#that-angry-noldo's AU

[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.

[polutrope]

finarfin deserves to direct some films!

also, if you want to talk about your au: how different is fëanor's relationship with his siblings? and how similar his and nerdanel's relationship is to canon?

I know right? It just suits him, somehow. I wanted him and Earwen to be, like, the cool parents who did what they wanted with their lives and stay out of the family drama.

And thank you for the opportunity to consider this question! For those just tuning in, Feanor was adopted by Finwe and Miriel when he was 2, but Miriel died almost immediately and he never knew her (or his biological parents).

He was 4 when Findis was born (5 for Fingolfin, 7 for Lalwen, 10 for Finarfin) so he definitely grew up with them (ambiguous in canon) and would have been raised as their brother. As the adopted child, he was envious of them and always felt inferior, but I think also being a human child and not an elf, he was content during his childhood to accept them as his siblings and they got along okay. It was in his teenage years that he really started to resent them (me versus them mentality) and then like canon he moved out as soon as he could and distanced himself.

His rivalry with Fingolfin as an adult is related more to their competing property development businesses (which I suppose corresponds to their canonical political rivalry). I think while Feanor was busy getting a PhD and starting a family, Fingolfin got ahead of him in this line of business and Feanor was largely motivated to start his out of lingering youthful resentment.

Like canon, Fingolfin is a better person has more respect for Feanor than Feanor has for him, but he's also not taking it lying down and not afraid to undermine him for the business.

Feanor doesn't threaten anyone at sword point, but maybe he sues Fingolfin's company lol.

As for his other siblings, he's more just distant than actively jealous of them. Which I think is pretty in-keeping with canon.

I thought about making Feanor and Nerdanel divorced but tbh they're my canon OTP and I like them together. So their dynamic is pretty much the same as pre-estrangement Silm: she is a tempering influence on him and they're an effective team. Maybe they'll get a divorce later 🥲.

[thelordofgifs]

Friday Fic Recs: Long WIP edition

I’ve been thinking a little bit about the (very arduous) process of writing longfic, and how much of a difference support and cheerleading can make on that particular journey; so, although it’s been a while since I’ve made a Friday rec list, I thought I’d put one together celebrating all the incredible in-progress longfics in the Tolkien fandom I’m keeping up with at the moment!

Atandil series by @eilinelsghost. Such a gorgeous graceful moving exploration of Finrod and his relationship with Men, and the slowest and most sensual of slow burns in his romance with Bëor. The amount this series has made me THINK – about love, and hope, and memory, and Taliska grammar – is off the charts, and to top it off it’s written in the loveliest most Tolkienesque prose.

we will make this place our home by @leucisticpuffin. Ohh this AU is just like a warm gentle hug after a long day. The “kidnap fam but make it a classic children’s novel” concept is so so inspired, all the characterisations are so nuanced and moving (Maglor my beloved!!) and the OCs will steal your heart.

And Love Grew by @polutrope. On the other end of the kidnap fam spectrum, this complex and careful examination of the time after the Third Kinslaying is SO brilliant. Incredible characterisations of all the key players, some truly fascinating OCs (Dornil!!) and of course beautiful graceful prose.

tongues of the sky series by @welcomingdisaster. The first fic in this series, seabird, was written for me and I can be SO obnoxious about this :) but also it’s a wonderful moving ultimately hopeful fix-it AU with note-perfect russingon and m&m dynamics. The sequel, sparrowhawk, is currently in progress and soooo good.

ashes, ashes, dust to dust — the devil’s after both of us by @that-angry-noldo. This is SUCH an original and fascinating take on an AU where Maedhros and Maglor take Finarfin captive to bargain for the Silmarils, featuring incredible character dynamics and a terrifyingly eldritch Eönwë.

and all his towers cast down by @actual-bill-potts. What if Finrod survived the events of the Leithian? Well, angst and trauma, to start off with. And also beautiful beautiful writing, impeccable characterisation and a Maglor-Lúthien teamup!! I adore this AU.

All That Glitters Gold Rush AU series by @allthatglittersisnotgoldrush. This one is LONG LONG LONG, but also SO worth it. Ever wanted to see the entire Silmarillion retold as a western, complete with a terribly tragic and complicated Maedhros, Morgoth the terrifying slave-owner, and a beautifully multicultural Doriath? The authors have you covered.

And the Stars Shine the Same series by @runawaymun. OC-centric fic is such a rare delight and this series set in early Third Age Rivendell is just wonderful, tender and complicated and with a truly incredible Elrond.

Retelling the Hobbit comic by @retellingthehobbit. Something a little different, but I binged all of this comic retelling of The Hobbit on a plane recently and GOD it’s so so beautiful. A truly gorgeous art style, and slowly converting me from a Bilbo/Thorin sceptic into an enjoyer!

In Heart by @tanoraqui. An AU where Fëanor takes the Doom of the Noldor as a what-not-to-do manual and ends up making better choices! Featuring incredible worldbuilding and fantastic characterisation.

Please add on the longfics you love in the reblogs! Let’s get some love going for these difficult beasts!

(Couple of incest recs under the cut.)

naught green upon the oak series by @welcomingdisaster. A CoH-inspired Maedhros/Maglor AU in which Maglor winds up with amnesia after his encounter with Glaurung. I’m SO insane about this series that I can’t be coherent but it is fantastic and chilling and devastating with the most beautiful prose aahhh.

Strange Currencies by @jouissants. Maedhros is re-embodied at last only to learn that he is married to Maglor: a touching and painful post-canon fic interleaved with incredible flashbacks to the First Age.

[thelien-art]

Werewold Finrod Wulf!

Inspired by @that-angry-noldo Finrod werewolf AU because I love it and everyone should check it out

[welcomingdisaster]

Six Sentences!

thank you for the tag @zealouswerewolfcollector! here are the last 6 sentences i wrote, from the silly little modern au i'm working on :)

Fingon scowls at him. “I can handle my feelings better than you can,” he says. “I’ll be fine.” 

“That’s just not true,” Maedhros says, and is thinking of some kind of really illuminating example of Fingon mishandling his feelings when Maglor interrupts. 

“We’re gonna talk about this while you’re clear-headed,” Maglor says, “then you’re gonna take your fucking meds and go the fuck to sleep. Otherwise the real murder suicide in this apartment is gonna be initiated by yours truly. Got me?” 

“Fine,” Fingon says resentfully, “fill me in.” 

... they, uh, make more sense in context?

i'll tag @theghostinthemargins @eilinelsghost @thescrapwitch @that-angry-noldo @meadowlarkx @searchingforserendipity25 and anyone else that wants!

[pearlescentpearl]

Rebirthed!Maedhros AU post 3

You know what time it is, folks, capping the last post again at 7 parts.

Part 15!

“What do you mean they’re blaming Uncle Arafinwë?” Russandol demands

Eyeing him tiredly, Findekáno notes the faint dark circles under his eyes, the delicate tremor in his hands, the way he flinched when he tried to hug his cousin

“They’re inconsolable, and seeking to rationalize a cause and effect,” he repeats, verbatim, what Nienna had solemnly explained to them. “The fire started on his and Aunt Eärwen’s ship. They’d never believe their own princess foolish enough to set a ship on fire, even by accident, and her children were raised as Teleri as they were Noldo. So,” Findekáno shrugs angrily

“So it must be the outsider husband’s fault,” Russandol finishes bitterly. “How do they figure that?”

Findekáno shrugs again, clenching his hands together. “The only area of the ship where fire is allowed is the kitchen.” Because Fëanárian Lamps handily replaced every candle, torch, and lantern they’d used on ships before, but Fëanáro hasn’t yet invented a fireless source of heat. “And since we Ñoldor hold that the men are the cooks...”

“I see.”

“Mind you, Olwë doesn’t believe this,” Findekáno says, dragging the conversation along in the hopes he won’t be subjected to yet another round of grieving, outraged tirade against the Teleri

He’s already sat through Aikanáro, Eldalótë, and Artanis’ reactions. Plus his parents’ reaction, Turukáno’s, his grandparents, and Fëanáro. He loves Russandol, but he’s not sitting through Fëanáro But Worse. He’s tired 

“But he’s also having difficulty believing it’s Melkor’s work. Not that we know it’s Melkor’s work, we only suspect. The Teleri are really used to being largely ignored by greater Valinor.”

“Who does believe it then?” Russandol says, evidently willing to set aside any outbursts in favor of focusing on the situation at hand, for which Findekáno loves him even more

“When I left Tirion, we still hadn’t heard back from Olwë on who started the rumors, just that his people were starting to mutter about it.”

Grandfather had been terrifying to behold, in his anger at the news. Even Fëanáro had been taken aback by the sight of his rock steady, indulgent parent so wrathful

Grandmother went silent. She wanted no one to disturb her while she embroidered the funeral shrouds for her youngest child and his two eldest sons

Findekáno isn’t foolish enough to think she isn’t just as angry

She’s just honing the blade of her temper 

“And you? How have you been holding up? You look awful.”

Russandol’s mouth twists. “I had a... protracted episode. A few days ago.” At Findekáno inquisitive look, he elaborates; “Wandered off into the deep Gardens and got stuck in my memories, for some reason. I don’t remember what set it off.”

“Ouch.”

“Yeah,” Russandol looks down. “Everything’s... off. I don’t know how to describe it.”

“You don’t have to, you just tell me what you need from me,” Findekáno says

Russandol shrugs a shoulder, but the twist of his mouth softens and some of the tension goes out of his jaw, so Findekáno will call it a victory

He needs all of them he can get these days

He’s not blind to the fact Melkor -- and they do believe it’s Melkor at work -- that the Vala went to Alqualondë in response to him trying to fortify Tirion against him

Aikanáro, now Head of the House of Arafinwë until his father or his brothers return, or Artaresto wants the headship when he’s full grown, had given him a long look when Findekáno, spurred by a deep well of guilt, tried to apologize

Findekáno told himself he wouldn’t let Melkor make him believe any evil thing the Vala did was his fault, and he holds to that

That doesn’t mean he can’t be sorry for others suffering

“Am I supposed to be blame you for protecting our people?” Aikanáro had said to him

“No, I just...” Findekáno didn’t know what he ‘just’

“We didn’t do enough,” Aikanáro said, swallowing hard. “We took the warning to Grandfather Olwë, and then we didn’t do anything. We didn’t even try to encourage him, or our uncles, to do anything. We just assumed Melkor would keep on ignoring the Teleri. After all, wasn’t that why Grandfather Finwë bade us evacuate there? But we are none us safe until we all band together and deal with the threat.”

And then Aikanáro lost the battle of wills against his tears and crawled into Findekáno’s arms until he felt strong enough to face the world again

“They’ll be alright in Mandos, won’t they?” He’d whispered

“They’ll be just fine,” Findekáno promised, kissing the crown of his spiky hair. “They‘ll be back before you know it.”

“Think they’ll back as quick as you were?” Aikanáro asked, so hopeful that he could only agree 

There is no earthly way Findekáno can explain that it wasn’t so much that he re-embodied quickly because he healed quickly, so much as he bolted past Námo’s legs like a cat spotting a cracked open door at the nearest opportunity with his dignity intact, so he doesn’t

“You do enough,” Russandol says, breaking Findekáno out of his reverie. “You’re doing far more than I can, really.”

“Hey, no, don’t do that to yourself,” Findekáno protests. “If it weren’t for you, we wouldn’t even know to be on our guards. Melkor would have caught us with our pants down--”

Russandol abruptly blanches gray, eyes wild

“Russo?” Findekáno says sharply, half lurching to his feet

Russandol clenches his eyes shut, swallows hard, and takes deep breaths through his nose. “Just a memory. From Mísrilya. It’s all--” he gestures curtly to his temple, “a bit raw, right now. Too close to the surface.”

“Do you want to--”

“No.”

“--switch to a lighter topic?” Findekáno pivots smoothly. “In fact, I insist. I came all this way to visit you. What kind of projects do have going? Are you still into woodworking? Or did you pick up any new hobbies lately? You were telling me all about how interesting the wickerwork is here just last month.”

A content Russandol is a Russandol that hops between hobbies the way bees hop between flowers; with utter abandon 

He’ll throw himself into his present joy all the way to journeyman status, accumulate a storeroom’s worth of finished projects to foist on all his friends (mostly Findekáno. it’s mostly Findekáno), then gets bored, picks a new joy, cycle repeat

His parents treat this apparent restlessness with endless indulgence, but it drives his brothers who have committed themselves to their crafts up the walls and all the way across the ceiling

Haltingly, Russandol went with the subject change, describing the paneled divider he was carving out to liven up his living space

Findekáno is gratified when he eventually stops looking like he’s going to be violently ill

“So many of the birds snatch up the wood shavings for their nests, I barely have to sweep,” Russandol jokes half-heartedly

“One less thing to worry about!” Findekáno says, injecting as much cheer as he can muster

“Yes, but I’d hoped to use those shavings!” 

“So do the birds!”

[thescrapwitch]

Multiple Sentence Monday

Thank you @thelordofgifs for tagging me! Here's a snippet from Love Beyond Reason, the second fic in my Terrible Decisions series (aka "Celebrimbor and Annatar time travel to the First Age after their deaths and decide to restart their relationship and change history AU")

Celebrimbor’s mind was a marvel. Even now, as he attempted to make sense of the challenges before them, Annatar could not help but admire it. He’d pinned a large sheet of paper to his wall, scribbling a rough web of various future events on it and connecting those events with a long piece of red string. Perhaps not the most efficient or expected way of organizing things, but certainly fascinating. 

“Right.” Celebrimbor stepped back so that Annatar could have a better view of the paper. “I think I’ve assembled all the known information. Am I missing anything?”

“Not that I can see,” said Annatar.

“Good. Firstly, our doom. This,” Celebrimbor ran a finger down one part of the red string, “is what happened in our previous lives. Beren arrived in Nargothrond, my father and uncle betrayed Finrod, you killed Finrod - ”

“ - technically, a werewolf killed Finrod - ”

“ - I disowned my family, Luthien was kidnapped by my family, Huan helped her escape, they defeated you and then went on to steal a Silmaril from Morgoth and live happily ever after.” 

“A fine summary,” said Annatar. He did not miss the way Celebrimbor had deliberately avoided mentioning anything that happened afterwards. Better to focus on one cluster of problems at a time. “We cannot change the future if we do not know what parts need to be altered and what we wish to keep the same.”

“Exactly. Which brings us here.” Celebrimbor moved to another part of the sheet, pencil ready in his hands. Here, the paper had been left blank. “Possible options in order to prevent our approaching doom. I am open to any suggestions.”

“The two of us could leave and start anew somewhere else. These problems do not need to be ours to deal with, afterall.”

“I am open to any other suggestions.”

Tagging: @searchingforserendipity25 @sallysavestheday @tilion-writes @that-angry-noldo @chthonion @polutrope and @leucisticpuffin No pressure of course!

[voidartisan]

WIP Wednesday

Got tagged to share a scene by @that-angry-noldo and it is still wednesday in my timezone for another forty minutes, sooo

have some rough draft no-order-66 au because it's rotting my brain

“So,” Rex began, “How are you holding up these days?” “Fine,” Ahsoka replied. And she thought she meant it. She was mostly doing fine, just…taking a break. Why everyone was so obsessed with her getting out and about again, she’d never understand. Sure, being out here with her friends felt good, but that was because she was here with Rex, having fun. No pressure from a master (as long as she avoided Obi-Wan well enough, that is), no assignments, no objectives, just…relaxing. “Bantha spit,” Rex said casually. Ahsoka whipped her head around to gape at him. “Excuse me?!” “Bantha spit,” Rex repeated, turning away from his people-watching to meet her eyes. “I’m calling you on it.” He began ticking things off on his fingers. “You stopped responding to my messages, you haven’t looked General Kenobi in the eye even once—” “Master Kenobi.” Obi-Wan was no longer a general any more than she was a commander, or Rex was a captain. Now there was a weird thought. “Fine. You haven’t looked Master Kenobi in the eye even once this whole time, you are incredibly pale, and you haven’t called Master Koon in weeks.” Ahsoka winced at that one. “He’s very sad about that, by the way.” “Are you trying to guilt trip me?” she accused. Rex didn’t even blink. “Yes.”

i, once again, am unsure of who has ongoing projects rn. so, if you see this and have a WIP to share. consider yourself tagged. i am tagging you. right now

[grey-gazania]

Fic Trope Ranking

Tagged by the lovely @emyn-arnens

The only classic AU I really enjoy is vampires, but alas, that wasn't one of the available options.

Link to game is here.

Tagging @tirion-picture-gallery, @thescrapwitch, @that-angry-noldo, @vidumavi, @melestasflight, @cuarthol, @swanhild, @leucisticpuffin, @polutrope, @welcomingdisaster, @swanmaids, @sallysavestheday, @angelica-ramses, @zealouswerewolfcollector, @thelordofgifs, @lucifers-cuvette, @hhimring, @pixieinthesky, @elfscribe, and anyone else who wants to do it!

[general-illyrin]

This is a playlist I created for Finarfin and Eönwë's queerplatonic relationship, inspired by @that-angry-noldo's absolutely incredible fics of them!

The first song, "Eight", shows Finarfin's character, the second song, "Two", shows Eönwë's character, and the rest of the songs characterize their relationship without focusing specifically on one or the other. (That said, "Save You" was directly inspired by Noldo's AU in which Finarfin is captured by Morgoth, though the song can also show Finarfin's feelings for Eönwë. And some of the songs are more Eönwë or Finarfin coded just because of their personalities, though the songs work for both.)

I also submitted this to Scribbles & Drabbles, hosted by @fall-for-tolkien!

[actual-bill-potts]

5 and six!

thank you!! (for this ask game)

5. Recommend three (or more) blogs to follow

@curuwen - is writing THE definitive post-thangorodrim fic (for me anyway) and always writes the most insanely detailed and well-thought-out meta. She's like. a god. it's insane

@eilinelsghost - THE finrod/balan shipper. incredibly good takes, gorgeous art, beautiful writing, really funny, and extremely kind, what more could you ask for

@that-angry-noldo incredible writer, correct opinions, always commits to the bit. ultimate Finarfin writer and origin of at least 90% of good Finarfin/Eönwë fic and Teleri takes <3 <3

@thelordofgifs writer of the fairest stars, an absolutely brilliant au which you MUST read if you haven't already. maglor apologist in a good way. writer of simply the best maedhros&maglor fic out there (in the breaking).

@outofangband - legendary worldbuilder, always fantastic Maedhros takes, and just extremely kind.

@chthonion - do i even need to elaborate on this one? author of Anastasis and The Harrowing. extremely funny. great frodo takes. posts that make me laugh AND cry for 100.

6. Ship or platonic relationship that you got into because of the fans

answered here! to be honest my typical MO in this fandom is to become wildly invested in some relationship that nobody else cares about and then dragging some of my beloved mutuals down with me. but @curuwen did get me insanely invested in the dynamic between Fingolfin and Maedhros so there's that!

[thelordofgifs]

Tagged by @welcomingdisaster and @that-angry-noldo ty!!

THE RULES: Make a poll with the titles of all your current WIPs. For whichever one wins, write 300 words and share a snippet if you want.

Tagging @thescrapwitch, @sallysavestheday, @polutrope, @melestasflight, @tanoraqui and anyone else who’d like to join!

[sadlybeans]

Náro

prince of the noldor, certified chaos incarnate

I am 🎶 way too lazy 🎶 to draw detailed things 🎶 so I just drew this 🎶 in a comic style 🎶

✨ Headcanons ✨

Suffers from chronic baby face. Is often mistaken to be Curvo or Tyelpe by people who don’t know him.

Short hair. Convenient for working in the forges, excellent defence against rowdy children.

Brown skin like Finwë, but looks like a miniature of Míriel.

S h o r t

(Y’know, the average noldo is about a head shorter than Nelyo -commonly used as a measure unit. Well, Náro is the height of an average sinda, which makes him about two heads shorter)

(I cannot emphasise enough how short he is. The only person in the family of his height is Káno)

Hates (wearing) jewellery. Will not use earrings, rings, bracelets or necklaces, but can be convinced to wear a circlet.

✨some more headcanons that have nothing to do with his appearance✨ that are also placed in my personal AU and therefore might be conflicting with canon but i don’t care because i’ve run out of fucks to give, it’s eight am and i haven’t slept in twelve hours

Speaks tons of languages. Will use all of them at once when excited or angry (Nerdanel is never amused by this).

Cannot be trusted to write formal letters and documents. Partially because of the above fact, but mostly because he is the equivalent of a kinder aged child and should not be given important stuff.

Discipline the children? HA. No, he’s sitting down in the corner with them because he’s an enabler and could never say no to a cute pouty face.

Helicopter parent.

Actually allows the kids to socialise with their cousins. What do you mean? Of course he isn’t doing it to have his gaggle of little monsters corrupt Ñolvo and Arvo’s well behaved kids, why would he do that.

Cried for a week straight when he found out Káno was making heart eyes at Findo.

Then he spent a fortnight locked up in his forge and came back with a set of two identical daggers he gave Káno without explanation.

Constantly asks Tyelpe to spy on Nelyo and Finno because goddammit he wants more grandchildren.

Gets drunk easily.

He’s the type of drunk who cries for everything.

He will also constantly ask for Nerdanel like an excited puppy.

Overgrown cat behaviour. And no, he does this sober.

Extended family dinners with half siblings? Will -naturally- push Ñolvo’s cup/utensils to the floor ‘by accident’. Blackmailed by Finwë to stay in Arvo’s house overnight? Slams doors, pushes furniture around, drops shit on the floor. In the middle of the night of course.

Takes the slightest casual comment about a new craft/art that someone is doing as a challenge to do it bigger and better.

Nerdanel can’t sew for shit. Náro embroiders cute little details in the boys’ clothing.

Can’t paint or draw for shit. His sketches and plans for his work are incomprehensible and look like they were drawn by a toddler with Parkinson’s desease. Only the Valar know how the fuck he manages to create exquisite beauty out of that.

Handwriting is damn illegible. He can actually manage something presentable if necessary but he rarely gives enough fucks to do that.

Ambidextrous but instead of being proficient writing with both hands he can’t write with either.

ok i’m tired so i may write more later

wait one more

HE LOVES HIS WIFE AND CHILDREN. that’s it thanks

[welcomingdisaster]

thank you for the tag!! i was gonna pass on this one because i did this recently, and then i realized i could do a fun spin on it. :)

RULES: post descriptions of your WIPs in a poll. For whichever one wins, write 8 sentences.

tagging!! @theghostinthemargins @searchingforserendipity25 @meadowlarkx @jouissants @that-angry-noldo @outofangband @eilinelsghost @polutrope & anyone else who wishes to or hasn't done this yet!

[gwaedhannen]

Bunch of WIPs today!

We Still Remember by 7Angel_Tongue7 (T, NAWA, Gen & M/M, 19.7k+; Frodo/Sam, Gildor, Finrod, Elrond, Celebrian, Gandalf, Galadriel)

Sam sails for Valinor after Rosie's death, looking to come to terms with his feelings for his long-gone friend who awaits him. Meanwhile, said friend makes new friends and finds out that grief yet remains in paradise (but Gandalf has Plans for that...). Gildor's along for the ride.

Then Sam went round once more, kissing and hugging, and, at last, kissed Elanor on the brow. “I love you,” he said. “We’ll meet again.” She nodded, gravely. “We’ll meet again,” she said. It was hard, saying those words. No-one knew what happened to hobbits, after. There was even less certainty for them than for Men, among the Wise. But one way or another, Sam was going. And there was no more reason for delay. He nodded, and turned quickly, walking up the lane to the winding path that went up to the White Towers. At the top of the hill, he turned, looking back. Elanor, Fastred, Firiel and Elfstan were still there, watching him. He waved and smiled. Then he went on. This time, he did not look back.

They Who Were the Greatest Among the Elves by Praisetotheunknown (G, CNTW, Gen, 10.4k+; Feanor & Luthien, Miriel/Finwe/Indis, Thingol/Melian, Rumil)

Fun AU where the Tatyar stay a while longer with Olwë's folk looking for Elwë, and little Fayanáro finds a strange friend in the woods.

Fayanáro feels something snap in the air realises that it isn't poison, but her. 'You did something, didn't you?' He shouts. He is, grudgingly, impressed — he doesn't know anyone who can do that, or sing this well. But he is angry more than anything else. 'You didn't know when and how to shut up,' she replies glibly, humming a little tune under her breath before sitting down cross-legged underneath her tree. 'What's your name?' 'Tell me yours first,' he snaps back, walking towards her tree and throwing himself down opposite her. 'After all, you're not the one who was mysteriously shoved into a thornbush and forcefully silenced.' She only grins, as if she doesn't mind telling in the slightest. 'Lótyendë,' she says. 'Do you live here? I don't think I've seen you before. Really, I haven't seen anyone but the birds before. Oh, and your name?' He wonders whether to lie, just out of spite, and decides that it isn't worth the effort. 'It's Fayanáro, and I don't live here. Clearly no one does, if it's only the birds that have kept you company.' How does she live all alone? he wonders. Perhaps she does whatever she did to me to her prey. It occurs to him quite suddenly that if this is the case, then she might eat him. He shakes his head, and decides that she must be lying, and that she lives on the other side of the encampent from him, where he hasn't really gone. 'You can stay, you know,' says Lótyendë. 'I don't get people around here, ever. Where are you from?'

ashes, ashes, dust to dust — the devil's after both of us by @that-angry-noldo (T, NAWA, Multi, 17.8k+; Finarfin/Eönwë, Maedhos, Maglor)

In which the last sons of Feanor decide kidnapping their uncle and demanding the Silmarils as ransom is a good idea. Nobody is having a fun time. Excellent character study of some very traumatized boys after the horrors of the First Age.

Eönwë, he tried desperately, meeting nothing but darkness around his mind. It was useless, he knew. Still, some foolish hope in him— It could not be true, he decided. All of this was but a feverish dream; soon he will wake up, and Eönwë's mind will wrap around his own in greeting, and he will feel the steady pulse of the camp, and will finally convince Eönwë to throw the Jewels into the nearest lava crevice, so he never has to see their light again, never has to— He stopped, took a deep breath, and forced himself to remain grounded. He stared, blankly, at where his nephews just sat. They changed much since when they were children, running and laughing in the light of Laurelin. He has not seen any of the brothers during the War. He knew, of course, who lurks in the forests, killing clean any foe who escapes the hands of Finarfin's people; knew his nephews are there, knew they fought. But he never saw them. No one did, though many wished to. Finarfin knew a lot of those who wanted to put their blade through a Fëanorian throat just as strong as they wished to see Morgoth defeated and destroyed; but during a war, any ally was the price of gold—so Finarfin was satisfied by the knowledge of Fëanorian powers guarding their backs, without pushing for further communication. Now, in Maedhros's cold eyes and Maglor's quiet voice, Finarfin understood exactly why the word "kinslayer" was to be uttered with such a hatred. I remember them playing together, he thought desperately, I remember Findaráto singing while Makalaurë strummed his harp, I remember Maitimo watching after them while the adults were in the dining room, I remember— But Finrod was dead, and Maglor and Maedhros were not the same, covered in the blood of their own kin head to toe, their Oath—their Oath! was it ever not about the Oath? Was it ever not about Fëanor, whose spirit kept haunting everything from outside its grave?

The Children of Other Stars by WoodDragonfly (M, CNTW, 6k+; Brandir the lame, Niënor Níniel, Túrin Turambar)

Brandir, Niënor, and Túrin wake up after their deaths in a strange snowy forest, get attacked by an ice monster, and are extremely confused at their continued existence plus everything else. An ASoIaF crossover that looks to be very promising. Excellent characterization of all three mains.

But I am dead, much less do I want to live, so why am I fleeing?, she asked herself, instinct, however, continued to push her to an almost unconscious run, until finally she stumbled and fell, sinking into a snowdrift. She was afraid to move and did not know how long she lay like that, until she felt a strong hand on the shoulder, which lifted her up and pulled with itself against a thick trunk of an oak. Nienor wanted to scream in terror, realised, however, that the hand was... warm. "Calm down, Níniel," a soft voice spoke out of the darkness. "Even if this place is far from the Halls of Mandos, you die not twice." Nienor's heart leapt in joy. Brandir! It was Brandir's voice, and she strained her gaze to discern the contours of his face in the tree's black shadow. He was as frightened and stunned as she was, yet his gaze was still soothing. Are you sure, wise brother?, her eyes answered. She clung to the oak's bark as the white figure stood nearby, lighting up the little woodland glade as if a star had suddenly fallen. But he is not a brother of mine... Turambar is... Túrin... "Túrin!" Brandir's whisper followed her thought like an echo as he glanced cautiously from behind the tree. Nienor looked as well. She could not make out a face under the hood of the elven cloak, but she saw a sword she would recognise anywhere, a glowing black blade that now seemed to burn like a torch. The Black Sword, that was both my brother and husband.

Happy Friday, Fellowship! 💛

Fic recs are the best way to help promote someone else’s works! Find some of your favorite fics, they could be WIPs, completed, old, new, whatever you want to share, and rec at least (1) of them for us and your followers to see! Who knows, it might just be the fic someone out there is looking for!

Bonus: tag the author (if possible) and share with us why you are recommending this fic!

[voidartisan]

got invited indirectly by @that-angry-noldo

so. here goes

most hits: come by it honestly, some disaster linage fluff+angst. the product of my obi-wan & ahsoka brainrot. i actually like this one a lot

most kudos/most bookmarks: to catch a tooka. i had to completely rewrite this one bc the initial plot was. not great. evidently it turned out well!

most comments: actually not a star wars fic! it's in the ranks of death you will find him, which is a silmarillion fic (for those not familiar or who didn't read through my blog description/pinned post, i have a tolkien sideblog and dabble in fic writing for that fandom)

most words: and we don't notice any time pass, my multichapter tcw modern au that is kind of serving as my lab for experimenting w/longer formats and figuring out long-form writing before i go on to some other multichap fics i have vague plans for. (this one is set to update soon btw...)

least words: i owe it to my brothers, an anthology of anakin and obi-wan stories that currently consists of one (1) small missing scene from tpm. i've got another few chapters sitting in my drafts for it that need major editing

i honestly don't know who to tag, so anyone who wants to is invited :]