldar, at least of those who made the Journey to Aman (he says his brother Elwë remembered more). As the Noldor, my father’s people, have the greatest skill in craft and lore, the Teleri, my mother’s people, have the greatest skill with memory. For the Teleri call themselves Lindar, Singers, not only because they have the most beautiful voices, but because they perceive the world and their lives within it as a Song. Each emotion a note, each experience a chord, each event a whole movement. Songs, at their root, are stories. And when you make stories of your life, you never forget. 

Sometimes, we even remember things that have not yet come to pass. This is called foreknowledge or foretelling. It is not unusual for the Eldar, Father says, but I am very young to have such powers (as he calls them). He didn’t say as much, but because I can hear minds even when they do not speak with voices, I know that he thinks this particular foretelling should not be possible in the Blessed Realm. Perhaps he is right that this memory is not a foretelling at all but thoughts and images my mind put together in a story to help me make sense of them. But Queen Míriel died in Aman, so perhaps what I saw on that first visit to Alqualondë could happen also.

Mother had me swaddled to her chest in a sling, and her voice purred in my ears as she held up one arm to point: “See, Ingo? There is the great mansion your grandfathers built together. Olwë envisioned its rounded shapes and its roof like cresting waves, and Finwë made it strong using the language of numbers and patterns.” The wind was whipping my soft hair around my face and she stroked it back. “But come, let me show you the most beloved creation of our people.” I felt the rhythm of her footfalls as she walked us down the pier. “For in the building of ships we received no aid from the Noldor. Ossë taught us this craft before we came to these shores.” She took her arms away from me for a moment, to help her up the ladder onto the royal swanship.

My head fell back and I saw the tall mast reaching up, up, up into the sky streaked with pink and gold. The sky is never as bright and blue here as it is in Tirion, for the Pelóri stand between Laurelin and the coast. Mother was still speaking to me in her lilting voice, bouncing and cupping my little body with both hands, but her words faded to a murmur of sound without meaning. 

“Stop them!” a voice cried, and my sight was obscured as with a grey gauze. “They are manning the ships! Stop!” Something whizzed past at the very edge of my field of vision, and I looked down to see what it was. Perhaps a seabird swooping low. I looked up at Mother, but she smiled at me and showed no sign of noticing. 

Again something flew past and I knew it for an arrow. I had only seen anyone use a bow once, when we visited Uncle Nolofinwë soon after I was born. Cousin Findekáno had been in the courtyard practising his shot with a bow made for play. But these arrows flying between the shadowy veil between the present—on my mother’s chest, a bright warm day—and the memory of what would be—dark, dark as the blackness of sleep, and full of shouts—were long and swift and some struck the ships so hard their points drove right through. Someone screamed. I did not see them fall, but I heard the splash that swallowed the scream in the sea. I had never heard anyone scream that way, as if all their voice was loosed at once. It pushed a scream from my lungs, too, and Mother’s lips stopped moving and she held me closer and hid my eyes against her chest. But that was worse, because it hid the bright day so that all I could see now was the dark memory full of shouts and clanging metal and whizzing arrows and bodies falling in the water. 

“Shh, shh,” she said, bouncing up and down to comfort me. I pounded my fists against her chest, pushing so I could see again with my eyes. Then I found her face, and she was smiling and started to sing. Mother’s songs are powerful. She pulled me back from the shadowy place. “Are you hungry?” she asked when my tears had stopped. No, I was not hungry, but I could not tell her because I could not yet shape words with my mouth. “Come, let us go back and find you some fishcakes. Would you like that, my golden star?”

Later, when I could speak with words, I did not tell anyone of that memory. By then I had many other memories layered on top of eachother, both of things that had been and things that would be. Most were joyous, and those ones I made into songs that made others smile and laugh and sometimes cry, but always with happiness. I did try, once, to put the memory from the swanship into a song, but it made my heart tighten and my stomach twist and I did not think it would be fair to share such unpleasant feelings with others. 

Then a few days ago, Turukáno (he is my favourite cousin) came to visit us in Alqualondë. Our mothers took us to the beach, and we built sandcastles and splashed in the waves. While we were playing, Turukáno suddenly went very still and his skin was full of tiny bumps as if he was cold, even though it was an especially warm day and there was no wind. I hugged him to warm him with my body but he did not move for some time. When he came back, and met my eyes, he didn’t say anything. We went in and wrapped up in our towels, and Mother gave us juice and melon and soon he was smiling and laughing again. 

But I was not able to put out of my mind the strange mood that had come over my friend, so when we were tucked in bed for sleep, I asked him what had happened. 

“It is nothing,” he said at first. But Turukáno and I shared everything, so I asked him again. Then he told me what had frozen him with fear: it was the same memory, or very similar, I’d had on the swanship with my mother. 

It was not the first time Turukáno and I shared a memory. We share dreams often, sometimes on purpose, so that we can be together even when he is Tirion and I am in Alqualondë. But we’d never shared this sort of memory. Poor Turukáno had never even had a memory of the future before!  

When Father came in to check that we were asleep and found me holding Turukáno and Turukáno crying, of course he was worried. But I wouldn’t tell him what happened, not then, because Turukáno was so scared already. 

“I promise to tell in the morning,” I told Father. 

So I did, I told him this morning, because I did not want him to worry. I think it would have been better if I had not, because he has been walking about the home all day fretting with the hem of his tunic. I heard him asking Mother if he should tell Anairë, because of Turukáno, and if she thought we should make a journey to Lórien to ask the Vala’s aid in “interpreting memories”. 

But Irmo knows the Theme of Arda, what if we discover that the memory Turukáno and I shared is true? I do not think I could live with that certainty. I know that Turukáno could not. Father will not force me to go, and I won’t. It is safer, I have decided, for some memories not to be put into speech or Song. 

Thanks to @cuarthol for the beta!

[polutrope]

@melestasflight sent Lalwen + forsaking the past, and it disappeared from my inbox last night.

Thank you for the prompt! I was so excited when you sent me Lalwen, as it gave me occasion to think about her, which I have never done before.

From this prompt list, which also has links to my fills so far and lists what's still in the inbox.

Here we have 880 words of angst-with-a-bittersweet-ending (my fave), set at the end of the First Age. Rated G.

~ ~ ~

The waves lick at the rocky, grass-clad shoreline. Though the ocean’s rhythm is the same ancient push-and-pull, push-and-pull, to Lalwen the waves today are tentative, like a child tasting something new. This is not the land they are used to. 

“You are a hero now,” says Lalwen.

“You know that I never wanted to be one,” says the High King of the Noldor. 

A smile slides up the side of his face closest to her, and his eyes seek hers, but she does not turn to him. She thinks of teasing, “So you do not deny it!” That is what she would have said were he her other brother, and Fingolfin would have laughed and rolled his eyes and flicked his finger against his thumb in dismissal. Then he might have looked at her fondly and said, “Thank you, sister, for never allowing me to grow too proud.” 

But Lalwen does not know what to say to Arafinwë. Finarfin—so his firstborn styled him when Fingolfin fell, and so he is known now to all: Finwë Arafinwë, Noldoran. Lalwen laughed, then cried, when first she heard it. Her little brother Ingo, High King of the Noldor! 

Lalwen does not know who to be with Finarfin. 

“I don’t think I did know that,” Lalwen says. 

Finarfin’s golden eyelashes land on his cheeks and ensnare the sunlight. 

“Lalwen.” He tilts his head back up. His eyes catch hers. They are swimming with disappointment. “Are you certain?” 

She cannot keep her face from twisting into a frown. Must he make her say it twice! Has the thought of returning ever scraped across her mind, when all else falls quiet? Yes; and it moves her to little more than resentment at the Valar for offering them the choice.

“It has never been a question, Arafinwë,” she says. A half-truth. 

Lalwen feels Finarfin’s spirit crumple beside her, and she supposes her words had been meant to flatten hope. She expects tears, is prepared for tears; she is surprised when her brother’s fingers coill beneath his palm on the rock; surprised when he grimaces and sucks a sharp, watery breath between his teeth.

“Why?” Despite the emotion, his voice does not tremble. His voice never trembles. “Do I not at least deserve to know why? What message shall I take back to our mother? Your daughter lives, I will tell her, and she will weep for joy. She is not coming, I will say, and she will fall back into that black unknowing, the endless wondering, ‘Will I ever see my child again?’”

“Is she alone in that?” Lalwen nearly spits the question. Her blood is hot. “Do you speak of our mother or of yourself? I am sorry for your pain, brother—I am. I am sorry your sons have not returned; I am sorry Artanis is too far off to see her father again. She would have wanted to. But what of the centuries of unknowing we endured while Valinor was fenced against us?

“And do we know that it is not, still? If I followed my brothers—yes, him too, two brothers—into exile, without remorse, and if I do not regret it now, what reason do the Valar have to welcome me back into comfort and ease?

“You may tell our mother that there are people I love, here, in Beleriand.” Lalwen gestures at the broken rocks, the great trunks of trees torn up and tossed about by the sea. ”What remains of it. Our people have been severed. That was your choice as much as it was ours. Victory does not undo it. It was brave and noble of you to come here, but if you believed you would simply be able to gather together your scattered kin and bring us back with you, you are a fool.”

Lalwen pauses, expecting a rebuke from this new Arafinwë, hardened by kingship and sharpened by war, but Finarfin has gilded himself in gentleness once more. 

In no more than a whisper, he says, “I did not even know if I would return.”

It is as though a great heap of sand has been cast over the heat of Lalwen’s heart. She is all ash. The wind is cold on her bare arms. 

After a long silence, she says, “I am sorry,” and shivers.    

“That may be.” A smile cracks Finarfin’s composure, and he sets his hand over hers, curling his fingers around it. “But you are right. I do wish I could bring you back, slot you into one of the empty spaces that have surrounded me these many hundreds of years. But you would no longer fit, would you, sister? I have known it. Oh, I have known it all along, though I wished it were otherwise. If anything, this victory has set us yet further apart. There is no returning to the past.” He squeezes her hand, and Lalwen is aware of tears brimming over the rims of her eyes. “I should not have asked you to forsake this life, and I won’t again.”

Her throat tightens, and Finarfin circles her shoulders with one arm; she falls against his chest, tugging at the fabric on his robe to cover her face as she weeps. 

“There is yet some time,” Finarfin says, “and you have a brother here who loves you.” 

So really the only canonical fact about Lalwen, besides linguistic details on her name, is that Fingolfin was the "most dear to her" of her kin. I was curious about what that meant for her relationships with the rest of them.

On AO3

[polutrope]

Prompt from the List! 2.0

Curufin (of course)

Himring, post Nargathrond BS

12. enduring grief and anger in silence

Thank you 🥺

So, um, this didn't really go the angsty direction you may have been expecting with the prompt, but I was highly influenced by my recent recollection of this Shibboleth passage.

Curufin and Maedhros and alliances. 480 words. On AO3.

It had not taken long for Curufin to map out the geography of his grief and anger; to flatten it into something he could observe, plot battles upon, or roll up and shut away in a drawer. In this, at least, he would not be his father. He would not be overcome by ugly, consumptive passions.

Unlike Celegorm, who raged and railed and put himself in the way, Curufin patiently endured the distrust of his lord and brother. Maedhros could not drink forever from the font of Maglor’s hope. That font, Curufin observed with the benefit of the distance that Maglor’s simmering resentment set between them, was running dry. 

While Curufin waited, he directed his mind to other things. In these, he was like his father. To the improvement of their weaponscraft, the tools that they would need to launch their great assault upon the Enemy. But to finer things, also; to adornments that Maedhros would say they do not need—yet is not the strength of the Noldor held and guarded in their gems? 

Yet it is none of these pursuits that Maedhros at last takes note of. It is a misplaced page of runes; a draft of a treatise on the Dwarvish tongue. 

“This is yours,” his brother says, not a question. He sets the paper down, then seats himself, one leg crossed over the other. Curufin cannot recall the last time the Lord of Himring sat in his presence. “How did I not know you were familiar with the Dwarvish language?”

Because you never cared to know, Curufin does not say. He replies coolly: “The Khazad do not lightly share the secrets of their tongue with those of alien race.”

“And yet they shared it with you.” It is not said with cruelty or skepticism, merely curiosity. 

“They did.”

Maedhros rises and draws in a long breath, working his jaw around his next words. After they are spoken, Curufin knows that the words he had considered, the ones he could not yet speak were, ‘I forgive you.’

What Maedhros does say is: “Do you know the paths to Belegost?”

~

The Dwarves keep their cities in the mountains well hidden, especially in these dangerous days, but Curufin remembers the way. The rising sun slants through a splinter in the rock, its sharp beam illuminating the figure on the great stone-hewn throne of Gabilgathol. 

Curufin bows and greets the king in the manner and tongue of the Khazad. 

A twinkle of recognition alights on Azaghâl’s brow, and he addresses Curufin by the secret name he was given here, long ago. “And what,” he says next, “brings an old friend through danger to our halls?”

“I come,” says Curufin, “on behalf of my brother the Lord of Himring, whom you also knew of old, to renew that friendship and make alliance against our common foe.”