#that-angry-noldo fic

[melestasflight]

Little Idril gives Turgon the first chamomile flowers in @that-angry-noldo's Flowers sprang beneath his marching feet for @tolkienrsb

This heart-wrenching fic of the arrival of Fingolfin's host to Beleriand and the main art will be revealed tomorrow, September 8, 2023!

Fic snippet below the cut.

Turukáno looked away. Itarillë ran up to him, and her face was bright. She was holding a white flower in her hands, her eyes gleaming with warmth and happiness. Turukáno smiled and tucked a strand of her golden hair behind her ear. A camomile, he explained, mind to mind, and her features lit up. It grows in great numbers during the spring.  Itarillë beamed and ran off, and Turukáno followed her with a soft, fond gaze. He looked back to Findaráto and noticed the same tenderness on his features. “Children,” Findaráto murmured. “In Aman we thought them a blessing; a gem to carve, a fruit to reap. Now, though, I look at your daughter and feel - hope. Your father,” he said, and looked at Turukáno again, “might feel like he lost that. What is the meaning of trying to go on if you have lost the one whose eyes gleamed with fire, who looked forth through the veil of the unending snow and said, “I see hope; I see life; I see, far away, the warmth and the peace that awaits us”? And now, that hope lies buried under the ground, and all we can do is - remember.”

From Flowers sprang beneath his marching feet

[gwaedhannen]

first sentence: "Upon his return from the War, Eärwen found Finarfin changed."

That should not have surprised her, the War was—well, she’d seen enough of it herself. But if he was changed more like the Lindar who could no longer bear torches or crowds, or the once-chained who crowded under Lorien’s trees hoping to relearn peace, or her far-niece soaring the salt breeze more often than she walked the land (birds cry only to clean their eyes, Elwing once confided), or their Returned eldest son only half at home in his skin; that she could understand.

Instead his smiles were too wide, his bows too deep, his dancing too flawless, his lovemaking too empassioned, his speeches too cunning; if he spoke of the War at all it was if it were already a distant history. Who was this bright King who threw himself into the politics and lawmaking that he once threw himself at the seaside and herself to avoid? Just what exactly had returned from the pits of Angband, wearing her husband’s flesh?

[thelordofgifs]

now i could abuse your offer and be evil and request a finarfin/eönwë fic but i'm giving you a choice. so either that or something for m&m of your choosing <3

yeah it literally took me 13 months to forgive you for voting against Eldacar in the semifinal. grudgingly, here is your bribefic.

The Herald was waiting when Finarfin slipped at last into his tent, bone-weary and bloody. Not so Eönwë: the years of campaigning and today’s bitter skirmishing alike had had no effect upon his radiance, the golden glow of his skin and the ancient Light before light in his eyes. Finarfin had never before seen his eerie calm so much as wrinkled.

“What were you thinking?” Eönwë hissed – or perhaps hissed was the wrong word. Say rather that his voice reverberated, that although he had not spoken very loudly at all the very inside of Finarfin’s skull seemed to have been set ringing. It was often so, with Eönwë. His presence was so overwhelming that Finarfin was growing to believe the Valar had made a tactical error in sending him to command their host – for how could any mere Elf stay focused on the great task that lay ahead of them when Eönwë was there to draw attention like a lodestar?

“I am tired,” he said. His own voice was very feeble in his ears, after Eönwë’s. “Might we not save the debriefing for tomorrow, when Ingwion joins us?”

“I am not asking for a debriefing,” said Eönwë. He stepped closer to Finarfin, or perhaps grew a little, or else the tent itself was shrinking around them. “Only to ask why exactly you waited so long to pull back after you had been wounded.”

“Speak not of my failure to me,” Finarfin said. His head was pounding, and his throat was dry with thirst. “Had I lasted but a little longer the hill would have been regained.”

“Noldorán,” said Eönwë. He was so close now to Finarfin that he filled his entire field of view, in all his golden-plated armour and sunlight-filled hair and the twin flames that were his eyes. “You could have died.”

Finarfin was acclimatising now to the near-pain of Eönwë’s voice, and the pleasure-buzz that accompanied the way it vibrated inside his head. His eyes had fluttered shut as the Herald spoke, and it took him a moment to realise that a response was expected of him.

“I did not,” he said. His tongue was numb and heavy in his mouth. “Die.”

Eönwë made some strange sound, impossible to interpret, and then put two or three of his arms around Finarfin at last, pulling him flush against that armoured chest. “Be more careful in the future, Noldorán,” he said, and Finarfin could not repress the little hum of satisfaction that rose up in him to hear that voice again. “I cannot bear to hear you have been wounded, and know not whether this time will be—” He broke off abruptly.

“No,” Finarfin half-moaned, his knees buckling. He thought his ears would pop from the sudden lack of pressure in them. Did Eönwë know how his every word caused Finarfin pain – and that his silence was agony yet greater? “Keep – keep talking, please, keep talking—”

But Eönwë carried him over to the narrow little bed, and brushed the bloodied hair off his face, and then kissed him deeply; and then at last Finarfin was still.

[searchingforserendipity25]

For @that-angry-noldo, a wonderful wonderful person whose presence lightens up the world so brightly. Have a lovely day beloved! Have some triumvirate (and some creechur Finarfin angst) <33

-

The long campaign against Morgoth had seemed interminable at times, impossible at others, intolerable when in captivity; but at least the Enemy had never seen fit to lay this kind of ruthless siege on Finarfin's schedule.

"And for another question, if I may," the councillor said, his polished voice bothersome like an insistent itch to Finarfin’s hearing. "There are several petitioners gathering tomorrow to present their case."

Their case was a question of two teachers vying for the same apprentice, a matter that ought to be solved by a counsil of crafting master, and had no business being brought before the king of the Noldor.

Except that it had been brought before the king, when Finwë had been the Noldoran. Finarfin's ways were not so - they could not be, at first, for only with faith could he have won the faith of his people.

Finarfin's ways were not beloved by all, even now; and there were some who claimed he had gone from a tyrant given onto them nd imposed by the Valar into a war-chieftain, distant and uncaring, half-beastly -

"I wonder if my liege has made any decision already on the matter."

"I have not the habit of making decision that are not mine to make," Finarfin said, quite mildly, and folded his hands inside his sleeves in a final gesture.

"All the same, I may ask- "

It was extraordinary, Finarfin thought, how some meetings seemed to linger onwards into a small Age of the world, when really they had been supposed to take only the time between lunch and supper.

The sharp edge of his nails dragged against the silk, and that too irritated him far more than was reasonable.

His father's old adviser looked down at the shredded cloth. For a moment the disgust shone unhidden in his mind and eyes; and then he gathered his temerity again, an actor's mask blade knotted over the truth of his face.

Finarfin bared his teeth at him, and watched it flinch.

"You may not," Finarfin said, venomously, and for a dizzy moment only felt satisfied when Anganyellë stepped backwards, the way a hawk felt when scattering mice from ahead. 

And then the mortification came, of course; but more slowly than it should.

 On days like these, when scales scrapped the especially lined inside of his formal tunics, and his mind had a tendency to wander at the sight of a passing bird through the windows or a pretty play of prismatic light on a jewel, Finarfin knew he was not fit to rule until he was able to feel properly ashamed of his failures. 

"That will be all for today," He decreed.

The last few of his ministers that had not excused themselves hours ago were at least wise enough to bow their way out. 

So much for not being a tyrant! He waited until they were gone before letting his face fall on his talons.

The people spoke of this, too; that the king had come from the war with ships half-empty and the living half-broken, a sinking continent behind him for all Melkor was chained and detained by the Host of the Valar.

The people said: the Noldoran went to war gentle, and now he has come back monstrous. They would speak of it all the more; even now he heard and knew the words his councilor's passed between themselves, the old guard that had not gone to war, and stayed, ruling Tirion's court in his absense, trying vainly to rule Earwen. That flash of disgust sunk into their words - it wrapped around them, turned them hateful with fear.

Finarfin knew this, because he was their king, and it was his duty to know all their complaints and petitions, at all times of the day - he had not the liberty of closing his heart from it.

-

Finarfin could not lie to himself, or pretend against it convincingly: the truth was that he was having a rather terrible day. 

First of all, it was terribly hot. He had barely been able to sleep with the stifling humidity that took up reing over his rooms, even with all the windows open. Earwen had removed to her own rooms, and that too kept him awake.

It was not that they did not sleep apart often, after the war, when Finarfin’s sleep was unsteady and half-haunted by terror, and Earwen’s own foresight kept her awake and pacing or drawing long into the night – but she rarely left, when he was in his beastly form. 

Anairë’s invitations always turned from a week to a fortnight, however. Finarfin tried not to resent it - he did not wish to resent Earwen her faithful friendships, and most days he did not. It was only the heat, and his heavy robes that pulled down painfully on his aching shoulders - 

The greatest problem was that, lazy with head and weariness, Finarfin was having a hard time not turning into a small, content creature and go splashing in the palace's coolest lake.

He felt ashamed, and shame only made him want to turn into a creature all the more. Which meant that when something of his conscience remembered his duties, he felt more ashamed, and turned again to his instinct to dig and swim and run  – and so on, and so on. 

He did not know how long he was alone, struggling to clear his mind well enough that he could turn his talons back into nails, and the sharp edges of his mind into elven-speech, when the open curtains rustled, and something small and swift came in with a fresh breeze to land on the windowsill. 

The fresh air was a wonderful relief, light and clear on his cheeks. Finarfin kept his eyes and mind closed, but he could not help how his hands eased their hard grasp on each other. 

For a moment, at least, he felt almost peaceful - 

Until the shape on the windowsill rustled pointedly. Finarfin wrinkled his nose at it, and fought the urge to bare his teeth again. 

‘Have you no greater duty to do, and nought better than to play the spectator?’

Eönwë went from dust-brown sparrow to tall incarnate with no pain, no effort at all. Finarfin resented him dully for it, with the same ache that lived in his bones since Sauron had turned them into tools for conquest and humiliation. 

Eönwë’s voice shone golden in the air, almost-seen. “Not presently. But nor does it seem you have much work before you either, king.”

His mind brushed over Finarfin, gentle as a passing breeze, inquiring.

 Finarfin’s shoulders grew taunter with tension, before he breathed it out. No, he did not truly wish to be left alone - he was not certain what he wanted. Being at ease in his own mind and body would have been too much to ask. There was a part of him that could not tell which parts were the beast, and which the king. 

That much I cannot do, Eönwë told him, steady and kind.They are all of them your self, and all of them beloved. But I can think of a number of ways you might ease your burdens, if you would allow it.

'Very well,' Finarfin sighed. Some people among the Edain were predisposed to an unhappy day when they woke with their feet cold off the cot; Finarfin tended to do quite badly when he woke mid-change, clawsl curled longingly around the empty place in his bed. 'You were right, of course, and I ought to have canceled petitions for the day right away. Pleased?'

Eönwë’s eyes gleamed with a light the likes of which was not to be found in nature. Finarfin let himself relax a little more. 

It was difficult not to feel a little better about the world, even when they had been at war against Morgoth, even in the worst of times after his captivity, when Eönwë looked at him - like that. As if Finarfin were worth the war, and the worst of times, and even the bitter unpleaseantness that beset him at times.

"I am never pleased when you are not well," Eönwë said evenly. And Finarfin did know it, of course; but something animal and aching in him was satisfied in hearing it said. Eönwë curled his spirit over it, and his wings over his shoulders, and smiled at him with his own toothsome mouth when Finarfin leant his head on his shoulders. “But I do wonder if I might not tempt you into a reprieve.” 

-

His claws caught on the back of his robes when he pulled it off, and ripped the fine pearls from their embroidery. Finarfin felt a moment’s regret for it; and then he forgot about that very quickly. 

Underwater, Finarfin was more himself than he had been before Sauron took him.

It was a difficult thing to hold true in himself. It felt like a betrayal, at times, to enjoy the alterations done upon him - to take joy in being sleek and changeable, swift in the water and quick to hunt frogs. Caught between bestial instincts and elvish grace, he tended to hesitate, when Eönwë offered these opportunities.

He never pressed. But who better than a thing of the open air, than the one who was flight itself, to guide him back to freedom inside his own skin? Finarfin loved him enough to try, and trusted him enough, most days, to be fearsome and terrible in his company.

Finarfin swam until he was weary. They spent a long time resting, afterwards, The two of them sitting in the soft mud, Finarfin with water to his shoulders, scales gathering the light and reflecting it slyly. If not for the brightness of his hair, he might have passed camouflage among the reeds; and Eönwë drifted, swan-light and haughty, wings fluttering contently in the shade. 

When Eärwen came back, she had to take the long way around the flowering lawns to the secluded water gardens. 

At rest, Finarfin’s eyes slitted and altered, and caught the world in a spectrum of warmths and lights. 

Sun-lit, the silver of her hair shone like sea-spray. Her eyes, dark and bright as a swan's, caught his without embarrassment. When Eärwen looked at him, as upfront and considering as she had when they were children, and newly-wed, and near-enemies parted in grief, Finarfin almost forgot to be afraid of himself.

"Husband," the queen of the Noldor said. "What is this that I hear about your good robes being ripped to shreds in a fit of hateful violence against that old fellow?"

"In my defence," Finarfin said. "It is truly very hot." Anxiously, turned to sit in proper fashion and hide his scaled underbelly: "They are not truly saying so?"

"Not anymore," said Eärwen, in that easy way that had always charmed him terribly, and terrified most politicians into complacency. "And if you had it would not have been unreasonable. Hail, herald of the wind! Is there nothing that can be done for this weather?"

"Alas," Eönwë said dryly. "All things have their time, lady, even Arien's fiercest temper. No one has ever been able to tame them, and their effects are not mine to alter."

Eärwen tilted her chin. "Not even for us?"

Eönwë blinked his not-quite eyes very slowly. "You may join us if you wish."

"Cruel are the Ainur," Eärwen said disapprovingly, mirthful around the eyes.

Finarfin was very glad, truly, that his wife and his lover had grown quite at ease with each other, in their way; but there were a great many private conversations between them he was not privy too.

He was not certain he wished to be. It was enough that they stayed with him both, that Earwën hands stroked his ridged shoulders absent-mindedly when they did sleep in the same bed, as easy and comforting a touch as if he were still himself.

“I hope neither of you has eaten all the golden trouts. You know Artaresto loves them so.” 

Finarfin lifted his brows. "I am afraid you must champion them yourself, my lady. But first, have some pity - I have a need for an able pearl-diver.” 

Eärwen set aside her sandals and walked into the water without hesitation. Her skits caught on the water-lilies; graceful, her legs moved through the ripples with a natural ease that remained in her when she walked on land, but largely as a translated thing.

 Finarfin had not understood it, before - what it was like to be of two elements, a little pulled in both direction, at home in both and to both beholden. 

In the end, she helped him very little, and spent most of the evening braiding and rebraiding her hair and trying to cajole Eönwë into finding the pearls for him.

Finarfin barely minded. He lost his shame to the sound of the cicadas, and sunk under the dark waters again. In the evening they remained long after the stars rose, for Eärwen had brought bread, and fruit, and much political acumen to share, and time passed easily. Eönwë made himself crane, and goose, and swan-like again; and with swan-like malice rustled waves of water at them every once in a while, to make Eärwen raise songs of power over the water, and wrestly over claim of the lake as if Finarfin, its king, were not there. 

Finarfin, its king, was a small creature by then, winged and thaloned and sleeping on a sun-warmed rock. He gave up on his search, and forgot about all his tasks, for a little time, and had to be woken back into elvish shape before dawn.

Some of the pearls remained in the mulch. Orodreth's trouts stole and treasured them, and lined them up prettily, there down in the murk. Finarfin found them, sometimes, when he swam down, among the fishes and lizards and other amphibious things; he let them stay there, a small treasure only he knew of.

[eilinelsghost]

Fight With Thine Own Hand

Happy happy birthday, @that-angry-noldo! You are such a lovely, talented, kind, and caring person and it's been a delight getting to know you over this past year.

I hope the horrors of a completed Orodreth-and-Finarfin-have-the-worst-day-ever bring you some suffering joy(?) on this, your day of birth. ❤️

Apologies in advance for *gestures at everything below*

The laugh rumbled through Finarfin’s bones. He was only half-conscious, the room reeling about him with sickening fluidity, the reek burning his nostrils and stabbing along his throat, raw from the screams of battle and the torment of his journey across Anfauglith. His legs had given out amid the endless descent and at the last he had been dragged by his hair across the threshold and kicked to lie gasping and helpless in the open space before Morgoth’s seat.

And the Foe laughed.

“Your courtesy is somewhat lessoned since the blinding days of Tirion.” Morgoth’s voice drifted over the prostrate form at his feet and Finarfin shuddered at its familiarity. “Your brothers came to me willingly and I find I take offense that your approach is so marked by coercion.”

Finarfin fought to catch his breath. The air was acrid and smoke stung his eyes. But there was Tree Light—Tree Light! Amid the choking dark and terror, the mingled silver and gold touched his gaze for the first time since all he loved had broken beyond repair. Ai, Malinalda… Ninquelótë… His eyes watered from the brilliance, wept as memory rose and drowned him in its familiar despair. Rebellion, repentance, reparation, reconciliation, and yet he too fell now at the feet of Darkness. Airë Manwë, were none of them to escape it?

“It is a poor finish to collect the coward last of all, but I am satisfied. Each whelp of that petty king now accounted for. Each son of his brought down by my hand. It will suffice.”

His eyes had begun to acclimate to the fractured vision of the nethermost hall, impenetrable darkness mingled with unquenchable light. It was like seeing through the glass windows in the palace upon Túna where each was constructed from shards of shaped glass, and the new sun stabbed in fractal light through its facets. Everything image here was pieced together in shards.

There were wolves about the throne, beneath its looming bulk. And with naught but his own hands he slew the wolf who came… No, press down the thought. Memory would only weaken. Despair is what widens the cracks, hope is that which binds them together. Think rather on Tirion. Think on gold and silver, on Ingoldo and Litsemir bending together over the parchment in the library, gold and silver mingled in the light, and gold and silver mingled in their hair. 

Hope. Hold to hope and he would hold himself whole.

Silver glimmered amid the shadow beside the throne. A familiar silver. It ran like the water of Alqualondë’s harbors, there in the far years when those were yet an image of joy and not desperation. When they danced in the twilit brush of Telperion and Laurelin reaching out through the Calacirya, and Eärwen murmured their son’s hair was lit with the very image of that silver…

Litsemir.

Finarfin’s cry was a hoarse gasp as he tried to push up from the stones.

“Down, dog.”

Some force outside himself had control of his arms and they wrenched out from under him, the air knocked from his lungs once again as his chest and face rammed against the floor. Litsemir, Litsemir, Litsemir…His son’s name pounded through his senses. He was a phantom, surely a phantom. They had told him of Orodreth’s end, those few Nargothromdrim he had met in the Falas; the dragon had come and the host’s blood was scattered across Tumhalad in wreck irreparable, and Orodreth was lost. 

Ai, holy Valar, they had said lost, they had not said slain. His eyes dragged upward once again till he saw the face, half-shrouded in gloom but unmistakable. The slight features, his mother’s silver hair, the sharp slant of his ears which had ever been more pronounced than his siblings. Litsemir…Artaresto… How beautiful he was, even here in the clinging dark; half his face in shadow and half lit by the echo of that long lost light. It danced off of him even as it had when he ran through the valley around Tirion, a shy and quiet child brimming over with laughter. The joy in that face was silenced now, etched in the light as though of stone, too pale and too still.

“Söa, the guest cannot stand.”

There was a pause. Then his son was walking toward him, descending the dais with silent steps, and nearing, nearing…

Finarfin reached out to him with all his thought and at once an unbearable weight crushed his senses. It was pressing forward through a bog, every movement a grim wrench through the will bearing down about him, but he was close, he could feel the ripples about his son’s mind like the shimmer of sea water, he could nearly reach him. And then he touched a wall of ice. His thought flinched back in shock and he shuddered as Orodreth’s hands closed about his wrists and pulled him up from the ground with unexpected strength. The guards who stood yet at his sides took hold of his forearms and his son reached up to retrieve the shackles hanging loose in the air above him without ever looking at his face. 

“Litsemir,” Finarfin whispered as the iron locked about his flesh, “Onya…How has he hurt thee, Artaresto?”

The second shackle was fastened about his other wrist and he felt a rising horror through his senses as Orodreth still made no sign of recognition. “Onya! Yéta nin!” 

There, at last. The slight twinge along the jaw muscle, the little quiver that ever heralded the first signs of the storm. He was alive, he was here yet within the marble visage.

“Artaresto–” he began again, then broke off with a gasp as the chains drew suddenly taught and he was hauled to his feet, arms stretched painfully above his head.

“You have heard the story of your brother’s ruin, I am certain.” The voice rumbled again through the cracked light. The ever-burning gems lit swaths of the chamber about the throne, but some deep, tangible darkness hovered yet about the visage and Finarfin could see naught beyond the sharp edges of his crown. “So you will know that a crushed fly nevertheless may prove an irritant. Your brother died with a debt unpaid, Finwion.”

The shackles were cutting into the edges of his hands, and his feet scrabbled against stone in an attempt to hold his weight, but he had been lifted just high enough that he could gain little traction and no more than a margin of relief. Which brother, he wondered frantically, his reason spinning the possible scenarios. What would the Foe count in liability? There was movement in the shadows about him and he felt the hair prickle at the back of his neck.

“Seven debts,” the voice continued, “if we are to draw the contract clearly.”

Nolofinwë. His apprehension turned to panic as Elwing’s voice sprang from his memory, quiet and clear, recounting the roll of the dead, calling out their deeds in effigy. And he wounded Morgoth with seven wounds, and seven times Morgoth gave a cry of anguish.

“Litsemir,” Finarfin breathed as his son lingered before him, and he saw the shudder run through his frame. “Onya, do you hear me?”

Once more the hall rumbled with mirthless laughter and a pitch of mockery ran through the words. “Tell him your name, laman,[1] so that he may address you rightly.”

Orodreth hesitated and the shiver rippled across his jaw once more.

“Your name!” The intonation was a snarl now and Finarfin saw his son flinch at the sound.

“I am called Söa Ustation.”[2] The ghost of his child’s voice passed over him, cold and flat, fractured as all the room about him. And in that moment the eyes shifted up at last, blue as the heedless gems his mother once cast along the shores with her laughter, piercing and bright as sea spray, deadened now and glassy.

For the first time Finarfin saw the white lines tracing across his face, a lace-pattern of scarring, and he felt hot fury rising through every vein. Holy Manwë, the number of them…And then he saw that the other too was bound in iron. A band wound around the neck before him and the name he had spoken was etched in repetition about its circumference. Filth, the son of Usurper. An empty chain loop rested below the chin, a mockery of where a gemstone might lie, and its laden potential drew a choked strain of profanity from Finarfin’s lips.

“Söa, call out the debt that he might know it in full.”

There was hardly a hesitation this time before his son’s voice began again in rote recitation. One by one he listed the tally of seven wounds, but Finarfin hardly heard them. His eyes were bound to the threaded scars along the cheekbones, encircling the lips, the brows…Varda, there was not an inch without.

“One blow dealt to the thigh of the left leg, severing the muscle. One blow to the wrist of the sword arm.“

“Onya…” Finarfin pressed hard against his son’s thought, pleading against every edge and crevice he could find. Thou art named Artaresto son of Arafinwë, long-sought and beloved. Thou art named Litsemir son of Eärwen, sea’s jewel and song. The ice shuddered against his touch.

“One blow to the right leg below the knee.”

A slight crack had opened and it was with an effort that Finarfin held back from pouring all his love through it to force the breaking dam. Instead, he rested against the fracture, a hand hovering upon a lintel, and held out the memory of twilight, of his own voice drifting through the air amid the sea-brine and rolling surf, of an infant curled within his arms. The hair upon the tiny head was fine as corn silk and shimmering in the mirrored starlight. Hairanna palan-tírienwa, he had sung, endórellon aldarembinë… [3]

It was brittle now, the barricade between them. A fluttering thing forged of fear.

“One blow piercing beneath the eighth rib.”

Fanoiolossë, lyé liruvan han ëar, si han ëaron!

With a quiver of panic, the resistance gave way and Finarfin’s breath caught in a choke. The expanse before him was as splintered as the gloom about them, a trammeled corridor, flinching and terrified. 

“One blow hewing the left foot and rendering it lame.”

The gloom reared up as Orodreth’s voice trailed off into silence. Finarfin saw in the corner of his eye that an Orc captain had moved to stand beside them while the litany was recited. He was tall, a match for Finarfin’s stature, and his face was shaped still with lines of beauty. 

“Dutifully have you learned your lessons, laman.” Morgoth’s voice fell nearly to a breath and Finarfin had to strain to hear the words. But he saw Orodreth tense before him as it continued. “Now show them forth.”

The captain stepped forward and held out a knife, long and cruel, and Orodreth’s hand shook as he took the hilt in hand. 

Another memory reached through the tenuous brush of thought and Finarfin’s blood ran cold as the fragmented snatches reached him. A dark-haired Elf, vaguely familiar—Gaelon, captain—bound even as Finarfin was now, the same whispered voice of command, the same drowning panic, a hot iron clattering from Orodreth’s hand and his son’s voice sobbing I cannot, I cannot. Then in a burning rush he was struck with nausea, with terror and horror and a relentless barrage of images—the same Elf again, his body variously contorted and mutilated, alive still and screaming—

The memory broke apart as Orodreth stepped forward, and at last he looked up of his own will to meet his father’s eyes. Refuse, said the Foe’s voice in memory, and I shall decide instead what he undergoes.

“One blow dealt to the thigh of the left leg, severing the muscle.” Morgoth’s voice rumbled in the darkness and the knife shook as it hovered in the space between them.

And at once Finarfin’s fear settled into defiance. This, at least, this he could give. He had left his child in the dark of Araman—he had left all of them pressing onward through the clinging mists, every infant he cradled renounced with his retreating steps—but here he would hold him through every step in the darkness.

“One blow dealt to the thigh,” Finarfin echoed, holding his son’s eye, and through the same path he pressed the song once more, the lullaby encircling each precious fragment within its embrace.

A Elentári Tintallë, his spirit sang as the first strike passed through his flesh.

The melody shuddered with pain and his right arm tensed against the coming blow, tyelpë pendas mírilya…

…menelo alcar elerrimbë! He ground his teeth nearly to breaking as he fought back the threatening scream. The third strike landed.

Hairanna palan-tírienwa, he sang. His blood began to pool upon the floor. 

“One blow piercing beneath the eighth rib.”

…endórellon aldarembinë, Litsemir was weeping. Hold him fast.

Fanoiolossë, lyé liruvan, he sang as his breath faltered,

…han ëar, si han ëaron! The blade hewed through the bones of his foot and he could no longer hold back a cry as he collapsed against the shackles. He dangled, helpless as the blood ran down his limbs. He was dizzy. He could not hold.

“Atta!” The knife clattered to the ground and his son’s arms were about him, clinging and desperate. The chains cut into the wounded wrists, but at no angle could Orodreth lift him without worsening some other wound. 

“Back, Söa. The debt remains.”

“I have done all your bidding!” Orodreth staggered back at once despite the protest, his breath heaving in ragged gasps.

“There is one thing yet lacking,” the voice murmured, “and then this score is settled.”

“Please…” Litsemir whispered, but the captain stepped forward and held out a second tool—four curved spikes, splayed out from a short handle—and he sobbed as he took it within his palm. 

Then through the haze, Finarfin saw the Foe lean forward; and through the haze he saw the face pass at last into the light, scarred with deep trenches along each side—the signet seal of Manwë’s messenger.

Finarfin wrapped his thought about his son’s once more, cradling him close as though they walked again along the twilit sea walls, with the tiny face tucked and slumbering against his neck. Then he lifted his head and laughed into the shadow, and once more in the dark he began to sing—aloud now, his voice rasping out the melody of defiance.

“Come forth, O monstrous craven lord, And fight with thine own hand and sword. I wait thee here. Come! Show thy face!” [4]

Then the strike fell and he knew no more.

1. Laman: [Quenya] tame beast 2. Söa: [Quenya] filth; Ustation: [Quenya] misappropriate, supplant, usurp (the son of) 3. A Hymn to Elbereth, in the Tongue of Valinor 4. The Lay of Leithian, Canto XII, Fingolfin and Morgoth

All credit to @that-angry-noldo and @actual-bill-potts for spawning this au that somehow contains both Orodreth and Finarfin in Angband.

RIP, boys, you're their favorites and consequently they've sent you to literal hell.

[general-illyrin]

I may or may not have created a banner inspired by @melianinarda's beautiful Nargothrond moodboard and @that-angry-noldo's amazing fic focused on Finrod and family angst. This fic permanently altered my perception of Finrod, and the line featured in the banner has stuck with me ever since.

[zealouswerewolfcollector]

Writing Patterns: Final Lines

Thanks for tagging me in this @polutrope <3

Here are ten final lines from my latest ten fics.

None moves.

A Tale That Wasn't Right (2408 words, M, Finwe, Maedhros/Fingon)

2. But for now, he stays.

Purification (1160 words, E, Maedhros/Thingol)

3. Caranthir closed his eyes and took Finrod’s hand, and he did it gently.

White Daffodil (3993 words, T, Caranthir/Finrod)

4. “All is well,” he repeats.

To Evil End (2883 words, T, Maedhros/Fingon + other Feanorians)

5. Swaddled in the blaze of Maedhros's arms, buried under the firestorm of his body, encased in the molten metal of his fëa as Maedhros moves within him, Fingon is warm, Fingon is safe, Fingon is loved.

Kaleidoscope (1436 words, E, Fingon/Sons of Feanor)

6. Fingon sat by his side, his hand hovering over the dagger but never touching it.

Fingolfin and Maedhros speak to Fingon (1812 words, T, Fingolfin & Fingon, Maedhros & Fingon)

7. But if you wish to know me as I am now and for me to know you as you are, on the first day of each month, look for me at the grove at what was once the hour of Mingling.

Now a Quill, Now a Sword (11817 words, T, Maedhros/Fingon)

8. Maglor closed her eyes, and for the first time in what felt like forever, decided against escaping.

Lady Makalaurë Fëanáriel Dying of Poison, Late Second Age, Artist Unknown (8671 words, T, fem!Maglor/Wife)

9. Maedhros snorted and tossed the last bit of the apple into his mouth.

Cheerful Cannibalism Ficlet (247 words, Maedhros & Fingon)

10. Maitimo smirked at him, closed his eyes and kissed Káno.

Proxy (5912 wrods, E, Maedhros/Fingon, Maedhros/Maglor)

What do we observe? Well, first of all, I'm incredibly slow because I wrote only ten fics in almost two years. As for endings, I do like to end the fic abruptly, leaving some things undecided or uncertain. Especially in shorter fics. I do try to wrap up longer fics in a more definite way.

Anyway, tagging @melestasflight, @thescrapwitch, @ermingarden, @welcomingdisaster, @that-angry-noldo

[swanmaids]

sentences saturday

i've been tagged in a few of these (thank u @polutrope @curufiin @that-angry-noldo @hobbitwrangler @zealouswerewolfcollector) but i've only recently got something to share :') it's uhhh. not a happy fic. but i'm liking where it's going and i hope i can finish it

Her mistress wept - quietly, sniffling - during the dressing, but Calithil did not. She found that if she concentrated hard enough only on the task right ahead of her, then her sight might blur and her eyes might sting, but she would not cry. For some reason, it felt very important that she did not cry.  And so Calithil focussed on dressing Aerin for her wedding.

tagging @thelordofgifs @welcomingdisaster @elevenelvenswords @meadowlarkx @jouissants

[thescrapwitch]

Last Sentence/Tag Game

Thank you @dreamingthroughthenoise and @cycas for tagging me!

RULES: Post the last sentence you wrote (fanfic / original / anything) and tag as many people as there are words in the sentence.

I have like a dozen other fics I should be working on but "Maitimo meets and gets bullied by his future self" snuck into my brain (working title: Despair Like Poison) and now I can't escape it:

But the stranger only laughed. “Oh, yes, you’ll do such a good job at keeping your little brother safe. That’s what you believe, don’t you? No craft, no skills to make your name, but you can manage your siblings. Idiot child. You will fail him. You will fail all of them, but him most of all.”

That's a lot of words which means a lot of people to tag! No pressure of course: @searchingforserendipity25 @thelordofgifs @chthonion @arofili @aroace-moron @dovewifes @echo-bleu @camille-lachenille @sallysavestheday @nighttimepatrons @lordgrimwing @hhimring @gwaedhannen @starspray @starsuncounted @welcomingdisaster @that-angry-noldo @eilinelsghost @eirianerisdar @grey-gazania @swanhild @swanmaids @sweetteaanddragons @leucisticpuffin @cuarthol @emyn-arnens @tathrin @zealouswerewolfcollector @melestasflight @meadowlarkx @jouissants @polutrope @whovianofmidgard @the-elusive-soleil @tar-maitime @auntieaugury @outofangband @a-world-of-whimsy-5 @tilion-writes and whoever else wants to join!

[welcomingdisaster]

Welp, WIP Wednesday

i was tagged by @meadowlarkx to share a snippet of a WiP. as per usual i will self-indulgently post a whole-ass scene

If he’d been wiser, perhaps Canto Goldsmith would be rich. There are ways to grow capital that need only time, a steady accumulation of percentages and figures. You must have some starting sum, easily enough conjured by performance fees or artifact sales or his translation-work. He is not stupid; he could learn to manage his money, if he put his mind to it, and if he had done so he might by now, have the capital to raise up the streets on the lower East-side of Minas Tirith university into a place worth looking at, a place where children need not sleep shivering on dirty street corners, where windows are covered with good double-paned glass instead of hastily-nailed wooden boards, where there are shops and parks and flower-pots on the windowsills. 

  But he has not, until recently, seen any use in having money beyond material survival. His focus had been too inwards. He’d thought to be build nothing. 

So what is there now? 

What he does not need for his rent he gives away thoughtlessly, still, because he cannot stomach to save it even to good purpose. They know him and follow him, the dancing drunks, the street-children, the beaten stray dogs, and he cannot help but give whatever he carries. It has been so for some fifty or sixty years; those who noticed this fact spread stories of him, praise and fear in equal measure. Once, on a particularly cold night, he’d overheard voices beneath his window, two street urchins who had followed him through town debating if the vampire would let them sleep by his stove, if they knocked. 

He had. 

One of those girls ambushes him on his doorstep quite often, now. There is something of the old way in her manner, some pride absent in many of her peers. She wishes to trade, to sell, to bargain; she must be coaxed into gifts. 

Today she has brought him a porcelain figure, dinged and cracked in places. It small enough to fit easily in his hand; two little girls, sisters, one carrying flowers and one a lamb. The older of the two is fair-headed and tall; porcelain has chipped off on some part of her chin and all the fingers of her right hand. The younger is darker and more whole, looking up wide-eyed at the other girl. In one hand she carries a basket of lilies, in the other a horn, which she raises to her lips to blow on. 

Goldsmith runs scarred fingers over the smooth coat of the paint, then the cracks on the older girl’s face, rough and crumbling. They are bringing the lamb to slaughter, he thinks. 

“Beautiful,” he says, “I am not sure I could pay you what it is worth.” 

credit to @polutrope for maglor using the name "Goldsmith" in a modern context! I borrowed it for another fic and have not given it back. tagging @thelordofgifs @zealouswerewolfcollector @eilinelsghost @that-angry-noldo @outofangband @melestasflight @searchingforserendipity25 @sallysavestheday. join me in sharing a whole ass scene of your WiPs!

[melestasflight]

an illustration of my favorite scene from @that-angry-noldo's Flowers sprang beneath his marching feet

This beautiful fic and the main art will be live on @tolkienrsb reveals day, September 8, 2023.

Fic snippet below the cut.

Green grass now grew where Ñolofinwë’s son and his people were buried. Arakáno had always loved the colour of green; always loved trees, gardens, and flowers. Sometimes Ñolofinwë thought himself selfish: there were many dead, that dreadful day, many who have lost their parents and friends and lovers, many who were laid in the grave together with Arakáno; yet Ñolofinwë did not remember their faces, did not grieve them, did not mourn for them. Arakáno was the only one who mattered.   Ñolofinwë hoped there were flowers growing on his son’s grave. Wished, uselessly, that Findaráto had sung of field-flowers where Ñolofinwë himself could but weep silently.

From Flowers sprang beneath his marching feet

[runawaymun]

Favorite Fics

Tagged by @that-angry-noldo for this new game to make a poll of my favorite fics out of the ones that I have written to see which of those favorites are your guys' favorites. This looks so fun :D thank you for the tag!!!

I'm not sure who has already done this, but I'm tagging: @jaz-the-bard @niennawept @slightnettles @emyn-arnens and whomever else would like to do this!!

[thelordofgifs]

a fic where maglor (or elrond, or anybody else) manages to stop maedhros from jumping into a lava pit?

I’M SO SORRY THIS ISN’T WHAT YOU ASKED FOR. I DIDN’T FIX IT I MADE IT WORSE.

“If none can release us,” says Maglor, “then indeed the Everlasting Darkness shall be our lot, whether we keep our Oath or break it; but less evil shall we do in the breaking.”

Maedhros looks at him searchingly, and Maglor holds his breath. At last his brother says, “You are right.”

“And?” Maglor asks, not yet daring to smile.

Maedhros steps forward and rests his forehead against the top of Maglor’s head. “Very well,” he says quietly. “Let us surrender to Eönwë. We will go home.”

“Thank you,” Maglor breathes, tears of relief beginning to sting at his eyes, “thank you, thank you—” And he knows what he is asking of Maedhros, knows that it is selfish, knows that his brother is so, so tired: but still he is willing to do this, for Maglor’s sake, and that means everything—

He wakes up.

***

“Wait,” says Maglor, when they spy the guards outside the tent where the Silmarils are kept, “we can’t—”

“We have to,” Maedhros says, tonelessly. His sword is already drawn.

“Not like this,” Maglor says, “no more slaughter, Nelyo, please—”

But Maedhros cannot listen to him, he cannot see another path out, and so Maglor summons up all the power left to him and starts to sing a lullaby: and Maedhros, who after all is so tired, drops to the floor in a dead sleep.

He does not wake until Maglor has dragged him far away from where the host of the Valar are camped; and he is furious, but by then it is too late, and Maglor cannot bring himself to regret it—

He wakes up.

***

They are surrounded, the startled dismayed faces of Elves who knew them long ago encircling them, and Maedhros and Maglor’s swords are wet and bloody but that will not avail them against so many.

“Halt!” comes a clear voice, and the crowd parts before the Herald of Manwë. His shining, terrible face is hard to look at directly.

Maglor sees his chance.

He drops his sword, drops the box that holds the Silmarils, flings himself at the Maia’s feet. “We surrender!” he cries, in a voice that is yet strong and supple, although all other blessings are long fled. “We surrender to the justice of the Valar – we will answer for our crimes – only spare us now—”

He does not raise his head to see Eönwë’s expression, nor the contemptuous ones of the rest of the host, nor even Maedhros’ own: but despite the reckoning that is to come, something in his heart is easy now, for he has put himself, defenceless, at the Maia’s mercy, and hence bound Maedhros too, for Maedhros will not leave him—

He wakes up.

***

“I suppose,” says Maedhros, “we might at least look upon them now.”

They have run some distance from the camp; there will be nobody to chase them down when the light betrays them. Maglor opens the box.

It is empty.

Maedhros makes a choked sound.

“How strange,” Maglor says mildly, “there must have been a mix-up in all the confusion.”

“You!” says Maedhros, outraged: but he is laughing a little as he speaks. “I thought you collided with Elrond by mistake!”

“He’ll give them to Tyelpë,” says Maglor. “Elrond understands, Nelyo. And if Tyelpë holds them—”

“We’re free,” says Maedhros, and he does not sound as though he knows what to do with that. But he is here, and starting to smile, and his grey eyes are clearing as he looks out at ravaged Beleriand, his gaze skimming over the rents of fire in the earth—

He wakes up.

***

His hand is burning, burning, and he can barely think, and Maedhros is standing at the edge of the chasm, the unforgiving light of the Silmaril making clear the terrible despair on his face, and for once in his life Maglor cannot summon up the words—

“So!” he says at last, and just in time. “So Varda Elentári marks us unworthy! But even if she hallowed the jewels she did not make them, Nelyo, they are our father’s work, and the right to them will always be ours.”

“Do you really believe that, Káno?” Maedhros asks, dreadfully soft.

Maglor doesn’t. He knows what he is. But he was a mighty wordsmith once, and the son of the foremost loremaster of Tirion besides, and he knows how to turn arguments to his own end.

“We crossed the world to get away from their false idea of judgement,” he says firmly. “Why listen to it now? And – and – come away from the edge, Nelyo.”

“Yes,” says Maedhros, and then with more certainty, “yes—”

He wakes up.

***

Maedhros is wavering at the edge of the chasm, the Silmaril blazing in his hand, the fire licking up behind him. He is always blazing, this brilliant brother of his, and surely – surely – nothing could ever snuff him out.

“Nelyo,” says Maglor. “Nelyo, drop it. Please.”

His own Silmaril is lying on the ground at his feet. He has given up everything he has for it, accursed thing, and it will not take the last person he has left; it will not take Maedhros, he will not let it.

“They burned him too,” says Maedhros, voice dry and desolate. “Morgoth. I saw his hands. They were black and withered.”

His own hand is crumbling, now. Still he will not let the Silmaril go.

Maglor’s face is wet with tears. “You are not he,” he says; “you are not as bad as Morgoth, Nelyo.”

“I cannot have dealt out much less death than he,” Maedhros counters.

“But you are loved,” says Maglor, “even now – if you would only step away from the edge – I love you, Nelyo, please—”

Maedhros stares at him. Stands very still. Opens his charred and ruined fingers, at last, letting the Silmaril fall into the fire. Looks down as if there is nothing stopping him from following it.

“Nelyo,” says Maglor, and Maedhros looks back at him and takes a step forward and away from the fire and then another and another until he is crashing into Maglor’s waiting arms—

He wakes up.

***

His hand is burning and his soul is burning and Maedhros, standing at the edge of the chasm, is burning too; or perhaps he was always burning, the eldest son of the Spirit of Fire. It was always going to end like this, Maglor has always known it, and yet – because he is selfish, because a part of him still believes he can cheat the shape of his own narrative – he cannot quite accept it.

There is nothing left to him, now, no clever arguments or impassioned sincerity or cunning tricks; and his throat, like the rest of him, is burning, too much so to beg anymore. Is he already screaming? But Maedhros is still standing there, his form wavering like a mirage in the heat from the fire. There – there – gone.

Maglor is screaming now, unquestionably.

Perhaps, he tells himself, perhaps it is just a dream, like those he had, repeatedly, after Maedhros was rescued alive from Thangorodrim: and he digs his nails into the terrible burn on his hand, for surely the pain will ground him, and now, now he will wake up, he must wake up—

He never does.

[searchingforserendipity25]

finarfin, snow and trust (if you want!)

Thanks so much @that-angry-noldo! This was the prompt I didn't know I needed on the bus ride home.

-

Taniquetil froze the blood before it fell. 

Arafinwë considered the cut. A cold indifference filled him. He had thought it would be wrath, the course his heart would take for life at the sight of such a thing - it had been, once. But the heights of Valinor purified much. 

“Art wounded, King,” said the Emissary. Great diplomat that he was, wise beyond the wisdom of Eldalië, he knew well when it was right to state the obvious. 

“Tis nothing,” said Arafinwë. Hurt was no stranger to him. He had done himself worse injury, training in the long halls where he was king, down in fair and fretful Tírion. “Again.”

Eonwë's wings rustled. The false stillness of the sparring ring shuddered against itself. Outside its limits the snow danced madly, watching anxiously, eager. The wind howled, a single tuneful treble of a song. Manwë's wind, that saw all and in all sought harmony. 

Such was his alarm, that some snowdrift broke through. Arafinwë shivered; the cold but more than the pain, made him weak at the knees and tender about the teeth.

“Thou art hurt,” said Eonwë, the very voice of the wind, mighty enough to make itself gentle. “Allow it not to be so.”

 Arafinwë had bent his body and shaped his spirit to a goal so similar to the Valar's devotion to light, it was almost divine. The task he had chosen - demanded, in truth - took much from him, but nothing could be given if he was not willing to bleed for.

One had to be willing, and demanding, and true, if there was steel to be had in the name of trust, sentinels in the breezes that came bearing tiding from the East, a wise and beloved Emissary to be given to warwork for the use of the Children. Arafinwë's body was the least of the resources he meant to command, once the time came. He demanded much of it. 

 The snow fell upon the redness, gentle as a kiss.

Already the trust was true: it netted skin and tendon, fastened his wound nearly unblemished. Arafinwë had known it would be so.

It did not take long. He held out his hand and flexed his palms. Only a glimmer of frost remained to show the injury, and a sinking chill in his marrow up to the elbow. 

Arafinwë raised the spear again, weighted the perfection of its balance in his palm. He could bear to be gracious, had staked continents on his games of trust and gratitude. It was difficult to account for the high wind in the heights; his cheeks prickled with a warmth both unbidden and unwanted.

When he raised his head Eonwë was watching him, as always he did: even and patient, absorbed in the watching as if it were almost a pleasure. His eyes, that saw into spirit as if through a thin mist, were gentle indeed; and Arafinwë knew, then, that the trust was well-warranted, that Eonwë never would  mention the king’s tears, which were not due to the rending of the flesh. 

One trust begot the other. Such was politics, and the opening of the heart. Arafinwë was king; he had not the right to make a fine distinction.

 “That is better. Again,” he repeated, the thing that was not wrath howling beneath his every courtesy; and Eonwë raised his blade, obeying.

[eilinelsghost]

The Portrait of the Youngest Son of Finwë Ñoldoran

fic by @that-angry-noldo; art by @eilinelsghost

Rating: G Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Academic documents (but could be Finarfin & Finrod) Characters: Finrod, Finarfin, Original Female Character Word Count: 5.1k

"The Portrait of the Youngest Son of Finwë Noldoran" is a joint name for three separate documents, dating to various periods of history, two of which were recovered from the ruins of Nargothrond during F.A. 549 by the forces of King Gil-Galad Ereinion. Archived with an expressed permission of King of the Noldor in Aman Finarfin Finwion, seeing how the issues discussed are closely related to His Majesty's life and bloodline. All further research and references must be reviewed and agreed with the Head Archivist.

SO excited that the @tolkienrsb 2024 collection is now live and that you can all read @that-angry-noldo's incredible fic written to accompany my art submission to this year's gallery. I'm obsessed with how poignant and approachable it is, even in the academic style, and the framing device she chose for this piece is so SO clever. You're all in for a treat!

[general-illyrin]

I recently re-read (again XD) @that-angry-noldo's incredible fic about Finrod knowing he's being played by Celegorm & Curufin, but choosing to trust them! Afterwards, I began thinking about what sort of masks they would wear to the ball, and I figured Celegorm would wear something like a full-face wolf-shaped mask. But you just know Curufin would be audacious enough to wear a mask with gems reminiscent of the Silmarils in Finrod's halls.