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imakemywings · 2 years ago

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A Cup Always Half-Empty

Fandom: The Silmarillion

Pairing: Maglor/Thranduil

Characters: Maglor, Thranduil

Summary: Maglor wishes he could want less.

Rated: M (mild sexual content)

De-anon of this kink meme prompt

AO3 (with aesthetic playlists) | Pillowfort

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Maglor recalled a poem from his youth about a monkey who was filled with wanting. Whatever was out of his grasp, the monkey desired more than life itself. Once he was possessed of the thing he had desired, it was meaningless—his attention was already on the next unattainable thing with which he was convinced he would at last obtain eternal happiness.

He had written a melody for this miserable primate, a tune of reaching and falling, of perpetual dissatisfaction, but he could not decide on the ending. An empty death after a life of useless yearning, a life wasted in pursuit of happiness never attained? Or some final thing that at last granted the monkey the happiness that had eluded him—a subtle nod to the monkey’s perspective?

Never able to decide which path to take, Maglor had written one of each, and usually ended the song before he reached the final theme. He did so presently, allowing a suitable pause before he took up his guqin to begin a new piece. The crowd tonight was made up mainly of middling government officials. A few highborn guests lounged about, blowing trails of pipe smoke up towards the painted ceiling and lending the venue an air of added glitz. On the screens behind Maglor, vibrant branches of cherry blossom arced and the whispering creek, directed through the hall from the yard, which curved in front of the stage, gave him something of the appearance of being in nature as he played. To aid in the performance, he wore hairpins shaped into silver leaves, which stood out neatly against his dark hair, and perfumed himself with jasmine.

He had never understood stage fright. Even when he played at his most raw, laying his heart out at the feet of his audience, he found it a comfort that someone was there to listen. That someone should hear his laments! All the better if they found them beautiful.

And lately, Maglor Feanorion was full of laments.

***

The path of musician and entertainer was not one that would have been open to the son of a wealthy man. Fortunately, then, Maglor had thought on many a wry occasion, he was no longer the son of a wealthy man.

His name had garnered him attention in the beginning, but now it was his music that did it, and Maglor preferred it that way. (Not that he quibbled with the boost he’d gotten earlier.)

There was a slightly untidy porch around the west side where Maglor might sit and practice, and from there he could see one of the smaller roads weaving in towards the center of town. Down this road sometimes passed a particular government official, whom Maglor could always spot at a distance by his golden hair, tucked up under his plain black cap which marked out his profession.

Most others preferred the front porch, which faced a busier road, and thus put them more on display (both to see and be seen)—and Maglor had too, until recently.

He had to lift his head to see above the fence-line and could catch only the slightest glimpse of yellow hair from where he sat, but he would still sit and play there in the early morning chill in hopes of a sighting of his quarry.

It was a lucky day that day—he spotted what he sought and for a moment his bow danced all the more vigorously across his strings as he watched the Elf pass over this one dusty stretch of road before vanishing behind the laundry house next door. He saw a flash of a neatly-curved ear and a split-second view of a noble profile and when the object of his yearning had passed, Maglor sank back onto his cushion, setting aside his instrument to lay haphazard across the porch floor, the beads in his hair clattering quietly with the motion. His heart beat more quickly in his chest. His face felt warm. The only thing that could have made it better, he thought, were if Thranduil had turned to look at him.

***

Maglor was relieved he no longer had to fight so hard to keep his hands steady when he poured their tea. It hadn’t been terribly long ago when the thought of a meeting like this gave him such excitement he found it difficult to contain himself. Now, there was more normalcy to it and he was able to pour Thranduil’s tea without spilling a drop or untidying his long sleeves and pass it to him unsweetened, as he preferred.

They began their drink in silence. They usually did. Maglor had found that if he did not provide the conversation, Thranduil was content to sit for interminable lengths in silence. Sometimes, this was acceptable—Maglor might sit and study the line of his jaw, the vibrant green of his eyes, the elegant fall of his lashes—but as soon as he came back to himself, he squirmed in the silence, unable to brook it without breaking it.

He smoothed back a loose lock of hair—perpetually seeking to escape from his updos—and tilted his head at such an angle as to put his beaded earrings on display against his neck.

“It’s been some time since I saw you last,” he said demurely. He had worked for many days on saying this in a way that sounded neither petulant nor aggrieved.

Thranduil was silent, looking impassively down into his teacup as the steam wafted up about his face. It had taken Maglor time to understand the silence was often a prelude to an answer, if he could only find the patience. Thranduil rarely spoke without thoroughly considering his words first, whereas Maglor struggled not to vomit out every thought that entered his head.

“I was traveling,” he said quietly at last, and Maglor turned fully towards him, balancing his cup artfully in one hand.

“Did you bring me a gift?” he teased, batting his eyelashes in a way he believed was charming. He bit his lower lip when his answer was a tense quiet, trying to read the thoughts behind Thranduil’s stone face. No luck—Thranduil could’ve made a gifted courtier with a poker face like that.

Rather than speak, Thranduil reached into the folds of his simple, clean-cut robe and withdrew a small bird of carved wood. He pushed it across the table. Maglor’s eyes widened.

“For…me?” he asked. Thranduil nodded and lifted his teacup. Maglor picked up the bird and turned it over. She had her wings extended and the details of her beak and tail were present despite the small size of her.

“It’s a white-winged lark,” Thranduil murmured around his tea.

“Oh!” said Maglor, who knew nothing of birds or fauna or flora of any kind. He had never been the outdoorsy type, to put it nicely. “It’s beautiful,” he said, biting his lip again. “Are you sure you don’t want—?”

“I carved it on the ride there,” Thranduil said at the same time Maglor began his question.

“Oh! You made it?” Maglor re-examined the bird with new interest. Thranduil nodded, setting his teacup down. He kept both hands wrapped firmly around it, which was not very elegant, but Maglor was delighted, as he viewed this slight uncouthness as a reminder of Thranduil’s more common birth, and anything Maglor was permitted to know of Thranduil’s past and present delighted him. “I shall find her a suitable place of honor then,” said Maglor, putting the bird gently down on the table.

“I’m sure that isn’t necessary,” said Thranduil.

“It is,” Maglor insisted. “I should like to see her often.”

Thranduil made a non-committal noise and lifted his teacup again, but before he left he said: “If you like it so much, perhaps I will bring you another.”

When Maglor smiled, he knew it was too broad, showing too much tooth, but he couldn’t help himself.

“Yes,” he breathed. “Yes, she should have a companion.”

***

Any society had to have its rules. Maglor did not concern himself overmuch with most of them and found the great majority dull as dirt, but there was one that was of late causing him a great deal of trouble. It was never something he had considered much before, but now he thought of little else. The law was this:

It was forbidden for a musician or entertainer to marry with a public official.

It wouldn’t do for servants of the government to be bound to those with careers of such ill-repute, after all. And if Maglor was a bit free with his physical affections, did that reflect on the profession as a whole?

It wasn’t about the law, though. It was Maglor—he wanted too much. Always reaching for something he couldn’t have, never satisfied with what he did have. Whomever had written the poem about the monkey had never understood, he thought, what it was to want something so much. And what bliss! What beautiful ignorance! To know nothing of the kind of want that gnawed at your bones and rent at your heart and suffocated you with your own feelings. Maglor wished he did not know this want more desperate than thirst.

He had tried to convince himself to be content with less. In the beginning, Thranduil had been only an unusually pretty face among the crowd of people that ebbed and flowed around Maglor. Then, he had told himself he was pleased enough simply to talk with him now and again. Friendship, surely, would sate him! But when coaxing Thranduil into his bed did not abate Maglor’s desire, he knew nothing would. He could lay among the covers, watching sidelong the rise and fall of Thranduil’s chest as he dozed, and ache, and ache. None of it was enough. Until he could sleep and rise in Thranduil’s house, sit himself at Thranduil’s table, introduce himself as Thranduil’s husband, he would not be content.

Maglor wept for the monkey and the fire that burned in him, and wept again because no one understood it. When the monkey died at last, those around him thought him merely greedy and discontent. They did not understand. They did not understand what a curse it was to want a thing.

***

Nevertheless, Maglor sought such temporary joy as he could. When he had Thranduil naked abed with him, loose and languid from their lovemaking, his other fears and longings seemed to recede slightly, allowing him a little more room to breathe.

Maglor drew his fingers up Thranduil’s bare sternum, passing by the sparrow tattooed on his ribcage, up to the stars inked below his collarbone. There was a faint purple mark blooming on the right side of his chest, which Maglor realized with flushed pleasure had been left by his own mouth.

“You must take me with you next time you leave the city,” he said, blinking slowly at his companion. Thranduil’s pale gold hair was unbound and spilled out over Maglor’s pillows. Later, Maglor would press his face into that pillow and breathe in the smell of him that lingered.

“I hope not to leave again,” said Thranduil with a faint frown. He did not care much for travel. He did not care much for the city either, but that was where his work was. Once, after too many cups of huangjiu, Thranduil had, with uncharacteristic volubility, spun him a tale of the forested countryside where he originated—the lush green hills, the constant rustle of trees, the hoot and call of forest life. It was almost enough to make Maglor forget how much he hated being out in nature.

Maglor gathered Thranduil would prefer to return there, to the vast forests of his home province, if it were an option.

“I would make a most charming travel companion, I assure you,” Maglor continued as if he hadn’t spoke, smiling as he eased in nearer along Thranduil’s side. “I promise I should never let you grow bored! Think of what a fine time you would have, with me to sing you all the way to the next imperial city.”

Thranduil made a noncommittal, yet some how wry, sound in the back of his throat, and carded a hand up through Maglor’s thick, dark hair. His dull nails scraped gently against Maglor’s scalp, and Maglor shut his eyes, nearly purring at the touch.

“Perhaps I shall just send you in my place,” Thranduil said. “If you are so keen to spend several days in a carriage.” Maglor laughed and sat up, earrings rattling as he swung a leg over Thranduil to straddle his lap.

“Make me your secretary?” he asked with a grin, laying his palms against the solid muscle of Thranduil’s chest. “I will write all your missives in verse. Think what a delight that will be!”

Thranduil caught Maglor’s face between his hands and pulled him down for a kiss, startling an undignified sound from Maglor’s lips before he melted into the kiss.

“As if I would ever trust you to note-take,” said Thranduil when he released him. “Your mind wanders more than a river has curves.” Maglor drew up in mock affront.

“I am most diligent in things to which I apply myself!” he said.

“There is nothing you have ever applied yourself to outside of music,” Thranduil returned.

“I have found nothing else worthy of my undivided attention,” Maglor sniffed. He paused. He dug his nails slightly into Thranduil’s chest. “Well. Almost nothing.”

Thranduil had a tell, when he was embarrassed. The mistake was in watching his face. The key was the ears. His delicately-pointed ears would flush with pleasure or embarrassment long before anything showed in his expression, and learning this had given Maglor the understanding that he flustered Thranduil more than he had ever guessed, before.

“I have told you before…I am an artist,” he said smoothly, leaning forward. “I cannot concern myself with base things like note-taking or numbers. I have time only for what is truly remarkable.” He stroked a hand down Thranduil’s chest and watched those deep green eyes with a half-lidded look.

“I should apologize for wasting your time then,” said Thranduil. This was their dance—Maglor laid overwrought compliments on Thranduil, who twisted and writhed about to feign Maglor had not meant to compliment him.

“You should apologize for not taking more of it,” Maglor dared.

“I have time left yet,” said Thranduil, running a hand up Maglor’s thigh. “Perhaps you wish to sing me another song?” The look in his eyes assured Maglor he did not refer to one of Maglor’s verses (it was he who had termed Maglor’s noises between the sheets singing), and he fell on Thranduil among the silk sheets and Thranduil’s arms went about him, and Maglor was loved, for a time.

***

The moon bathed the garden in pale light, turned green to black, and blue to silver. There was a faint breeze that stirred the trees and the grasses, whispering in Maglor’s ears. His long robes pooled around him on the deck and behind him, through the half-open door and behind the paper of the door, warm candlelight flickered.

Thranduil knelt beside him on the wood. He was by too often; Maglor knew that. If he were less selfish, he would send him away, or tell him not to come so much. Married they were not, but tongues still wagged, and Maglor would wither to see Thranduil punished for Maglor’s sake.

“I remain, as always, wed to my art,” Maglor was saying theatrically, placing a hand over his chest. “Anything else gets difficult, you see.”

“I should hardly think you have a dearth of admirers,” Thranduil said, a sentiment he had hinted at before. Maglor nibbled the inside of his cheek as Thranduil’s eyes quickly darted away.

“Of a sort,” Maglor said indecisively.

“What sort?” Thranduil asked. His eyes were on Maglor again.

“A…shallow sort,” Maglor answered reluctantly. Thranduil went on looking at him. “The…types who are interested in me are…well, they have little overlap with the ones looking for long-term commitment,” he said with a laugh that came out shakier than he meant it to. Blast.

Thranduil frowned.

“I’m sure that’s not all true,” he said.

Maglor picked at the blue hem of his robe.

“One doesn’t wish to overpay for a thing,” he murmured at last.

“Overpay?” Thranduil echoed, his brow knitting. “What do you mean by that?”

Maglor twisted the hem around his fingers.

“Only that all things have a value, don’t they?” he said. “And one does not wish to sacrifice more than is warranted by that value to obtain the thing.”

“You are not a trinket at the market,” said Thranduil with such heat that Maglor turned his whole head to look at him. There was a flush across Thranduil’s pale cheeks and he saw Thranduil’s hand fisted in his lap. “We are not speaking of barterable goods.”

Maglor shrugged nervously and picked at his robe.

“But for many, that is how the world is,” he said gently. “Everything with a value. Everything with a price. Everything a bargain.” Winners and losers. Things gained, things lost.

“If someone has told you so, they are a liar most cruel,” Thranduil said with some tremor in his voice as a string pulled too taut. “There are more things in life which cannot be so valued, with numbers and columns and comparisons. And you—you are.” Thranduil shook his head. “An Elf of surpassing beauty and remarkable talent, and anyone so greedy as to benefit of these things without giving to you in return lacks not only honor, but decency.” He spoke with unusual rush.

Maglor was trembling. He hoped the light was too low for Thranduil to see.

“You’re too kind,” he whispered, a stock response which managed still to rise to his lips, even then.

“No. I am not,” said Thranduil. “This is true, Maglor. And if there are those who would make you think you are not—worthy—then it is only because they wish to have a bargain for themselves, and take without having to show you the respect and treatment which you deserve.”

Maglor the mighty-voiced, Maglor the gold-cleaver, Maglor whose voice was like the sea could not speak. He had no words.

“You despair too soon, I think,” Thranduil added in a much softer voice, his face tilted slightly down, his eyes still on Maglor’s. “You have time yet. Let no one tell you it has passed. One day there will—there will be some Elf to take you to husband as you should have, as you wish to have. And they will be glad to know you kept looking for them.”

Maglor could not see him clearly anymore for the tears in his eyes. He swallowed hard around the painful lump in his throat, trying to keep his breathing steady.

“Thranduil,” he said, muscles tense, on the verge of flinging himself into Thranduil’s arms. Thranduil’s hand was still in his lap and Maglor wished so desperately that Thranduil would place it on Maglor’s knee, or over his hand, or against his cheek. If Thranduil touched him, Maglor would give in: he quivered at the thought.

“Do not undervalue yourself,” Thranduil said. “I care not to hear my friends spoken ill of. Even by themselves. You have done nothing to earn it.”

Maglor swallowed again, trying to blink the tears surreptitiously from his eyes.

“I will try,” he said thickly, wondering if he could slip inside to find a handkerchief out of earshot. He attempted a wobbly smile. “Whatever you think, I believe your words are kind, and it soothes my heart to hear them.” Almost as much as it set his inside aflame with agony of desire.

Then, only then, when the danger had passed, did Thranduil reach for him, and lightly touch Maglor’s hand, and Maglor looked up and smiled with more surety as the passions of his heart cooled and came more under his control once again.

“You have been a good friend to me,” Maglor said. “I would that you know how much I treasure that. I know my position makes it difficult.” Thranduil’s eyes moved away and his hand began to draw back.

“I meant nothing by it,” he murmured. “I have only done as I wished.”

Ah, but did he not see! Did he not see the kindness in that? That he was kind to Maglor because he wished to be, and for no other reason?

“Then it means all the more, for I have traded nothing for it,” Maglor said, with something nearer to a true smile, for all his hands still had a tremor.

“I would take nothing for it,” said Thranduil, looking back at him.

“You have too much honor for that, Thranduil,” said Maglor with a lightly teasing note. “That is part of what I like about you.” Breathing deeply, he rose to his feet to shed the last of that terrible moment of near-truthfulness. “Come back inside. Let me boil another pot of tea. Will you take another cup before you go?”

***

Maglor was doomed to perish of longing for things that could never be his. Facedown he lay among his red silk sheets, his hair in disarray with a mahogany and jade pin sticking out haphazardly from his unbrushed locks, and thought to expire of the pain in his chest.

He could have tried to choke it out of himself. He could have sent Thranduil away, taken no more visits from him, even moved towns. He could have cut this Sinda out of his life and tried to excise the pain and desire which Thranduil woke in him.

But he wouldn’t. Couldn’t. Refused. No—Maglor would rather have the pain than deny himself the feeling. It was not in him to deny his own feelings.

I love you, he wept silently, hands fisted in his fat pillows. The smells of Thranduil’s last visit had faded out. I love you, I love you, I love you.

Did it matter that Maglor lived a life of relative privilege, with a roof over his head and meals on his table and fine clothes and dozens of instruments at his fingertips? Not a whit—he wanted Thranduil. Would he have been just as miserable to be poor and longing? He thought the answer was yes.

The notes of aching need Maglor called up on his strings played through his mind and laying in bed, he re-wrote the end of the monkey’s song. Happy ending—as if there could be happiness for one who wanted so intensely! The monkey was wretched. Even if he had the last thing he desired, he would dream up a new thing to want. There was no end. The monkey was a bottomless well, doomed never to be filled, never to have enough.

He reached for the carven lark which he had left beside his bed the night before and ran his fingers over the smooth wood. He had asked Aredhel about it. Larks, she said, were usually plain birds. They were more remarkable for their beautiful and varied songs.

Clutching the bird in his fist, he buried his face in a pillow again, too weary to weep any more lovelorn tears.

In the evening he was due to play for a city administrator’s feast. It was a great honor for a musician to be recommended. By then, Maglor would have painted on a smiling face, with a hint of coyness about the eyes and a subtle cloud of floral perfume around him. He would fix his hair up with gems and combs of fine ivory or painted wood. For now, he allowed himself his blotchy cheeks and red eyes and pathetic, wobbling frown as he rose up from the sleeping mat and went to his desk for his pen and paper.

If he was going to make his laments known to the world, he would do it in a suitable way to make everyone in attendance weep along with him and ache for Maglor’s aches and hurt for Maglor’s hurts: to make them see the beauty of his suffering. That would have to be comfort enough.

#maglor #thranduil #maglor x thranduil #the hobbit #the silmarillion #tolkien tag #fanfiction #tolkien fanfiction #rocky writes #silmarillion kink meme #vaguely imperial chinese aesthetic influence #see author's notes about maglor's instrment the guqin

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lendmyboyfriendahand · 9 months ago

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Maglor/Daeron mpreg

Maglor was honestly enjoying the festival. All the planning details were Fingolfin’s responsibility. Maglor’s younger brothers were back East, guarding the border that hadn’t had a serious battle in years, and unable to cause political drama. Celebrimbor and Gil-Galad were both in attendance, with Celebrimbor looking out for his “younger cousin” before Gil-Galad went to Ethel Sirion to learn about court.

For the first time since Valinor, Maglor could sing without any other concerns. After a few songs, he had acquired a crowd. Some of them were Silvan and Falmari, and Maglor always took extra pride when he was recognized purely for his voice, not his family name.

One stranger in the crowd seemed very intent though. He stared directly at Maglor, though he did not move when someone blocked his view. Instead the stranger remained still.

Three songs after the stranger appeared though, Maglor noticed a strange vibration. This elf was humming under his breath - but in perfect rhythm with the songs Maglor had never before played in front of audience, and notes that only departed from Maglor’s own to go on on trilling runs of harmonies.

Maglor stopped singing to take a drink of the excellent wine. He had not been on any sort of stage, so it was easy enough to approach the stranger.

“You have a good sense of melody,” Maglor said. “Do you play an instrument yourself?”

“I play the lyre, and the twin pipes, and sing as well. Your voice is very well trained.”

“Thank you. Talent without practice is wasted, after all.”

“Is it?”

“It’s a saying from Tirion, or perhaps just from my kin folk. But that’s not important.”

“What is, then?”

“I would love to hear you actually sing or play, rather than just muffled accompaniments.”

They create a melody, a harmony, a song that takes on a life of its own. Their voices twine into something that is made of both of them, but a thing unto itself. Daeron realizes that he has invoked his maternal inheritance too late. He pulls back from the song, to tell Maglor what they have done, but Maglor sees only that their creation is about to falter.

Maglor sings louder, and claims the tune as his own. It needs a vessel, and Maglor offers his. Daeron initially panics, but communicates to Maglor that co-creation with a maia is approximately similar to having a baby, and Maglor as male is totally unequipped for that.

“Oh, is that the only problem! It’s not pleasant, but I can do so again.”

Maglor goes to Doriath their son a year later, begging for safety for the grandson of the king and queen. Maglor pushes through branches, carefully protecting the bundle in his arms. But at one wild rose bush, the edge of the blanket is caught. When Maglor untangles it, the baby has disappeared from the blanket, and the rose bush grown brambles so thick Maglor could not reach even a finger in. “I named him for the strength of his grip and the weight of his actions!” Maglor shrieks at the trees. “Lungum, if you ever let him speak his mother-tongue!” The forest is silent, though the bush next to him now has buds amidst the thorns.

They say after that Mablung of the heavy hand was at the Mereth Aderthad, and it is true, the way elves count the beginning of a life.

#my fic #silmarillion #daemags #daeron/maglor #my writing #incomplete fic that I'll never finish #not archived yet #in case your wondering: Celebrimbor is the son of Curufin and Maglor; Gil-Galad is the son of Maedhros and Maglor #written for a prompt on silm kink meme about Maglor getting mpregnant multiple times

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elentarial · 2 years ago

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A Dream of Fire (966 words) by Anonymous Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien, TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms Rating: Mature Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Curufin | Curufinwë/Curufin's Wife, Curufin's Wife & Fëanor | Curufinwë, Feanor | Curufinwe/Curufin’s Wife Characters: Fëanor | Curufinwë, Curufin | Curufinwë, Curufin's Wife Additional Tags: Cuckolding, Longing, Infidelity, Sort Of, Female Masturbation, Vaginal Sex, Cunnilingus, Feanor is Spirit of Fire for a reason, Prophetic Visions, Not Canon Compliant, Not LaCE compliant, Not Beta Read Summary: Curufin’s wife is tired of spending her evenings alone while he’s in the forge. She makes her own entertainment.

Guys, I think I’m addicted to the kink meme. I need some wholesome prompts. 🤣 But anonymous requester, this was a joy to write.

#curufin #curufin’s canonical wife #silmarillion #silm fic #feanorians #Fëanor #Silm kink meme #silm smut

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child-of-hurin · 10 months ago

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Fic author interview meme - tagged by @anghraine!

Apologies if you've already done this and I missed it, but tagging @squirrelwrangler @undercat-overdog @chthonic-cassandra @hoeratius @outofangband @seagodofmagic and everyone else who sees this and feels like doing it :)

1- How many works do you have on AO3?

58, more than I thought

2- What's your total AO3 word count?

146,888

3- What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

1. Surrender, 615 words, The Mirror Visitor, 149 kudos 2. Locked, forgotten, 1,6k words, ASOIAF , 91 kudos 3. With imperious hand, Fate turns the wheel, 8,8k words, Queen’s Thief, 85 kudos 4. Simple fix, 2,8k words, Supernatural, 77 kudos 5. Tied: Cupid and Psyche, 742 words, Queen’s Thief, 66 kudos A flower trampled underfoot, 1,9k words, Silmarillion, 66 kudos

I have a couple of anonymous/orphaned works that I can recall that have way more than any of this: one Azula/Zuko that has over 350 kudos and a Wincest fic that’s currently on 289! They’re both pure E-rated kink, so I think it figures hahaah.

4- Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

I try to, but sometimes I get a little stumped between a desire to respond in depth vs the conscience that ao3 comments are not really the place for fandom conversation…

5- What's the fic you've written with the angstiest ending?

IMO, either my most recent Vinland Saga fic “Ordeal,” or my first posted fic ever, “Barren”, about Míriel and Pharazôn.

6- What's the fic you've written with the happiest ending?

I’m thinking it’s probably “Washed Ashore”, a short fic that ends with Gil-Galad telling Círdan that Ëarendil is alive and returned with an army in tow.

7- Do you write crossovers?

8- Have you ever received hate on a fic?

I know I did but it was in an orphaned work and I can’t recall which, or what fandom it was for? But I think that’s why I switched to just publishing anonymously instead of orphaning it altogether, so I can still delete comments and stuff. Haven't had to, though.

9- Do you write smut?

Occasionally :)

10- Have you ever had a fic stolen?

11- Have you ever had a fic translated?

I THINK so, because I remember someone asking me about it, but I can’t recall which fic or what language…

12- Have you ever co-written a fic before?

I wanna do that with Kate!!! Maybe one day

13- What's your all-time favorite ship?

The ship I’ve written the most for on ao3 is Irene/Gen from Queen’s Thief, and it’s definitely one of my top favorites!

14- What's a WIP that you want to finish but don't think you ever will?

I don’t usually post fics unless they’re finished or very close to. So the answer is something in my fic folder tentatively called "A Mirror, Cracking", which is an AU of Niënor in Brethil, if she remembered who she was! I'm suuuper fond of it and likely never finishing it, I plan to post it unfinished at some point, amnesty-style.

15- What are your writing strengths?

I think I’m good at creating a dramatic scene! Or let’s put it this way: it’s what I enjoy the most when I write

16- What are your writing weaknesses?

I’d like to write longer, more committed stuff sometimes, but I find it very hard! I also think my prose is very commonplace, but it doesn't actually bother me.

17- What are your thoughts on writing dialogue in other languages in a fic?

I avoid doing that at all costs. I either put a descriptive indicating they’re speaking another language, or I say the POV character can’t make it out. I don’t think it’s tacky and I don’t judge it in writing, I just don’t like doing it myself.

18- What was the first fandom you wrote for?

Tolkien <3

19- What's a fandom/ship you haven't written for yet but want to?

My dream is to write a Mediana/Ophélie fic for The Mirror Visitor, simply I think this ship is insanely hot and there was just one meager 155 word ficlet for it last time I checked! I have some notes for a fic but lost steam; maybe reading the English translation of those books will do the trick.

20- What's your favorite fic you've written?

I’m super fond of “A haunting”, one of my fics with the least amount of kudos... which I understand, because it really is one of those “I wrote this for myself but you can read it if you want to” cases—in terms of themes, characterization, style and format, corny quote at the beginning, etc, super indulgent. I really just had a lot of fun with it and it still touches me whenever I reread it, and I think the language and characterization are pretty solid! I like it a lot and I'm super proud of it :)

#actually I'm really fond and proud of my númenor fics in general... i also really like 'an account of the fall'#i think the quality of the writing there is above my usual technique-wise #and i think 'death of a lady' is still a very charming read if a little clumsy in parts #fic meme

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thelaithlyworm · 5 months ago

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@mimosaeyes tagged you:

Fic authors self rec! When you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you've written, then pass on to at least five other writers. Spread the self-love!

Thank you for thinking of me!

Disclaimer: If you asked me the same question next week I would probably have a different answer. I’ve written a lot, and I love a lot of them.

Anyway anyway, trying to go back to some of the early stuff:

My Adventure – First! Fanfic! Ever! Belladonna Took, one of the three remarkable daughters of the Great Took, deserved to have an adventure of her very own. I remember getting buried very deep in the lore to write this, and I absolutely loved the chapter where ancient tales of the Silmarillion get filtered through the POV of a very young hobbit. And the poetry I wrote for it still delights me.

The Girl Who Was A Cherry Tree – so for a while I was really into xxxHolic and Tsubasa Reservoir Chronicles and then I was really into CLAMP in general, and this was some of the fruit of that obsession. CLAMP always seem at their best when there’s a corpse under the cherry tree and I leaned into that when I gave Clone!Sakura her happy ending.

Never A Love Story – also had a hyperfixation on The Musketeers for a while, a real good time. I tried filling two prompts on the kink meme at the same time and ended up with a fairly complex exploration of gender roles with girl!d’Artagnan-who-wants-to-be-a-soldier and deep-in-salon-culture-Aramis mentoring her. And… lots of questions of identity and doing right by ourselves and each other. And I had a lot of fun with it in general. They had a very non-standard love story, but they did very much love, and I’m at peace with that.

And Blue-Bleak Embers – Nirvana in Fire AU where Prince Yu funks out of waging the rebellion and spends the next few months as an idle prince always knocking on Mei Changsu’s door, even as Mei Changsu is quietly dying. And it’s a peaceful fic, and objectively a happier ending – no-one died in the rebellion and Da Liang wasn’t so weak by the end that it seemed ripe for invasion, that’s a happy ending, right? – but in this version Jingyan doesn’t get that boost to his career from being a war hero and he just. He just takes too long to get the court case started and MCS never sees his justice. It’s gentle and bittersweet and a bit raw – the companionship of two people who have both mauled the other and don’t see any point in putting up masks anymore.

Slice of Life – Pretty much my ship manifesto for Wu Xie/Hei Xiazi, I think. Vignettes from their training relationship! I loved how all the scenes mirrored each other in the end, and Hei Xiazi’s clinical eye on his student, even as he breaks bones and navigates weird night-time conversations and enacts the greatest kindness he can: teaching Wu Xie that people he trusts can hurt him. Another fic that’s very bittersweet and raw, I think.

tagging (if you want to participate): @procrastinatorproject @jazzfic @regionalpancake @inimitablereel @bladedweaponsandswishycoats @sharkbeneaththelotus

#writing memes #asks and answers

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swanmaids · 2 years ago

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Fic writing roundup- thank you for the tag, @imakemywings!

Total Words Published at end of year: 22,069 , give or take a couple thousand for my tumblr fic. definitely not a much as some, but it’s my first year publishing fic, so I’m pretty happy!

Additional Words Written: 6726

Fandoms: Tolkien, predominently Silmarillion.

Highest Everything (raw kudos, hits, comments):

Hits: spirited away (1615)

Kudos: spirited away (265)

Comments: spirited away (15 threads)

New Things I Tried:

Publishing in general! Just getting over the anxiety to post in general has been an achievement for me. I wrote my first au with the stones wept and first fake non-fiction with post mortem. I had a lot of fun experimenting with writing styles in general.

Fic I Spent the Most Time On:

Probably the stones wept. current kink meme wips are also taking some time.

Fic I Spent the Least Time On:

this silly tumblr fic, or the butterfly effect.

Favorite Thing I Wrote:

I had a lot of fun with post mortem, I really enjoyed working backwards to come up with the injuries, and putting all the little fucked up easter eggs in there.

Favorite Thing(s) I Read:

from the ones who came before - kirta. note perfect earendil and elwing.

a traitor’s issue - herenortherenearnorfar. wonderful spooky and sad look at ulfang’s daughters in law following the nirnaeth.

a beautiful equation - drag0nst0rm. funny and sad caranthir (and dragons).

you are coming down with me - thelioninmybed. multi chapter fucked up horrible kidnap “family”

the loving spirit - zimraphel. genuis finrod-is-carcharoth fic.

no forest no trees - palmviolet. angela carter esque thingol/melian.

a fiend in feline shape - aipilosse. cry-laughing nimloth & ancalagon (yes rlly.)

the one with all the birds - clothonono. elwing & sons of feanor, a must read.

the sky the sea the birds between - herenortherenearnorfar. sold me on earendil/elwing/eonwe.

red wedding - arriviste. my favourite take on russingon.

Writing goals for 2023: write longer fics and maybe something multichapter. write more femslash.

not sure who’s been tagged already, but i’ll tag @aipilosse, @undercat-overdog , @verecunda, @carlandrea

#tag game #my fic

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eunoiaastralwings · 2 years ago

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I posted 3,180 times in 2022

That's 3,014 more posts than 2021!

553 posts created (17%)

2,627 posts reblogged (83%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@eunoiaastralwings

@i-did-not-mean-to

@aeonianarchives

@fizzyxcustard

@blueberryrock

I tagged 1,516 of my posts in 2022

#answered - 305 posts

#the silmarillion - 132 posts

#the silm memes - 128 posts

#tarawrites - 85 posts

#silmarillion - 76 posts

#maedhros - 61 posts

#incorrect quotes - 59 posts

#feanor - 57 posts

#tolkien elves - 57 posts

#erestor - 56 posts

Longest Tag: 134 characters

#but she cleared and did so many good. the longest ruling monarch ever— can you imagine? no one is going to break that. she was amazing

My Top Posts in 2022:

Elrond: okay, so i’ve left you all a set of instructions for while i’m away.

Glorfindel: mine just says “Glorfindel, no.”

Elrond: and i want you to apply it to every situation.

Erestor: In all my years, I finally can have peace and quiet. Finally...

198 notes - Posted April 9, 2022

Please some nsfw with Elrond love youu

here you are @badsilversblog hope you like it

Where sex is concerned, Elrond is a calm but energetic. But I think he prefers a softer pace and even though this ellon has boundless amount of energy— he'll never overwhelm you.

If he’s in the mood to fuck you— know he's very sensual about it.

Skin to skin contact is a must for Elrond— always expect his hands to be running all over you. It's his way to de-stress and convince himself you’re real and with him.

He’s got a pretty high sex drive and an even more incredible breeding kink— you can see the look in his eyes wheneven he's looking at you playing with children or looking at them adoringly— oh, you know exactly what you’ll get up to that evening.

Elrond may look peaceful— but the only think in his head be dirty thoughts of him finishing inside you.

This ellon enjoys slowly worshiping your body; kissing you everywhere and I mean everywhere! Your neck, shoulders, chest, arms and down your legs— though your stomach especially! Elrond's only physical form of showing you no part of your body is unloved body him— while outside surrounded by others he would hold your hand, kiss and give you a light peck.

He’s always gentle with you and enjoys everything at a slow pace, but if you would like, he can get rough to whatever standards you put.

There’s this quiet confidence and dominant side— which is a real turn on. He's really a switch.

Elrond is a sucker for missionary— but his other favorite would be having you ride him. He likes to be able to see your face and let you have the freedom to touch or grab onto him anywhere.

He’s a giver in everything— especially when it comes to oral and very talented with his tongue.

One thing he loves to is lay you down on the bed and kiss you everywhere until you become a squirming and moaning mess— this is his dominant side— he would also hold your wrists together above your head while he worships your body with kisses.

He loves to tease you with little kitten licks at first.

Elrond doesn't bite, he rather prefers to nibble your skin.

Sometimes when alone in his study— Elrond likes to pull you to his lap and hold you tenderly in his arms, nibbling the skin on your neck and your sensitive ears enough that you're squirming on his lap.

He loves having you ride him, watching you work for your reward as you bounce up and down in his lap.

He loves to grope your chest while he kisses your deeply.

Elrond is a saint when it comes to aftercare. He’ll clean you both up and keep a close eye on you until your breathing is back to normal pace— he'll give you water without asking or food if required, afterwards it's sleep and holding you incredibly close.

202 notes - Posted May 5, 2022

Fëanor and Nerdanel: *kiss in the pool*

Maedhros: *splashing them* Excuse me this is a family pool not a ‘make a family’ pool you have enough kids already!

Also Maedhros: *struggling to hide his little brothers' eyes*

219 notes - Posted April 15, 2022

Lindir, to Elrond: my future partner must be brave, strong, intelligent, successful and organized.

Y/N: *steps on a caterpillar and proceeds to drop to their knees and sob while apologizing profusely*

Lindir: that one. I want that one.

Elrond: well— ask Y/N to court you!

Lindir: oh— there's that! *blushes forgetting how he had to woo you to court*

Also Lindir: *stressed out thinking— almost pulls out his hair— trying to think of ways to win you over*

Elrond: *worried how alarmingly fast the color is draining from his face* ehh— Lindir?

Lindir: *throwns himself on the ground and rolls into ball position* I got nothing! Y/N would never court me!

Y/N:*actually overhears the whole thing— still crying* I do want him— why does he think I don't want him? — I don't deserve him!

Elrond: *rubs his head* the both of you— need work on your self esteems!

@i-did-not-mean-to

227 notes - Posted June 15, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

Maglor: Why are you making chocolate pudding at 4am?

Maedhors: Because I've lost control of my life.

Maglor: *sees Elrond and Elros trying to hide under the table— snickering* so it is not because the elfings begged you with their puppy eyes— the eyes you always fall for?

Maedhros: *vigorously mixing* No! — My own personal reasons!

Maglor: No!— I can literally see them trying to hide under the table!

Maedhros: they are my own personal reasons!

Maglor: They begged you to make chocolate pudding in the middle of the night and you fell for their big puppy eyes— AGAIN!

Maedhros: keep using that tone, Maglor— and you will not be getting any chocolate pudding!

Elrond and Elros: *agreeing with Maedhros*

Maglor:

Maglor: I would like a small piece— please.

308 notes - Posted June 14, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

#tumblr2022 #year in review #my 2022 tumblr year in review #your tumblr year in review #LMAO — SELF REBLOG AT IT'S FINEST

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ao3feed-tolkien · 1 year ago

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Sandbox Love

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/3I4ZeqD

by 0Rocky41_7

Galadriel felt she had a well-matched friend in Princess Luthien, and she did not expect that ever to change.

Words: 9186, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

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

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: F/F, F/M

Relationships: Galadriel | Artanis/Lúthien Tinúviel

Additional Tags: Background Relationships, The Silmarillion Kink Meme, Romantic Friendship

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/3I4ZeqD

#IFTTT #ao3feed #fanfic #Tolkien #JRR Tolkien #Tolkien works #ao3 #fan fiction

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wolffyluna · 2 years ago

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Most viewed: 12,245 (Overwatch kink meme fill)

Least viewed: 32 views (Silmarillion podfic)

Fic writers, put in the tags what the difference in hits is between your most and least viewed fics. Mine is 7,720 (7,779-59).

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whatiwouldnotgive · 4 years ago

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Tolkien Kink Meme!

hello all! my partner and i have created a new tolkien kink meme on ao3!! this is open to any of tolkien's extended works including LOTR, The Hobbit, and Silm. it's also open to both n s f w and sfw prompts.

the link is available here: https://archiveofourown.org/collections/2021_tolkien_kink_meme

have fun and go wild!

#lord of the rings #the hobbit #the silmarillion #tolkien #lotr #silm #archive of our own #ao3 #kink meme #fanfiction #my content

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veliseraptor · 4 years ago

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AO3 Stats Meme

I will be doing a more comprehensive version of this meme Later (as I have done the last two years) but since that takes me ages let’s start with this (adjusted for 2020 only, hopefully, though I expect to be posting a few more things before the end of the year)

tagged by: not-tagged by @mikkeneko because I felt like doing it tagging: if you wrote a fic this year consider yourself tagged rules: check your stats on ao3 by going to your dashboard and clicking through to statistics.

amount of works posted: total word count: 467,786 words, which I’m guessing doesn’t match my writing tracker count because it includes things I wrote in 2019 but didn’t post until 2020 longest fic: since I won’t count Steve Rogers’ Halfway House for Notorious Supervillains (as a multichapter fic posted over multiple years), it’s going to be we live until we die at 57,868 words. depending on when my Big Bang fic goes up, it’ll beat that. shortest fic: of fics posted on AO3 (since I think there’s shorter on Tumblr only), it’s the martyr, the victim at 1,228 words. most kudos: With Absolute Splendor at 4,427 kudos, fuck. fic with the most bookmarks: again it’s With Absolute Splendor (2,346) fic with the most comment threads: take a guess. after Halfway House (again, not counting as a 2020 fic) - With Absolute Splendor. total amount of kudos: 28.206 total amount of bookmarks: 9.321 total amount of comment threads: 3,365

fandoms written for: MCU, The Silmarillion, T H E U N T A M E D

fests you’ve written for: this year, just the three I signed up for at the end of the year, two of which are still unposted (the MDZS/CQL Rarepair Exchange, the SongXueXiao Exchange, and the MDZS Big Bang). I’m not counting my “sign up” for the MDZS/CQL Kink Meme.

pairings written for: okay let’s see here: Steve/Loki, Loki/Grandmaster, Wei Wuxian/Lan Wangji technically (though almost exclusively as a background pairing, ha), Jin Guangyao/Xue Yang, Jiang Cheng/Lan Wangji, Xiao Xingchen/Xue Yang, Song Lan/Xue Yang/Xiao Xingchen.

favorite fic you’ve written this year: I don’t know! I haven’t done my comprehensive recap yet! I do feel like everyone else is spring bound is a personal favorite, though, but I also am pretty proud of a bunch of the Yi City ones...but also I’m scared of talking too much about liking my fic because the “STOP BEING AN ARROGANT ASSHOLE” hammer tends to come down when I do that.

I am pretty proud of both With Absolute Splendor and the unposted Big Bang fic as far as, like, writing achievements go. they were both ambitious fics and I feel like I...mostly pulled off what I was trying to do.

goals for next year: would really like to whittle my WIP list down to like. less than 50. unlikely, but a girl can dream. also: finish terrible road trip fic. also also: actually work on my original project.

#meme #confessions of a frustrated writer

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imakemywings · 1 month ago

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Ransom of the Fairy Twins (1/4)

Fandom: The Silmarillion

Relationships: Elrond & Elros, Elrond & Elros & Maglor, Elrond/Gil-galad

Summary: Maglor and Maedhros trade Elrond and Elros to King Gil-galad in exchange for a Silmaril, but they have miscalculated.

A fill for this prompt on the Silmarillion Kink Meme.

AO3 | Pillowfort | SWG

Next chapter

When Elrond and Elros were six, the Havens of Sirion went up in smoke. Their mother kissed their foreheads and sent them upstairs with Evranin their nurse, who had been her nurse before, and promised to see them soon. It was the last thing she ever said to them.

Instead of Mother, a pair of flame-eyed, blood-streaked Elves threw down the bodies of the guard stationed outside the room, and one held Evranin captive while the other ransacked Mother’s room. These invaders took nothing, but threw the screaming nurse aside, and left with the children.

The last time they heard from mother was inside the house, but the last time they saw her was on the cliff-side, where those towering men of ash and blood tried to make a deal with her. When Elrond and Elros were six, a man held a blade to their throats, and promised to spare them in exchange for something else.

It had been a long time since they had heard mother say the names of her brothers aloud, those uncles they had never met—who had died younger than they were then: Eluréd. Elurín.

The last time they saw mother, she was there: and then she was gone.

She didn’t scream, but their captors did. The leaders, and the ones who followed them, all howling and wailing and cursing and running to the edge of that cliff, to burn their stares into the frothing salt water as it battered itself against the rocks. They nearly missed the seabird that went wheeling overhead, out towards the water, out west.

The boys were loaded up onto a horse in front of the dark-haired second son of Fëanor, and so they could not look back and see the ruins of the Havens still smoking. For nearly an hour they rode in complete silence, and then one of the boys tilted his head back, looking up wide-eyed and trembling at the man behind them and asked: “Where are we going?”

“Home,” replied the killer.

II.

When Elrond and Elros were twelve, the sons of Fëanor finally succeeded in making a deal. Gil-galad had come into a Silmaril—and the methods of which do not pertain to this tale—and, by suggestion of his councilors, was willing to offer it to the Fëanorians, in exchange for the lives of Eärendil and Elwing’s two children.

The parchment nearly smoked of how fast they accepted this offer.

Gil-galad sent a small core of trusted advisors to transport the holy jewel, but being unwilling to enter the fortress of Amon Ereb, they left it some two miles out. The land was flat enough the two parties could still see each other. Once it had been deposited, Gil-galad’s men retreated to a safe distance. They watched the sons of Fëanor, the only two left, ride out and examine the jewel. When they had presumably satisfied themselves, they departed, and when Gil-galad’s men returned to the spot, the boys were there waiting.

Each was supplied by Gil-galad’s men with a pony and provisions, and a message was sent ahead to the king. They anticipated the need to travel slower with the children in tow, but the king should be made aware as soon as possible that the plan had succeeded.

“His Grace King Gil-galad offers welcome to the sons of Eärendil,” announced the deputy. The two boys stared dully up at their new compatriots. They each bore some makeshift luggage, ragged sacks and bits of things hanging from their tunic belts.

“Where are we going?” one of them asked at last, almost wearily, as if it were a necessity.

“To the isle of Balar, in Lindon,” said the deputy. “To your new home, we hope.”

“We hope?” echoed the other boy. “What do you mean by that?”

“His Grace offers you a place in his home: you may refuse it, if you wish,” said the deputy.

“You mean we may leave?” said the first boy, narrowing his eyes. The Elf blinked at him, as though they were having a discussion about pink skies and cows with wings.

“You may,” she said. “King Gil-galad does not take prisoners.” The boys exchanged a long look.

“Very well,” they said at last, together. “We would like to meet him.”

III.

The capitol of Lindon was now, for all intents and purposes, the isle of Balar, whose separation from the mainland gave it some minor additional protection from the forces of Morgoth. It was unlike anywhere Elrond and Elros had been before, but for the comforting wash of the waves on the shore, which seemed to reach back into hazy, half-remembered recollections of their childhood, stirring something they couldn’t quite grasp. Balar was an established Elven city, with stone walls and towers and glinting glass windows, and people. Anyone who could get to the island from the nearby lands had, and they were piled on top of each other trying to eke out some measure of safety in an increasingly terrifying world. The twins gawked as they rode through the streets, and were gawked at in return by Elves who had never seen a Peredhel before, only heard tales of those rulers of the Iathrim, but who had heard of the cruel capture of the boys at the sack of Sirion, and of Gil-galad’s plan for rescue.

“Why do they all look at us so?” whispered Elros loudly to the deputy. In their days of travel, the boys had relaxed somewhat around their guards, apparently determining it was unlikely they intended any immediate harm.

“They have heard tales of the last queen of the Iathrim, and of the lord of the Havens at Sirion, and its destruction,” replied the deputy. “All of Lindon hoped that we would be able to bring you out of Amon Ereb.”

“But why?” Elros asked. “We are strangers to them.”

“One’s heart may still bleed for a stranger, yes?” said the deputy. Elros frowned thoughtfully and sat back on his pony. Elrond rode alongside him, and they kept so close together as they wound up to Gil-galad’s castle that their knees were bruised by the end of the day from bumping together.

When they reached the castle, their ponies were led off (they needed no help dismounting) and the deputy gestured for them to follow her inside. The twins shuffled after her, clutching each in one arm his belongings, and with the free hand clasping his brother’s hand.

The architecture of Amon Ereb had been Elven too, finely wrought and carefully planned, but gone to ruination. It had been decades since anyone had properly cared for it, and its present occupants seemed to take joy in spoiling it further. Rarely did anyone of its sparse staff have time to clean, and when they did, the effort was half-hearted at best. Occasionally the boys were set to it, but with no skill or enthusiasm.

Gil-galad’s castle was at the prime of its life, and kept clean to boot.

The twins expected to be led to the throne room—for they had heard such things existed—but Gil-galad met them in a small salon, dressed not in his royal regalia, but something less formal, with only a simple circlet to indicate his office. There was food laid out on a table, which both boys looked to immediately, before turning their attention back to their new lord.

“It is wonderful to finally meet you,” said Gil-galad with a smile. He was fair of face, with oak-brown hair drawn back into a knotted braid, and eyes that seemed both green and brown. Heavy earrings weighed down his earlobes and polished jewels winked at his fingers and his breast. Like all the Elves they had seen thus far in Lindon, outside the soldiers, his dress was splendidly bright, as if Yavanna herself had painted on the colors. “Please, eat.” He gestured to the table, and the young boys decided further introductions could wait: they fell upon the food.

It was hearty and rich, if a less extensive spread than might have been there in years gone by, though this the twins did not know. They dipped soft, white bread in bowls of soup shining with fatty oils and snatched fistfuls of fresh vegetables. They had grown unaccustomed to the taste of seafood, but now they happily scarfed down baked fish, fried oysters, and strips of raw tuna on beds of greens, barely pausing to evaluate whether they liked one dish better than another.

“We were nearly short on supplies,” the deputy remarked to Gil-galad, who responded with faint surprise.

“A miscalculation,” he said. “I trust all else went well…?”

“Indeed, my lord. Easier than anyone expected, truthfully. No fight at all.”

“Are you Gil-galad?” Elrond demanded as soon as his plate was clean, his small shoulders hunched as he spoke. His mouth and chin shone with grease.

“Indeed I am,” replied the king. “Are you Elrond, or Elros?”

“Elrond,” they both replied.

“Then you must be Elros,” said Gil-galad to Elros, who glanced around as if it was possible there was someone else the king might take for Elros.

“What are you going to do with us?” Elrond asked. Gil-galad blinked a moment, but quickly selected his answer.

“Feed you, I think,” he said with a smile. “It seems there needs to be more of that!” The twins continued to stare soberly at him, and the smile disappeared from his face. “I mean to offer you my home,” he said, gesturing with a hand around him. “It seems to me more suited to childhood than Amon Ereb. You shall have teachers too, and there is someone in Balar who can teach you nearly anything you might like to know. And when you are grown, perhaps you will decide to stay.”

“Did you know our parents?” Elros asked after a long silence. Gil-glad again considered before answering.

“I did not,” he said. “I did not have occasion to visit the Havens at Sirion before…before its end.” The twins looked down at the table. “But there are some who did,” Gil-galad added, studying them. They looked up. “You may not have been aware—” He could see that they had not been, “—but there were survivors of that event.” Immediately the twins were sitting up ramrod straight, their eyes alight, and Gil-galad realized he had spoken carelessly. “I do not mean your mother and father,” he said gently, and their disappointment was visible. “But others. They have settled in a place called Greenwood forest, and they are led by a man called Oropher. Do you remember him?”

Elrond and Elros shook their heads.

“If you wish it, I will write to him,” said the king. “He may agree to come and visit, and you may ask him any questions you have about your parents or Sirion.” He could not tell that the boys had any reaction to this.

After food and introductions, the twins were given rooms, one for each of them. They chose between them one room, and fated the other to merely gather dust. They were bathed, and measured for new, properly-fitted clothes (although they were permitted to keep what they had brought), and directed to a few adults they might seek out if they had need, then they were left alone.

“Do you think we could ever find him again in here, if we wanted to?” Elros asked with idle curiosity as he lay stretched sideways over the soft bed. “There’s so many rooms.”

Elrond, seated at the window, arms wrapped around his knees, shrugged.

“There’s so many people,” he said with a faint shudder. Elros made an uneasy noise of agreement.

“There…used to be people,” he said uncertainly after a few moments. “In Sirion. I remember that. There were other children, do you remember? There were Men children. We used to play. We used to play a game with little round stones.”

“That was a long time ago,” said Elrond.

“Perhaps it will feel normal again,” Elros suggested. Elrond shrugged again. They went silent. Elros stared up at the ceiling, which had been painted to look like a summer sky, edged with rolling sea waves. Elrond watched the city beyond the window, and the horizon further out behind the shimmer of the mainland.

“What do you think they shall do now?” Elros asked at last, lowly, voicing the question neither of them had been able to ask while still amid company.

“I would not know,” said Elrond tightly. “Go away, hopefully.”

“There remains still one Silmaril, isn’t that right?” said Elros.

“I don’t care,” Elrond snapped. “They shall probably do something stupid trying to get that one back and get themselves killed in the effort.”

“Probably,” Elros agreed with a shrug. He stretched his arms out over his head. “At least we needn’t trouble ourselves with it anymore.”

“Indeed,” Elrond muttered, hugging his knees a bit tighter.

Gil-galad had expected to see the boys explore the castle, but they remained in the space that was given them until they were called for dinner.

IV.

Gil-galad had not intended for Celebrimbor to still be on the island when the twins arrived. In fact, he had done everything to conceal it from them. The jewel smith had been supposed to be gone more than a week ago, but a broken wagon axel and a squall had kept him around, and it was yet another thing for Gil-galad to wring his hands about. Nevertheless, in the interest of politeness, as Celebrimbor had come at his behest, Gil-galad paid him a last visit after the twins were settled in their beds.

“How are they?” Celebrimbor asked as soon as he had let Gil-galad into his room, twisting his thick-fingered hands together. Celebrimbor was not a small man, and it might have been comical to see him so physically express his anxieties, if Gil-galad didn’t know that he was genuine.

In response, Gil-galad sank into one of the chairs at the hearth and pressed a hand over his eyes. His head tipped back against the chair.

“I do not know how I shall manage this,” he said. He dragged his hand down his face. He rested an elbow against the arm of the chair and cradled his head. “I know not what I’m doing.”

“Surely…anything here is better than there, Your Grace,” Celebrimbor said, settling on the edge of the other seat. “Are they…are they hurt?”

“Physically?” said Gil-galad. “No, I don’t believe so. Can you tell me anything else?” Gil-galad asked, raising his head.

“Everything I can tell you, I have told,” answered Celebrimbor, shaking his head. “As I said, I never spent much time with Maedhros and Maglor. They did not much like children, especially Maglor, in Aman. They were adults; they had not time for me.” He pulled at one of his earrings. “But here in Middle-earth, I have seen…Maedhros brings out the worst in them. He is the most determined of all of them, perhaps even more than my father. He will not allow Maglor to wander off this path they are on.”

“Stars.” Gil-galad rubbed his eyes again.

Celebrimbor, a step away from actually wringing his hands, got up and went to the nearby table to pour two goblets of wine. More, Gil-galad suspected, to have something to do with his hands than any desire to drink. Gil-galad took the proffered goblet and set it down undrunk.

“Have you had any word from the survivors?” he asked. Celebrimbor gave a bleak laugh.

“Me, heard from the Iathrim?” he asked, bitter rue tinging his tone. “I would not reach out to them even if I knew how; they ought to have some peace. I have heard nothing of them since you left for Sirion, except that I understand they have moved into the Greenwood?” He sipped at his wine and his shaking hand dribbled it down his chin; hastily he swiped it away.

Gil-galad stared brooding into the fire, drumming his fingers slowly on the arm of the chair. Then, abruptly, he brought his fist down on the table between the seats.

“We should have been there sooner!” he raged. He squeezed his eyes shut. “We should have been there sooner. We could have had the twins then, and spared them the last six years.” His muscles were a knot at the corner of his jaw.

“You did what you could,” Celebrimbor said softly. “And believe me! You have done the right thing bringing them here. No child deserves to live in Amon Ereb as it is now. Not with them.” He shuddered.

Gil-galad said nothing, but lapsed into stillness, gazing into the flickering firelight. Celebrimbor shifted uneasily in his seat, debating, and then said:

“Will you be alright, having them here, when they have grown?” Gil-galad looked questioningly over at him. “I only mean…as direct descendants of Turgon and therefore of Fingolfin…do they not technically have a better claim to the crown of the Noldor than you, Your Grace?” Gil-galad exhaled and rubbed his eyes again.

“Yes, I suppose they do.”

“And…do you think they might…want it?”

“They are mortal,” Gil-galad emphasized.

“Yes, but…so was Dior.”

“We are not the Iathrim. What is your point, Celebrimbor?” Gil-galad snapped, his nerves worn thin.

“If they chose to challenge you for the crown, what would you do?”

“Give to them and wait,” said Gil-galad flatly. Celebrimbor was quiet, but evidently not satisfied with this answer, and Gil-galad went on: “We do not have time for these squabbles among Elfinesse. How can we think of coups and usurpations at a time like this?” His hand curled up on the arm of the chair, and then he drummed his fingers again, and then crossed and uncrossed his legs, finally sinking once more into stillness under the thrall of the fire. At length, he said, very quietly, almost as if he feared breathing a curse into the world: “We are losing this war.”

The fire popped and crackled in the hearth.

“I know,” Celebrimbor replied, equally soft.

“Círdan still has seen no sign of Elwing, nor of the return of Eärendil.” In response to Celebrimbor’s silence, he added: “If they cannot succeed at bringing help from Valinor, I think we are only waiting for the end.”

“They cannot,” said Celebrimbor gently, as one might speak to a dying pet. “They are mortal, Your Grace. That path is closed to them.”

“They must,” Gil-galad replied. “If they do not…if no aid comes to us…then this war is already lost. If there was a time when the free peoples of Middle-earth had the strength to unite and overthrow the Enemy, it is gone. Without the Calaquendi…without the Valar…I fear the continent will soon go dark. And soon.”

Celebrimbor said nothing.

Gil-galad sighed, and nodded to himself, and rose to his feet.

“Thank you for coming, Celebrimbor,” he said.

“Of course, Your Grace,” said Celebrimbor, rising with the king. “Anything I can tell you which may be of help I am glad to do.”

“I pray we may recover some of the damage,” said Gil-galad, shaking his head. “But only time will tell.”

The next day, Gil-galad’s men hustled Celebrimbor and his small retinue out of the city and no more was said of his visit. It was the last time Celebrimbor came to Balar.

The Iathrim survivors of the sack of Sirion had not been seen since. It was known their small band had traveled east, and settled in the Greenwood, but they had gone quiet after their relocation, and no one had sought them out. It seemed best to let them be; by the measure of Elves, it had been a mere blink of an eye since that terrible day, six years only.

But when Gil-galad wrote, the answer came promptly, and Oropher came forth from the wood.

He would not enter the city, but established a camp on the shore of the mainland, along with the retinue he had brought. In concession to his guest’s understandable wariness, Gil-galad did not summon him to the castle, but brought the twins out to Wood-elves’ camp to meet with Oropher there. The effect on the assembled when they entered the tent was immediate.

One man began weeping openly. Several others covered their mouths and looked away; some others appeared to visibly restrain themselves from more overt reactions. The twins walked forward, pressed together at the shoulder.

In the seat at the back of the tent was Oropher, newly-crowned king of the surviving Iathrim, though he did not title himself as such, preferring to attach his kingship to the Greenwood. He made no claim to be any heir to the kingdom of Elwing. He was perhaps slightly taller than average for the Sindar, with golden hair and blue eyes, and he bore no crown the children could see but a thin wreath of wood and leaf. He held himself placidly, but there was a shadow on his mien, something unspoken, but imminently present. Facing him, Elrond and Elros clasped hands.

“Elrond,” said the king of the Wood-elves. “Elros. My name is Oropher. I have come because Gil-galad—” He glanced past the boys to the king of the Noldor behind them, “—has said you wished to speak with me.”

“King Gil-galad says…” The boy trailed off.

“…you knew our parents,” the other finished for him.

Oropher tilted his head from side-to-side, saying neither yes nor no. It was a gesture that suddenly and aggressively reminded Gil-galad of the Sindar Wood-elves who had joined them in Nargothrond, but he had to push that memory aside.

“I served the house of the Greymantle,” he said. “But my personal acquaintance with Queen Elwing was little, and less still with Lord Eärendil.” The twins shuffled, and squeezed hands, and looked at the floor, then back at Oropher.

“Do you…”

“…know where they are?” the boys finished together, gray eyes turned hopefully on this new king, though the tension of their shoulders suggested they were braced for disappointment. The shadow on Oropher’s face deepened, and he cast his eyes askance, and shook his head at last.

“I do not,” he said softly.

Elros bit his lower lip, and Elrond swallowed hard.

“I cannot answer this question for you,” Oropher said, leaning forward. “But others, I may. And I shall. Anything of Sirion or Doriath is your right to know. I do not imagine your…previous guardians knew much of it.” The effort with which Oropher restrained himself from snarling was immense. He looked up at Gil-galad. “Perhaps we might speak privately.”

Gil-galad hesitated only a moment, before he determined no harm could come to them there, and nodded. He departed with his guard, and might have gone off to other kingly affairs, but he chose to wait until Elrond and Elros emerged with Oropher from the tent. They filed obediently back to Gil-galad’s side, like a dog returning to its master.

“I will leave some individuals here, though we cannot spare more than one or two,” said Oropher, “that they may act as tutors, to teach you things the residents of Balar are not likely to know.”

“Yes, that would be ideal,” said Gil-galad, choosing not to take offense that Oropher did not ask the king’s permission to add to his staff. It would be good for the boys to have teachers that knew the Iathrim traditions and history; certainly Gil-galad knew little enough of it, and he imagined Maedhros and Maglor had known less still. Gil-galad at the least had had a Sindarin mother (though she had been of the Falas, and not the woods). “We would be most grateful.” Oropher nodded.

Gil-galad never knew what Oropher said to the twins in the tent, but they were quiet the rest of the day, speaking only between themselves, and quickly hushing up the moment someone else appeared within earshot. If their hearing was weaker than Elves, they must have learned already the approximate distance at which an Elf could hear them whispering.

At dinner, they were still silent, until one of them—Oropher believed it was Elros, though he could not say why—announced: “We wish to go with Oropher.”

“We were told we might leave,” Elrond added, his small body tensed as if for a blow.

“We were told you take no prisoners,” said Elros.

Gil-galad, taken aback, stared for a moment, and then said, slowly: “If you wish to depart with Oropher, and he would welcome you, you are of course, free to go. It is not my intention to keep you here against your will.”

“He said we were welcome to accompany him—”

“—if we wished it.”

“Very well,” said Gil-galad. “We will prepare supplies for you to take with you.” The twins exchanged a look, then stared back at Gil-galad, but when he said nothing else, they spoke again.

“You really mean—”

“—to let us go?”

“Just like that?” They finished together.

“As you heard,” said Gil-galad, slicing a bit of pork loin, “I do not keep prisoners, and certainly not children. It was my desire to ransom you away from the sons of Fëanor for your own sake, not that I might keep you in their stead. I spoke truthfully when I said you are welcome to stay in my home, but you are welcome also to leave, if that suits you better. I trust Oropher and his people will take great care in looking after you.”

“Oh.” Some fight seemed to ease out of them, and they began to share more frequent looks, and jab at each other under the table, though they remained quiet, and quickly stilled if Gil-galad looked directly at them.

After dinner, he sent a runner out to the camp of the Wood-elves. Not that he did not trust the twins’ report—but it would not hurt to verify with his fellow monarch that this was agreed upon, before he simply sent two children off with them.

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