#the first half of twin-galad did this

[elswing]

i hate posting discourse it's pointless and doesn't do anything for me except prolong my annoyance but i'm Tired™ and feel like shouting into the void. apologies to my beautiful feanorian mutuals please look away i love u

i neeeeeeed everyone to stop claiming they like elwing if their characterisation of her is completely made-up biased bullshit that paints her as an immature and disdained ruler (?????) who couldn't balance her responsibilities with the husband she married too young (at 22. practically a child bride honestly) and the children she never wanted (where. where does it say this). she's clearly such a bad mother that she abandoned them at first opportunity (she knew the feanorians were more than capable of killing a pair of twin boys because they literally already did that. that's very much a thing that already happened. to her brothers) and it was her selfish nature that made her soooo eager to flee (she had no reason to think ulmo would save her it was literally a suicide attempt. she wanted to make sure the deaths of her people and presumed deaths of her sons weren't in vain by ensuring they never obtained the silmaril)

like i'm gonna touch your hand as i say this. it's okay if you hate her! just don't pretend that you weren't thriving in the 2016 era of silm fandom where everyone pushed all their male fave's negative traits onto any other woman in a 5 mile radius to grab Poor Little Meow Meow status for war criminal #1 #2 and #3 to then turn around and spout the exact same (factually untrue) sexist rhetoric concealed under seven layers of buzzwords just because it's the year of "unlikable and complicated female characters" like buddy who are we talking about here. have you perhaps considered making an oc?

and i'm NOT saying i want the whole fandom to mimic my exact opinions and thoughts about elwing i realise that one of the best parts of the silm is how divisive it is and how you have so much wiggle room to come to your own interpretations because of how VAGUE the source material is but i'm genuinely convinced everyone's just parroting shit they saw in ao3 fanfics where maglor is secretly lindir and the premise is elrond sneaking him into valinor and elwing yells at him for slaughtering her people. TWICE. and this is framed as a category 5 Woman Moment so elrond disowns her and calls maglor his real dad

(eärendil misses this entire ordeal because he went on a voyage to save the world that one time and no one's let him live it down since because the whole fandom as a collective decided he did this because he's a terrible dad and not because the whole continent was at war and about to be wiped out and maybe he came to the unfortunate but reasonable conclusion that leaving is the best thing he could do for his family if it meant there was a chance his sons could grow up safe in a world that wasn't ruled by Fucking Satan so now his whole Beloved Sacrificial Lion: The Thin Line Between Doomed and Prophesized Hero™ shtick is tossed out in favour of.... *checks notes* Guy Who Forgot To Pay Child Support? oh and they're a lot louder about this because he's a man so no one can call it misogyny that's why no one ever goes the #girlflop #ILoveMyBlorbosNastyAndComplicated route with him and he gets dubbed as that one asshole who just wanted fame and glory even though that goes against the general themes for tolkien's hero characters. and tolkien loved that dude to bits that was his specialist little guy so you can't seriously tell me you think that's what he was trying to portray???????? is that seriously what you think he was trying to portray????????? babe????????????

also there's a BIG difference when it's a character that's only named in one draft and doesn't exist in the rest or gil-galad who has like three and a half possible fathers but ELWING??????? the only possible way you could be coming to these conclusions is if you read the damn book with your eyes closed. FUCK.

[thelordofgifs]

For the prompt thing, number 24 on the Silmarils list; choked with weeds and slime? IDK seems like a line you could do something interesting with.

Another one I’m answering a year late, but have some War of Wrath-era Elros and Elrond growing slowly apart! Thank you for the prompt 💕

“Just a little further,” Elrond says confidently, raising his torch. It does very little to illuminate the dank forest path ahead of them, but he does not seem deterred. “We’ll know it when we feel it.”

“Elrond,” Elros says quietly, trailing after him. He is not used to this position – not used to being the one to doubt. For so much of their lives it has been the other way around, has Elrond followed Elros charging head-first into wherever his will led them.

“You remember,” Elrond insists. “Naneth told us that the air inside Melian’s Girdle was cleaner and purer than any she had ever breathed since.”

Elros inhales, takes in the stench of rot and decay that clogs the forest, and thinks with longing of the clean salt air of the Sea. “The Girdle was fallen almost before Naneth was born,” he says. “It is not here, Elrond.”

“The forest will remember it, even so,” Elrond says. “Doriath was once the most blessed realm in Beleriand – and we its last heirs! It will remember us.”

Too often these days, in Elros’ view, does Elrond’s talk turn towards the power of memory. It makes him uneasy: he does not like to feel the edges of a rift between them, to understand so little the drift of his brother’s thought. Perhaps it is the knowledge of burned Sirion, and all that was lost with it, that haunts Elrond now – or perhaps the long shadow of Amon Ereb, that mausoleum in which they came of age, where the sons of Fëanor mourned the lost days of their glory, and Maglor’s every lullaby was half a dirge.

Beleriand was splendid once, it is true – but the land is breaking now, and the interminable war drawing into its final act, and Elros is more concerned with building something from the ashes than weeping for what was burned. But he does not know how to say this to Elrond, who is still leading him towards the forest’s heart, where Menegroth once flourished.

“Do you even know how to enter the city?” he asks instead. The path, choked with weeds and slime, clings unpleasantly to his feet and makes a squelching sound with every step. “The hidden entrance may now be lost.”

“Not lost,” Elrond murmurs, his voice losing a little of its bravado. “Perhaps it has forgotten itself – but we can call it back.”

“And how long will that take?” Elros argues. “Elrond, my men are waiting for me. I have not the time for a fool’s errand.”

Elrond turns back to look at him for the first time. For a moment Elros is oddly glad of that, that he might still capture his brother’s attention with a sharp word: but the thought is almost immediately followed by a hot flash of shame, for hurt flickers briefly in Elrond’s eyes. It is the sort of thing Maedhros used to do, in his worst moods – goad and goad until at last Maglor gave him some reaction, often too imperceptible for the twins to see. Elros does not want to be like Maedhros. Does not want to think of Maedhros, wants to shake off all the clinging ghosts of his childhood and look now to the world ahead.

But: “It ought not take long,” is all Elrond says, mildly.

They walk in silence, Elros breathing through his nose. He thinks again of the Edain under his command, whom he left waiting at their new outpost a little south of the forest. It has been long enough since he and Elrond last went away on an adventure of their own, for Gil-galad cannot often spare his brother from his duties, and Elros too is a commander in his own right. Besides, he did not think his men would understand their object: most of them have grandparents too young to remember Doriath before its fall. Still he does not like to abandon them, does not want them to think him just another elvish princeling, a stranger to mortal troubles and mortal woes.

But nor could he have let Elrond set out on this quest alone.

In the silence Elrond begins to sing a canto of the Lay of Leithian, of Lúthien dancing in the forest glades to Daeron’s music. Elros joins him, for their voices yet ring stronger together than apart – but he can put little conviction behind the song. The forest that his foremother loved is dead now, and so is she – they cannot resurrect her with their poems and their songs, necromancy dressed up as memorials, she is fled where they cannot reach her. Elros wonders if she was glad to do it.

Elrond’s eyes keep flitting between the dark, foreboding tree-trunks, as though he cannot quite understand why they do not become green and fair again under the influence of his song. At last he stops singing, a little frustrated now. “I cannot find a way,” he says, “it is all dark and rotten.”

“Well, there have been all manner of foul creatures crawling through these forests since Doriath fell,” Elros says sensibly. “I would be surprised were it not polluted.” 

“Why will it not cleanse itself?” Elrond says, his voice barely above a whisper. “Why will it not remember how it used to be?”

Every two years or so Elrond will come to Elros with a plan to reach out to Maglor and his brother, and bring them before Gil-galad to face justice and redemption. Each time Elros tries to make him understand how impossible the idea is – and it works, for a year or two. 

He is not accustomed to thinking of his brother as childish – not accustomed to feeling so very old as he does right now, seeing the stunned bewildered hurt on Elrond’s face.

“It is tired, Elrond,” he says. “Let it sleep.”

For a moment Elrond’s face crumples, and Elros thinks he must weep; then he says, quite calmly and cheerfully, “Well then, we had best be getting you back to your men,” and sets his course for the forest’s southern border.

The victory feels hollow, to Elros: but then, they all do. 

[polutrope]

The world bent and, like Beleriand before it, Elenna was no more. But as a stone cast in a still pool sets a bright autumn leaf sailing to its hoary edges, the ships of the Faithful rode the wake of their kingdom’s downfall to the shores of Middle-earth. 

Elendil and his sons observed no period of mourning, left no empty space in which to contemplate their loss: almost at once they set footprints of great cities atop the villages of Eriador. Monuments to their strength, their survival. 

Soon, Elendil wrote, soon there would be time to visit the Last Homely House. But as the years wore on, it became clear that if Elrond wished to meet his brother’s proud heir he would need to make the journey to Annúminas himself. 

“You look so like him,” were the first words the King of the Exiles spoke to the Lord of Rivendell, once the door of his meeting chamber was shut behind them. Before, he had stared, as he had failed to hide his astonishment — and, it might be said, discomfiture — behind a kingly reception. 

“Who?” Elrond asked with half a smile, knowing full well who he meant. 

“Elros,” Elendil answered, completely serious. “The statues and portraits—”

“Yes, he was my twin.”

Elendil shook his head, abashed. “I am sorry, I suppose it is… Artists are known to flatter their royal subjects. You do not think, seeing the statue of a king of legend, that he might really have looked so in life.”

Elrond laughed. “You have something of him in yourself, too, lord.” He did not say it was his self-assurance, his candour that nearly overstepped the bounds of common courtesy. For all it had irked him at times, Elrond had ever admired his brother’s boldness and was pleased to see it had not been dulled over the generations, even in the more humble strain of his descendants. 

“Call me not lord,” said Elendil, then laughed and swept an arm across the room, beckoning Elrond towards a sumptuous green settee by the window. “But come, come. Let me have wine and cheeses brought — or perhaps you wish to eat a proper meal? I am sorry, you have come a long way, you must be tired. A bath, perhaps, and then we can meet again at supper?”

“No, no, I have all I need. I was hosted well at an inn on your city’s borders yesternight.”

“An inn!” Elendil cried. “You ought to have come at once to the palace.”

“My arrival was late.”

“Nonetheless,” Elendil said, and called to a servant positioned outside. “Solmion, have food and wine brought to us.” Sitting, he again addressed Elrond. “I do wish you had sent word of your coming. We would have had rooms and a great reception prepared.”

Elrond nodded and smiled graciously. He did not tell the king that his promises of pomp were the very reason Elrond had given no notice of his coming. 

* * *

Elendil’s wine cup barely touched his mouth, so absorbed was he in tales of his ambition, his hopes for Endor. His hands flew expressively as he spoke, and Elrond's eyes returned always to the ring adorning the index finger of his right hand: the green emerald crowned in gold, the serpents devouring each other. The ring of Barahir: Elrond knew it from the histories, though how it came out of the ruin of Beleriand, he could not say. For all its fame in the great tales, a ring must have seemed but a small token in those days when Elros’ ships were laden with all the surviving heirlooms of Men and Elves. Now, many of those had no doubt been lost, and Elrond noted how securely the ring circled his finger, as though it had become a part of his hand — for so jewellery appears when seldom, if ever, removed from the wearer. 

Elrond wore no such jewels.

Only one heirloom had come into Elrond’s hands, passed quietly from Gil-galad’s safekeeping, as if the High King felt some consolation was needed for all the times he had been passed over in favour of Elros. Elrond accepted the gift with gratitude, but in truth he had felt no jealousy for the many reminders of their legacy that had been heaped upon his brother the king. The heavy longsword, moreover, had never been Elrond’s weapon. For many centuries now Narsil had lain unused, awaiting a more fitting bearer.

Elrond bore it with him to Annúminas, for he had heard the sword of Elu Thingol had been lost at last in Pharazôn’s ignominious fall. 

“The work of Telchar!” Elendil exclaimed, admiring the well-balanced blade. “How have I heard no rumour of this weapon?”

“Alas,” Elrond answered, “the heirlooms of the Edain are often overshadowed by those of the Eldar.”

Elendil hummed his agreement, not taking his eyes from the sword.

“I am told,” Elrond elaborated, “that it  was commissioned by Felagund for Bëor the Old and became, for a while, the sword of his House. But Barahir sent it from Dorthonion with his wife, Emeldir Manhearted. Its history in Brethil is obscure, but it was kept by those peoples in honour, for it was carried with them to the Havens of Sirion and thence to Balar. Gil-galad entrusted it to me —but ever has it sat uneasily in my hands.”

“Nonetheless, it is a generous gift.” Elendil sheathed the sword. “You can be assured that I and my heirs will bear it with honour, Elrond son of Eärendil.”

* * *

Great as its deeds had been, it was all too short a time before Narsil returned to Imladris in shards.

Elrond balanced them upon his lap as young Valandil played among the wildflowers, uncomprehending of his doom. Tears gathered in Elrond’s eyes and wet his cheeks. Such premature grief was ever the price of foresight. Somewhere, Sauron’s Ring survived. Long would be the road and many the losses before Elendil’s sword was lifted once again against the shadow of evil. 

On AO3 | On SWG

[queenmeriadoc]

The basics of character Merry, let’s call them Lady Merry for now,

Born and raised in our world by a human mother, is an artist and likes to experiment in how to develop photographs in a world that does not have photography. Does so by using magic.

I always imagine them having a workshop in the same tower as the forge. Because Celebrimbor thinks it’s good for them to be close to him. He gives them this before he realises that he does in fact have romantic feelings for them. And one time an experiment goes so wrong it results in an explosion. He doesn’t like it when they use chemicals after that. Although he knows he can’t really stop them.

Lady Merry creates photographs and paintings of both Gil-Galad and Celebrimbor that end up in Rivendell, some hidden away for spoiler reasons

Everyone just assumes that they are human. Which leads to a huge misunderstanding with Gil-Galad before they marry.

They are half-human though, human mother, non-human father. (I’ll get back to you on that). I have considered just not explaining in a Tom Bombadil fashion. But time will tell.

But I did think that Gil-Galad and Lady Merry should meet as children, but Lady Merry thinking it was just a dream would forget about it until years later.

Celebrimbor they meet for the first time as adults in Eregion.

Fun times.

Has a twin brother that they don’t really like to talk about.

Silver hair, blue eyes, midsize.

They are very clumsy, constantly falling over, especially in front of Gil-Galad for some reason. Does not know how to cook, but only because they are used to modern appliances and have to basically relearn how to cook from scratch.

Married both Celebrimbor and Gil-Galad and was later crowned High Queen.

But before all of this can happen they end up in Middle Earth during the third age. Going on the quest to Erebor with 13 dwarves, 1 wizard and a Hobbit.

Because time travel 💚

@sotwk some thoughts before bed.

Edit:

Doesn’t like wearing shoes after living with Hobbits for so long.

[grey-gazania-fic]

A Stitch in Time

Elrond, Caranthir's wife, and a Fëanorian heirloom. Rated G.

The quilt had been added to the twins' bed during their first winter at Amon Ereb, after two nights spent curled together for warmth. Clearly their captors — caretakers? Already the lines were blurring — had noticed, and had taken steps to remedy it. It smelled of cedar and gave their room some much-needed color. Large enough to cover the bed of a full-grown man, it was more than sufficient for two children, and could even be folded in half for extra warmth on particularly cold nights.

And it was utterly unlike the other quilts they had seen, with their neat, regular blocks and clear patterns. This one was a rich riot of reds, golds, and browns, with different fabrics cut into asymmetrical shapes and quilted in winding, stylized, visible stitches. It quickly became a comfort, something that could hold Elrond's attention when he was ill or injured and confined to his bed. There seemed to constantly be something new to discover — here a sliver of fabric soft as lamb's wool, there a quill picked out in neat, tiny stitches. Tiny brass bells hung at three of the corners; the forth was adorned with a slender gold ring sewn on in blunt stitches of crimson thread.

And yet, somehow it never occurred to either of them to ask about it, not until they were half-grown and fast becoming too large to comfortably share a bed. It was Elros who gathered up the nerve to speak, after he had helped Maglor move a second bed into the room and begun to take his share of the blankets.

"You can keep using the quilt," he said to Elrond. "I know how much you like it." And then, turning to Maglor, he said, "Who made it, anyway?"

"Our sister-in-law," Maglor said after a moment of silence. "Caranthir's wife." And then, before either of them could ask, he added, "She stayed in Aman."

Caranthir, Elrond knew, was the brother who had built the keep, and one of the three who had fallen in the attack on Doriath. He wondered, sometimes, about those brothers. What had they been like? Did they have Maglor's gentleness or Maedhros' wry humor? Were they as tired-eyed and worn as Fëanor's remaining sons, at the end? But the topic was clearly closed, as Maglor folded down the last blanket, clapped Elros on the shoulder, and left the room.

And so the quilt stayed on Elrond's bed, always there to greet him when they returned to Amon Ereb each winter. And when Maedhros and Maglor informed them that they were being taken to King Gil-galad, after their protests had broken like thrown dishes against the wall of Maedhros' will, when they had given in and begun packing, Maglor had folded the quilt up and placed it in Elrond's bag, just on top of Maedhros' herbal. The corner with the ring rested face-up, and he traced it with his long, strong fingers.

"It's his wedding ring, isn't it," Elrond said. It wasn't really a question; he'd guessed as much years ago.

Maglor nodded. "It feels like I'm sending a piece of my brother away with you," he said with unusual candor.

"You are," Elrond said. "And I won't forget them. Or you."

The Sons of Fëanor were not good men, but neither were they wholly evil. Someone needed to remember that. Maedhros was grim and deadly and cooly logical, but he was also a patient teacher, prone to unexpected dry wit but never mocking his students. Maglor was equally deadly, but he had soothed their nightmares with his gentle voice and taught them all the lore he knew.

And the others…he'd learned about them, slowly. Celegorm, who had spent half his childhood sneaking his dog into his bedroom or running wild in the woods. Caranthir, who had liked numbers better than he liked most people but who had spent nearly every waking hour at Maedhros' bedside while he recovered from his torment on Thangorodrim. Curufin, whose own son had denounced him but who had spent a full day designing Himring with one hand tied behind his back, making certain that his brother could live there without hinderance. Amras, who had dragged his twin into trouble at every opportunity. And Amrod, who felt such kinship with the Green-Elves of Ossiriand that he had nearly abandoned Quenya entirely for Sindarin.

Someone needed to remember those things, after Maedhros and Maglor were gone.

"You know that we knew Gil-galad's father well," Maglor said, dragging Elrond's attention back to the present. "If they're anything alike… You'll be in good hands."

Elrond didn't answer, but wrapped his arms around Maglor in a last, unspoken goodbye.

continue reading on AO3

[thevalleyisjolly]

Crack AU concept: Every Second Age Finwëan apart from Galadriel doesn’t actually have the origin they’re commonly purported to have:

No one is sure of Gil-Galad’s parentage because he’s actually a highly competent Green-Elf who looked around at the general chaos and destruction near the end of the First Age, sighed, rolled up his sleeves, and decided that someone had to start taking responsibility for this shit.  Look, he never actually stated that he was anyone’s son, it’s just that people are more likely to listen to someone named “Scion of Kings” than they are to a random (if exceedingly capable) elf, and the assumptions kind of snowballed from there.  His favourite pastime is dropping contradictory hints about his parentage and watching the ensuing confusion.

The fact of the matter is, Celebrimbor is a popular name among Elves.  There was a Celebrimbor of Gondolin and a Celebrimbor of Doriath and even a Falmari Celebrimbor, formerly of Aman, who insists that he was the first Celebrimbor.  They also all happened to be very skilled craftspeople so maybe there’s something to the name after all.  So when a dark haired Elf with incredible skills in craft shows up in Lindon after the war calling himself Celebrimbor, son of Curufin, the only part that anyone bats an eye at is the “son of Curufin” part because who would knowingly associate themselves with the House of Fëanor in this day and age?  Surely nobody would lie about that, and if they wouldn’t lie about that, why would they lie about anything else?

When it comes down to it, nobody really understands what it means to be peredhel, and especially not when it comes to their lifespan and aging.  Furthermore, nobody really knows what happened to Elwing’s sons after the Third Kinslaying; everybody just assumed they were taken hostage and/or killed.  Therefore, when during the War of Wrath, a pair of grown, clearly half-elven twins with a strong resemblance to Lúthien wash up in Balar, everybody assumes (with more than a little wishful thinking) that they must be Elwing’s sons, miraculously spared by the Fëanorians.  As for the twins themselves, they feel more than a little guilty about assuming the identities of the nephews they never met, but they also figure that if they told the truth of their survival, they might be disbelieved or taken for spies of Morgoth, so they’ll go along with it for now and if their nephews do turn up, they’ll deal with it then?

(They did actually turn up a few decades into the Second Age, having been in the East where Maglor sent them before shit really started going down.  They’re honestly just delighted to have living family more or less on this side of the Sea, and agree that it’d be too much of a bother to reverse the identity confusion now.  One of them decides to go back east to the Greenwood where he’d made some good friends with the Silvan elves there, the other stays on with “Elrond” as a councillor and ambiguous “kinsman” who helps him fill in any missing details in the story)

Out of all of them, Celebrían is actually the child of Galadriel and Celeborn.  Sometimes people are a little confused because they heard once that her parents had a son, Amroth, but it’s chalked down to poor communication and confusion with Amdír’s son since Amdír was friends with her parents.  Celebrían thinks it was incredibly tacky to give your child the same name as your friend’s child, so really, she was doing her parents a big favour by renaming herself Celebrían.  And honestly, while they don’t mind being Amroth (the superior Amroth because Amdírion is an idealistic romantic with his head in the clouds), they also like being Celebrían a little more. 

(Galadriel concedes that naming them Amroth was not the most creative move and that Celeborn possibly lost a bet with Amdír before their birth, but she also thinks that Celebrían could do better than the lady of a little valley in the middle of nowhere, so really, Celebrían’s had enough of her mother’s advice for the next long-year or two)

+Gildor never claimed to be Finrod’s son, he’s just never actually disclosed how they’re related and since none of the other Finwëans (real or otherwise) have ever said anything about it, people just sort of follow their lead and assume it’s a non-issue.  It’s actually the most mundane thing ever - his parents were among Finrod’s retainers in Aman and crossed the Ice with him; when they were both slain in the Dagor Aglareb, Finrod took the young Gildor on as a ward of his House.

[hirillaeriel]

Do Not Worry About Tomorrow

Fandom(s): Lord of the Rings, The Silmarillion

Rating: PG13

Tags: foresight, death, canonical character death, Implied death, grief/mourning

Characters: Miriel, Nerdanel, Galadriel, Maglor, Maedhros, Elrond, Elros, and Gil-Galad

Trigger warnings: Death, suicide

“Worry does not take away tomorrow’s troubles, it takes away today’s peace.”

-Unknown

The ability to see the future is often seen as a gift. A gift to those who wield it. It is not. To see the future is a curse. To see those you love die is a fate far worse than most can imagine. To be able to see it and not be able to do anything about it, to never be able to see or say anything, is a fate worse than death. To see their smiling faces and know what dark fate they shall soon face. That is the worst experience.

Miriel did not have the gift of foresight, per say, but she did see the future. She was Doomed to weave the tapestries telling of the fate of her family. Miriel’s fate was a sad one.

She was Doomed to know, but never to help.

Nerdanel hated the so-called gift of foresight, or farsight as it sometimes came to be. She hadn’t always had it, she had been just a simple nis before her insane idiot of a husband swore that damn oath and drove their sons and grandson into the far east. She was only cursed afterwards. At first she saw it as a gift, the ability to see her sons, to watch over them. Then it became a curse. First she saw her husband's death and his dramatic display upon his death, then one by one she watched her sons die. It wasn’t always awful, she enjoyed watching her eldest raise the half-elf twins. She enjoyed seeing them have their moments of joy. Nerdanel hated watching her grandson die. By that point she had already started to go mad herself. One can only take watching the ones they love die so much before something in them cracks. Finally it was just her, her son, and Elrond for her to watch over. For a time there was peace. For a time she could heal.

She was Doomed to see, but never speak.

Galadriel quickly understood that her powers would be her Doom. Her powerful Osanwe and her Mirror, her curiosity would bring about only pain. She could see the future, see her friends die, but even when she tried to interfere nothing changed. Nothing ever changed. It was already set in stone, already put into action. She could do nothing except watch.

She was Doomed to know, but never touch.

Elrond and Elros were quiet children. They spoke little to those besides their mother. They were often found staring at people unnervingly. It was quite creepy how they looked at the stablehands like they were seeing the dead walking. For them they were.

They knew about the downfall of Sirion even at their young age. Unlike most with this Eru forsaken gift they had a natural proclivity to future sight. They were born with this ability. Elrond and Elros knew what would happen, knew these people would die, but did nothing. They intrinsically knew that they could do nothing. It didn’t stop them from caring. They still hated knowing that the nice baker that made them special cookies and snuck them some after dinner would die. They hated that the nice sailor that taught them to swim would drown in the very waters he loved. They hated it all.

Of course Elros hated the Fëanorians for making it happen, he hated his mother for forcing their hands, he hated Morgoth for stealing the damn things in the first place. Elros hated everything. He was an angry ellon. He was quick tempered and lashed out easily. He didn’t like that he couldn’t do anything. He hated being weak.

Elrond still hated these things, but he was calmer than his brother. He forgave easier and was more patient than his short tempered brother. He understood things quicker and made peace with the future quicker. Elrond hated being powerless to help. Instead of lashing out like his brother he sat down and learned. He loved learning. He hoped to be able to save someone someday.

Maglor found the twins adorable. Maedhros found them unnerving. Maglor said that they were just traumatized from the death they had witnessed, but Maedhros did not agree. They looked around with steely indifference. They moved through life as if already knowing what was to come with such certainty… Not even fully grown Eldar had such certainty.

Elrond had never tried to warn someone of their death before, but he had become attached. He tried to warn the brothers of what would happen. He tried to sway Maedhros into a better mindset, he tried to warn Maglor about what his brother would do, but it was for nothing. They still retrieved the Silmarils, They still burned themselves, and Maedhros still jumped into that fiery chasm.

Elrond hated what he knew his brother would choose. He didn’t want his brother to be mortal. He hadn’t exactly seen Elros’s choice, but he had seen the outcome, his death. He had watched that future play out and knew he couldn’t follow his brother down that path. He could, oh how he could, but no, no he couldn’t. He knew what the future held. The future needed him. It needed the people that his brother would sire. It needed them right where they were to go, but that didn’t mean it hurt Elrond any less to leave his brother.

Elrond had once told himself to not get attached, but he always found himself right back where he now was, yelling at his loved one about whatever stupid action would end up getting them killed. Of course no one ever listened. They never believed him. It was stupid. What was the use of seeing the future if he couldn’t help anything?

Elrond knew he probably shouldn’t be avoiding his king. He should be spending these last few moments with his friend. Enjoy them and use every moment he could, but he just couldn’t bring himself to look at Gil-Galad’s face after his latest vision.

“Elrond Peredhel.”

Elrond wanted to bolt. He wanted to flee from the pain.

“Elrond, please, just look at me. Why are you avoiding me? Did I say something? Do something? Please, just tell me so that I can fix it.” Gil-Galad pleaded. “I do not want to go into battle with such uncertainty and strife between us.”

Elrond looked down at the ground to avoid the inevitable action of looking at his friend. His soon to be dead friend. “It’s nothing you’ve said or done, my friend.”

“That’s good.” Gil-Galad sounded relieved. “So it isn’t me. Is there anything I can do to help you? You know I’d do anything for you, Elrond.”

“Everyone always says that, but they never see it through.”

“Whatever do you mean, mellon nin?”

“I’ve tried in the past, but they never listened. I tried to help, tried to stop them. I did, I swear I did. Yet they still left.”

“Left? I’m not going to leave you Elrond!”

Elrond looks back at him and Gil-Galad’s joyous grin falls. Elrond shakes his head.

“You’ve seen my death, haven’t you.”

Elrond nods.

“It’s inevitable, isn’t it.”

Elwond nods again.

“Is this why you’ve been avoiding me? Honestly, Elrond, I thought you were smarter than that!”

“Will you listen?”

“Elrond, mellon nin, even if you told me I’d still do it. If my death could save any number of people I’d do it over and over again. You know that to be true.” Gil-Galad cups Elrond’s cheek and wipes his tears away with his thumb.

Elrond sobbed. “I know.”

“Elrond, will you at least tell me this? Do we win?”

“Yes.”

“Then it will all be worth it. Do not lose all hope. We shall see eachother again someday. It is not all in vain. Now come, spend these last days with me. Tell me of what will come after my death, please. I would like to be happy if I am to die.”

“Please, stay back?”

“Elrond, I will not stand back and send my men into battle while I cower in my tent. You know I am not like that. If I am to die I will do so in battle with a sword in my hand, fighting against evil, not cowering like a dog.”

Elrond choked. “I just-”

“You don’t want to lose me. I understand. I love you, Elrond, you are my dearest friend. Now as my friend which would you have me do? Die a coward or go down fighting with my men and for what I believe in?”

“I’d rather you not die at all.”

“Elrond.”

“I’d rather you die fighting.”

“Good. Now I need you to understand that. I will never run away from a fight. I stand my ground, even in the face of certain death. I will take as many of those mad bastards down with me as I can.”

Elrond sighs. “Very well.”

“I’m sorry you have to go through this, Elrond. It isn’t fair.”

“Nothing is ever fair.”

Elrond made peace with the fact that the people around him would die. He lived with that knowledge, but he was put at ease with the fact that they’d go do fighting. They’d go do fighting for what they believed in and they’d take down as many of their enemies as they could before doing so. Elrond could live with that fact.

Elrond was Doomed to know, but to be at peace.

Arwen didn’t have as strong of foresight as her father or maternal grandmother. She couldn’t truly see much of anything, she just had feelings or would simply know something would happen. She wasn’t overly troubled with the knowledge of her peoples’ impending deaths. Arwen, unlike her father, didn’t truly have many to fear dying. She was born in a time of peace and even those years she lived through war she knew the tragedies that it would bring. When she saw into the future and saw the darkness, doom, and death she saw them for what they were. She had always had a more mortal mindset to such things. She saw past the despair and on towards the bright futures. Where her forebears just saw death she saw life.

Arwen was Doomed to see the darkness, but to understand.

[malkaleh]

Arondir is finding joy in the sea through his daughter (though he and Celeborn have a lot to talk about re that I feel like. When Celeborn isn’t :fondly watches Galadriel backflip into the water from a cliff top: THAT’S MY WIFE).

Galadriel many many years later: DO A HEAD STAND FIRST (she’s a cool grandma ;)). She absolutely enables the twins like yes, grandkids you should try to jump into the pool from the top of the tallest tree in Lorien do a flip!

Islidur and Theo: THIS IS THE BEST SHOW ME SHOW ME :DDDDD (Islidur and the twins would be CHAOS BFFs if they ever met like)

Gil-Galad is working on his tan. None of his kids are in peril. He is the happiest dad on vacation. Also the next time someone tries to hit on Elrond they will be getting the Spear Talk.

Bronwyn and Miriel are talking and admiring their husbands with their daughters. Disa is about to join them. They will be discussing the stranger things about ruling (“I never thought I would, in truth, though I was raised to it. I think you always had it in you to lead Bronwyn - to be the kind of ruler Middle Earth needs - a healer” “Truth be told half the battle is my husband needs to have his stubborn head rattled about - yours just seems to need to be told to not sacrifice himself Miriel” Elendil from across the beach “has she not told you of the sea trial”) “Is Elrond always this…” “always - we’ve had to thump a few heads in our time” “Did I not tell you of the time Kemen wished to marry him - the one thing I may thank the abhorred for”)

Celebrimbor has been fetched another little drink (his hand(s) still ache but he’s now explaining something to an enthralled Gerda and maybe he is crying a little, thinking of Mirdania when she was small but it’s lovely).

Celebrian is actually considering just kissing Elrond right now because Eru help her, you try to concentrate when this sweet kind gentle healer who is The Most Beautiful Being In Ea and has starlight in his eyes is smiling at you and being so good with kids. Also she’s going to Fillet Sauron Alive. @nocompromise-noregrets

Because Everything have a little bit of like, comfort re @nocompromise-noregrets having the idea that Bronwyn and Arondir co-founded Dol Amroth (this is Gold Cages verse but).

Miriel is laughingly telling Elendil that their baby daughter is a little too baby right now to go in the ocean.

Soraya (Bronwyn and Arondirs daughter) is attempting to become one with the ocean. She is not going out of the ocean. OCEAN FRIEND.

Elrond (who has caused most of Dol Amroth to fall for him since he got here) is happily teaching Gerda and Gamli to swim, while Durin and Disa are like ‘anyone comes near him we will kill you’ (also Persian Jewish biracial Elrond is canon and thus he is particularly olive skinned right now)

Gil-Galad metaphorically has sunglasses on, lying on a towel and reading the middle earth equivalent of a beach read.

Galadriel is jumping off rocks and Celeborn is alternating between swimming and cheering her on.

Islidur (yelling delightedly with Theo) COMMANDER GALADRIEL YOU SHOULD TOTALLY DO A TRIPLE FLIP.

Celebrimbor is sitting under an umbrella, drinking his little drink in a beach chair.

Feel free to add on.

[youareunbearable]

In the past like week I feel like I've passively learned more about lord of the rings than I would if I actually ever watched the movies exclusively because I can't stop myself reading all the meta posts and content you're been rebloging. Learning about Maedhros (had to google that to spell it right lmao) and Morgoth etc second hand has been very fun so thankyou. I don't super understand half of it but it's riveting lmao

LMAOOOO im soooooo sorry for making you suffer though my most recent hyperfixation anon but im glad you're enjoying it???? I rewatched the movies with my sister awhile ago and it unlocked my childhood love for Tolkien lmao

If it helps, most of the stuff im reblogging is from all the extra books and stories Tolkien wrote outside of LotR so its not like most of the stuff would show up in the movies anyways??? Like next time u watch them with someone u can give little fun facts like Lord Elrond (Arwen's dad) was raised by a set of brothers (Meadhros is queer coded and Maglor is Dad Shaped) who destroyed the city he lived in before and his mom turned into a seagull to escape from them, and Elronds birth dad turned into the northern star, while those same foster dads of his also either killed themselves later on or went into self banishment! It makes it a little more heartbreaking to watch him beg Arwen not to essentially kill herself by turning mortal for a boy :)

[aragornsrockcollection]

Tolkien had that concept of Erestor being a half-elven relation of Elrond early on, so I see people speculate on him being Elured or Elurin, because they are the only known misplaced Peredhel.

But another abandoned concept was Elros’s children having the choice of the Peredhel. And his eldest abdicates immediately to continue his work as a scholar. And Rivendell is a place of learning… I’m just saying Erestor could be Elrond’s nephew. Any of them, but I kind of like it being Vardamir Nolimon because of his scholarly bent and abdication.

Also, can we talk about how three generations of this family in a row threw twin Peredhel boys as their first children? It’s weird that that is so prevalent in the line of Luthien, but she herself did not have twins.

Unless she did.

Dior Eluchil arrives at court with a Silmaril as his proof of right to the throne, and a name that means “successor heir-of-Elu.” He then immediately marries a kinswoman of Thingol. It might not be a stretch to assume that they were a little anxious to make his claim on the throne iron-clad, and thus the decision for his twin brother to not show up until he was well established becomes an option. Aaaand then the kinslaying happened and him showing up at all became kinda impossible.

Anyways, shout out to Erestor’s backstory, the under-appreciated cousin of Gil-Galad’s parentage.

[starsofarda]

So I am now going off with the meta I promised to @tolkien-feels aka:

Has anyone ever written meta comparing Rivendell, Lothlorien and Mirkwood to Gondolin, Nargothrond and Doriath respectively? Because if nobody has, somebody definitely should

And yeah, I usually suck at essays, so please don't ask me to put this in essay form. I will do my very best to expose everything as best as my undiagnosed ADHD mind allows me :)

I would like to start by saying that being able to write meta about what I love and actually being read is something that does not happen to me usually and I am so happy, but I am already digressing.

Everything will be under cut, I apologise in advance if this has too many words, no one usually listens to me blabbering about my special interests.

I am now going to mention this other post, because of the very good points and keys in my analysis, thanks again to @tolkien-feels for the insight and the big galaxy brain <3

To be able to digest the whole thing I am going to pick up the elements for comparison two by two starting with Gondolin and Rivendell, then Lothlorien and Nargothrond and finally Mirkwood and Doriath.

GONDOLIN AND RIVENDELL

Elrond, heir of Turgon: I am going to go to this hidden valley and build a place of safety and lore, the last refuge if all else falls to ruin - @tolkien-feels

To be able to compare the two I think it is important to define what these places are, who lives/lived there and what they represent.

Gondolin was built during the First Age of the Middle Earth by Turgon, and whilst I am not going to dwell for long on its history, whose summary you can find here and in more detail in The Silmarillion, I am going to take into account that Turgon was an exiled elf. He saw the Light of the Trees and although originally he had been against, he followed Feanor and ultimately stayed behind due to "Fingon and Turgon were bold and fiery of heart, and loath to abandon any task to which they had put their hands until the bitter end, if bitter it must be".

Basically he had a whole lot of pride, which really does not surprise me all things considering.

But the thing is, even though you are fare from home and cannot/decide not to go back, you do get homesick - I know the feeling, I have constantly this feeling due to me having had to abandon my country to be able to live.

You still want to find something you can call home even in a foreign land and I think that Gondolin was exactly that for Turgon. A place of solace, where he could find familiarity in what he saw. Because at the very beginning he did not want to leave Valinor and stayed in Middle Earth out of pride.

Gondolin itself was not ever heavily armed, the defenses were relying mostly on the fact that it was hidden in a valley and that barely anyone knew about it outside the valley. So we can more or less safely say that Gondolin definitely was not mainly a place built by warriors, so when it fell it was indeed a tragedy.

And here we can talk about Elrond, Turgon's great-grandson. He is an Elf who has lost a lot of things and people in his life.

He lost his friends, he lost his home, he lost his family - Elros, his twin, decided to take the mortal path, as they are both only half-elves due to his father being the child of an Elf and a mortal (an Edain).

His father became the Polar Star - and I deeply suggest you listen to the Song of Earendil by Clamavi de Profundis because it is an Experience(C). Anyway, I am digressing, but I am also sure that when Bilbo made Elrond listen to the song he cried a lot. His wife Celebrian, daughter of Celeborn and Galadriel, was kidnapped and tortured by orcs and then left for the Immortal Lands and ultimately Arwen became a mortal.

Now I am sad for Elrond.

There is more, like Isildur betraying him and being very much nearly one of the Elves decimated in Eregion, Gil-Galad dying (?)*, but this is to make the point of "Elrond lost so much that he does not want anyone else to experience what he has passed through and therefore Rivendell is born as a Homely House, where you can find solace, knowledge and ultimately a place he can call home.

Huh. Not so different from Turgon - and Elrond surely knows about Turgon. Tolkien is always pointing out parentages and genealogic trees, I am 100% sure none of his characters is immune to the Genealogic Tree Explanation.

So, to be concise: a place to call home, full of knowledge, solace and house for all exiled and lost ones, full of memories, full of nostalgia and magnificent, a remembrance of past times. Tolkien loves doing parallelisms and I apologise because were it not for the post mentioned I would have overlooked it.

And due to these similar motives both Gondolin and Rivendell were born. If we are looking also at the geography even Rivendell appears to be sitting in a valley, although it seems a little better defended considering how much waste Elrond lays of the orcs following Thorin & co. in The Hobbit, so I consider this a lesson learned.

After all, aren't the new generations always a bit more savvy

And I am so sorry, but this analysis hit a bit too close to home for me and I have to go and scream for 15 years. And possibly call my dad.

Anyway, I am now back.

I am going to keep going on my analysis in a different post, once I have gathered again all the knowledge I have on the topic.

[amethysttribble]

The Fuse of Regret

@feanorianweek Entry 1: Maedhros (Childhood)

Gil-galad remembers his childhood with his fathers very differently than everyone else seems to. Primarily because he remembers there being two fathers.

I’m doing another theme this year, this one being: Six AUs wherein Gil-galad was a grandson of Feanor, and one where he wasn’t. 

Fair Warning for this first one, it can easily be retitled ‘everyone (including Mae) gaslights Gil for 2000 words’. All hurt, no comfort. Forgive Maedhros. His self-loathing is very strong and he thinks its for his son’s own good.

Officially, the last time Ereinion Gil-galad ever spoke to Maedhros, son of Feanor, was when he was still just a boy, shortly before the death of his father. It was when said father, King Fingon the Valiant, son of Fingolfin, and the Lord of Himring were still long in the planning of what would be called the Union of Maedhros.

According to those official tales, during this last meeting, it was less of a conversation and more a symbolic showing of the young prince. Maedhros, son of Feanor, kissed young Ereinion’s hand, and called him, “Your Highness”, and reaffirmed him as heir to all the Noldor.

Then, the prince was given back to his nannies, or perhaps his mother, who must be somewhere in this tale but never seemed to appear, and the grim, grisly form of Maedhros, son of Feanor, stalked away besides the fair, bright form of King Fingon. They returned to their negotiations.

Prince Ereinion, soon King Gil-galad, would never have reason to see the kinslayer again, and therefore did not.

This story was, of course, largely untrue while holding a grain of truth.

As Gil-galad remembered it, Maedhros, father of Ereinion, kissed him on the forehead and called him “my dear,” and reaffirmed that he would be allowed to sleep in the bed beside him and Atya that night. In the morning they would take breakfast, and there would be many more meetings after that, before Maedhros left them again.

The only difference between that visit and many others before it was that Maedhros never came back and then Father died.

It was true, of course, that Gil-galad had not met with Maedhros since that time, but less because he had no reason to see him- Ereinion had many, many reasons- and more because of circumstances and blatant avoidance. He was half convinced it had taken Maedhros so long to return Earendil and Elwing’s little boys because he was avoiding his own son. But now the peredhel twins had been returned, and Ereinion had him.

The night was already late when he left their camp with but one attendant, but he was determined now. And he knew how to find Maedhros. Ereinion knew his movements better than anyone living.

At least, he liked to think that. 

As he rode out into the wilds searching for his father, Ereinion thought of the long, lonely nights spent upon Balar, reading the few letters he still had from Maedhros and the one letter in his possession from Father. 

And when he’d read the letters so thoroughly and so often he knew every word and he’d begun to weather and tear the paper, he asked Cirdan for the letters written to the Lord of Balar from Maedhros and Fingon. And when all those letters were expended, Ereinion studied the speeches and battle-plans and treaties they made, hoping to catch some glimpse of the happy childhood he remembered but seemed to feel more like fantasy and fiction by the second.

He needed this. Ereinion knew his attendants and friends would be angry at him for leaving in the middle of the night, for endangering himself, but they didn’t understand. He needed this. So pervasive had the thoughts and theories of other people become, so upsetting had the evidence against the kinslayer become, Ereinion… He no longer trusted his own memory and that frightened him.

He wanted answers from Maedhros himself.

The red flags were easily distinguishable even in torch and starlight. They snapped in the warm, harsh wind, the golden threads of their rayed star glittering faintly. Ereinion’s own sigil flapped beside him, held aloft by the herald he brought, blue and silver. 

The people of the Feanorion host saw him from leagues away and greeted him stoically. He rode unmolested, though, into their pathetic little camp, harried only by their harsh stares, thin faces, and the occasional lob of spit at his horses feet. Maedhros and Maglor both were waiting for him when he reached the main tent.

Ereinion had met only two of Maedhros’s brothers, Caranthir only in passing, and he could scarcely say he knew Maglor better. And yet, his conflicted gaze and shallow bow- he couldn’t tell if the gesture was mocking or sincere- was a warmer greeting than what he received from Maedhros.

He was stone, unmoving, unfeeling. 

“Hail, Maedhros, son of Feanor,” Gil-galad said, and he feared he was unspeaking as well. Until-

“To think,” Maedhros said, voice flatter than any plain, “we have just lost out hostages and the King Gil-galad seeks to deliver us two more. Henceforth, never let the High King’s generosity be questioned again.”

There was a smattering of laughter, a few scrapes of steel being unsheathed, but notably Maglor neither laughed nor moved. 

Gil-galad just tilted his nose up.

“I would speak with you, Maedhros, son of Feanor. Unless you would refuse me.”

In front of all your people. Refuse me in front of all of them. Deny your chance to negotiate with and swindle the young, fool son of your friend. Deny your chance for food, deny your chance to negotiate to fight.

Ereinion wouldn’t be surprised if these obviously starving people were hungrier for battle than food. They would want a parlay, if only to be allowed back into war meetings.

But Maedhros was a coward and he tried to deny him anyway.

“What possibly do we have to speak of?”

Ereinion smiled, and he knew it was a sweet looking expression though it tasted very bitter behind his teeth. 

“The unsettled accounts of my late father.”

That set their observers whispering, made Maglor give his brother a sharp look. Still, Maedhros resisted for a moment. Then, he gave a nod.

“Well,” he said, holding out an arm to gesture towards the tent. Gil-galad dismounted. “Far be it for me to deny a request from the son of an old friend.”

But it would not be far for you to deny a king, Gil-galad thought as the people jeered behind him. He was almost worried for his herald as he passed under the tent flap. But no. Maglor did not follow them. He would keep the people tame.

There was one lone torch lit in the first room of the tent. It barely illuminated the table, and highlighted all the marks on it. As Maedhros busied himself clinking around with some glasses and drink, Ereinion ran his fingers over the wood grain. Somehow had carved a small depiction of a dog here, at a seat far from the end. Ambarussa, perhaps.

The shifting shadows were the only thing that alerted Ereinion when Maedhros turned to face him. A glass was help out for him, and he couldn’t even see what it was in the dark. Ereinion took the drink- reaching across the table- and sipped it anyway.

Whiskey.

Maedhros was throwing back the whole glass.

Wasn’t a son’s first drink with father supposed to be more special than this?

“Well, boy?” Maedhros said when he came up for air, already turning away to pour another. “What are you here for?”

Ereinion waited until Maedhros looked at him again, leveling those treelight silver eyes on him. He’d been so jealous as a child about how Maedhros and Father’s eyes were the same, ethereal and bright and greater than he ever could be. This creature before him did not look great.

There was a new scar on Maedhros’s cheek. Where did he get it? Doriath or Sirion.

Ereinion’s hand tightened arrow d his glass.

“They were my friends, did you know that?” he said quietly, nearly whispering it at first, but voice growing louder with each word. “Did you know that? That they were my friends, Eanredil and Elwing, my friends! She was my fucking friend! Did you know that?”

Maedhros said nothing.

“If you did, would it have changed anything?” Ereinion hissed, already knowing the answer. When Maedhros kept staring at him impassively, he made an impulsive move and clacked the glass against his teeth. The whiskey burned on the way down and his mouth was vibrating from the impact. It wasn’t enough.

With a ragged breath, Ereinion held out the glass for more.

Maedhros silently made him another drink.

When he was handed more whiskey, their fingers touched briefly, and Ereinion thought little of it as he started downing his drink again, but he saw Maedhros shudder.

When Ereinion slammed the glass onto the table, over that little craved dog, Maedhros shuddered, then finally said, “Is that all you-“

“Father.”

Maedhros looked like someone had slapped and was just as angry as that insult would suggest. His glare was like white fire and it didn’t frighten Ereinion a bit. Nothing was more frightening than the night he realized Maedhros wasn’t coming to bring him home.

The night Gil-galad realized he was an orphan now.

“Does that word mean anything to you?” he hissed. “I call you ‘Father’ because I am your son, or do you deny that?”

“Be careful how you tread, son of Fingon.”

Ereinion scoffed and said, “Oh, I am very careful. ‘Son of Fingon’ you call me, like a curse. Or maybe not, a blessing. A release from bondage. I’ll not bloody hear it from you. I’ve had enough courtiers in my ears trying to tell me who and what I am, when I know. I was there. You and I are now the only ones who were there, and you dare tell me I’m wrong, Father?”

Even around the deep shadows and the scars and the lines of exhaustion, Ereinion could see every movement as Maedhros’s lips formed the words, “You’re wrong.”

“Bullshit!”

Ereinion slammed his hands down. This time, the table shuddered. He was breathing hard.

“Who was it then!” he shouted, “Who was it who picked me up from the rug and brought me to bed! Who guided my fingers through learning Tengwar! Who sang bass to Father’s tenor, and brought me the most finely crafted toys, and kissed me so mournfully every time he had to leave again!”

“I was your father’s friend,” Maedhros said, words very slow and very carefully enunciated, like lines from a script. At least, that’s how Ereinion wanted to think of them- lines, acted lines- as Maedhros stabbed knives into his chest. “A dear friend, and you my friend’s son. Of course I brought gifts and taught you what I could. Of course I paid you some love, Gil-galad-“

“Don’t call me by that name!”

There were tears pricking his eyes, now, and Valar, he didn’t know if he needed more or less whiskey.

“That is my name,” Ereinion cried, “my name, given to me by friends and guardians, that I took on as my mantle when I assumed the throne you abandoned me on. That is my name. Call me by your name, the father-name. The two of you only gave me one, but gave it together. Son of kings. Call me Ereinion because you are my father.”

Maedhros watched him silently for a long time, and then very carefully set down his own glass. His hand was shaking. Ereinion saw it, even in the low-light, he saw how his hand shook and sloshed the whiskey before he set it on the table. He held onto that one sign like a life-line.

But then Maedhros cut him down with the same brutal efficiency as he did everything else.

“Gil-galad.”

Ereinion felt like the air had been punched from his lungs. He doubled over the table in pain, ended up face-to-face with his empty glass. For a second, it occurred to him to throw it at Maedhros’s face.

But no. He had his father’s temper but never Fingon’s temper, which had been slow to come but hot when it arrived. There had been a few terrible evenings in Ereinion’s childhood where things were thrown, not at but certainly near Maedhros. 

Maedhros never responded in kind, and that had always been the worst blow for Fingon.

Gil-galad had his father’s temper.

He stood up straight, towing with the rim of the glass, spinning it. Then he looked up at Maedhros as sneered.

“I see,” Gil-galad said, keeping his voice as calm and kingly as possible, drawing upon all those lessons he got just from watching the two of them. “You have become a fey creature indeed, to not even recognize your own progeny.”

Maedhros let out a stuttering breath and that felt good. But Gil-galad wasn’t done.

“If my father could see you now,” he hissed softly, “he would weep. Now, today, he would give you the pity that he denied you on that mountain, and he would put us all out of your misery. I will not waste your time any longer, my lord.”

Gil-galad left and Maedhros did nothing. There was no move to stop him, no last call to his back, nothing. Nothing except the clink of more whiskey being poured.

This would be the last meeting between King Ereinion Gil-galad and Maedhros, son of Feanor.

[runawaymun]

Prompt 21 for kidnap dads? "No one has a heart of stone"

This got unintentionally HUGE so I also posted it to AO3, because it's probably easier to read there. But here let me lob some Maebae feels at you. Because I love pain. Thank you so so much for this prompt-- it has been an amazing source of much needed distraction. 

I’m so excited to have an excuse to finally write Maedhros. 

Supine | Maedhros & Elrond | Kidnap Fam

When the news had reached Maedhros through his spymaster that Eärendil the Mariner and his wife, Elwing (and thus, the Silmaril), had set out on some fool errand to cross the sea and petition the Valar for aid his first thought had been one of despair. There would be no passage to Valinor. The ship would be lost to the sea, and the Silmaril with it.

He had said as much to Maglor. The two of them were so consumed by the loss of the Silmaril and the wake of Sirion that the other half of the equation was forgotten. The ship would be lost to the sea, and Eärendil and Elwing with it.

Maedhros had refused to even look at the Peredhil since they had first been snatched up at Sirion. They were so little. Too little. When he had found them one of the boys (he refused to learn which was which, though Maglor had made sure he at least knew their names) had kicked him in the shin and bit him, and when Maedhros had hauled him off his feet and carried him down the stairs, the blood on his hauberk soaked through the child's nursery gown.

He tried not to think about it. He refused to think about it. It was such a little thing, compared to the rest of Sirion. He should have killed them. It seemed a needlessly cruel thing to deny them a swift passage to healing in Mandos in favor of the company of Kinslayers in the cold ass-end of Beleriand.

But in that moment, even as blood (there was always so much blood, but at least this time it had been his) dripped down his arm from where one of the Peredhil had bitten him, Maedhros could not bring himself to kill them. They were so little, and he was so sick of death.

Hostages they would be. To be ransomed for the Silmaril. Maedhros did not care for them. That was what he told himself, anyway.

The Peredhil had clung to that feeble hope: ransom. They had constantly, vehemently insisted that their father would come for them, and that when he did Maedhros and Maglor would be sorry.

When Maedhros spared a glance up from the fire he'd been staring into as he and Maglor discussed this piece of news and their next course of action, he saw one of the twins standing in the doorway, pale as a ghost, gray eyes huge and luminous. A chill laced Maedhros' spine. That was the thing about the Peredhil (creepy little bastards!) they never looked quite normal. They seemed to shift from space into the spaces between space, forms dancing between elf and man and maia like fire-lit cave paintings.

Maglor followed his line of sight to the child in the doorway. He stood.

"What's wrong? Why are you out of bed?"

The Peredhel didn't answer. He only stared at them. Maedhros felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end as he felt the child try to sneak his way beyond the bounds of his mind. He snapped his shutters tight and glared at him.

The boy only stared mutely back with simmering interest. It had to be Elrond. No doubt about it.

"What are you going to do with us now?" he asked in stilted Quenya.

The question was not something either Maedhros or Maglor were prepared to consider.

"Gil-galad and Círdan might still want us," the boy said again, and it struck Maedhros: the whirring anxiety behind that detached exterior. He was too good at this for one so young, and that was Maedhros' own fault.

Gil-galad does not have a Silmaril to bargain with, Maedhros thought grimly. He wisely did not voice that aloud. Instead, he said: “Go to bed.”

"Why, because it will be easier to strangle us in our sleep?"

The identical voice came from the dark hallway. Elros. Elrond's brother could spit venom from twenty yards. By the fire, Maglor flinched. Fear glimmered in Elrond's eyes at his brother's accusation, and Maedhros couldn't stand to look at him.

"Go to bed," he snarled again, baring all of his teeth, standing from his chair by the fire. "Scram."

Even Elros shrunk beneath his shadow. Both boys paled and disappeared down the hall. Maedhros watched them go and then sank back into his chair, hating himself.

Maglor scowled at the fire.

"Do you have to be such an animal?"

His brother might as well have slapped him. Maedhros curled his left fist on the armrest and did not answer him. Kinslayer. Murderer. Maimed. Monster. Animal. He was at once grateful that he no longer answered to Maitimo. The name was a joke.

"Get out," he snapped.

He could feel Maglor had realized his mistake. The guilt radiating off of him was a tightening noose. "Nelyo--"

"Leave."

Maglor did, shutting the door behind him, and Maedhros tucked his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them like a porcupine protecting his belly.

----

The sun had not yet breached the horizon when Maedhros finally stirred from his seat. He had been there for hours, unmoving, and his limbs creaked as he unwound them.

He took up his usual rounds around the current fortress that now passed for home since the fall of Himring. It wasn’t long until he felt something no larger than a centipede try to slither into the space between his eyes.

He whirled to see one of the twins hiding in the shadows of the hall, watching him unblinkingly like a cat.

“Stop it, Elrond,” he snapped. “I am not in the mood for one of your games.”

Having failed, the child tried to get an answer by the usual means. “I want to know if I am about to die.”

The words, and the tone they were said in, were such an ugly dissonance to that soft face with its saucer-shaped eyes that it knocked all the air from Maedhros’ chest. Elrond barely came up to his hips.

Maedhros wet his lips and looked away from that piercing, too-solemn gaze.

Elrond went on quietly: “I knew Naneth wasn’t coming back. Elros didn’t believe me. And now Adar will not either and that means you have no more use for us. If I am about to die, please just tell me. It’s nicer that way.”

His voice was so small and sweet, steel carefully forged into it as best as he could at that age. He was trying to be brave. And, truly, it was brave of him. Few could boast of repeated attempts to bite into Maedhros Fëanorion’s mind the same way Elros could boast of biting his arm.

He should not have to be brave.

He should not have to fear for his life.

He was so little.

Maedhros couldn’t breathe. He had to throw his good hand out to the wall to steady himself before he said, voice ragged: “I am not going to kill you.”

Elrond cocked his head. “You killed children in Sirion. I saw them.”

Maedhros stared at the floor, studying the tile pattern. “Yes,” he admitted. “I am sure I did.”

The light in the hall began to pale with the rising of the sun. Elrond’s thin face was unreadable.

“You don’t remember?”

Maedhros remembered red. He remembered his sword cleaving a path through flesh and sinew and metal indiscriminately in a mad dash for the blinking beacon of the Silmaril. The Oath consumed all sense and reason, blinding him like a carriage horse, and he had seen nothing but that damned light and red.

The next thing he clearly remembered was standing at the base of a tower, pleading with Elwing to hand over the Silmaril as she leaned out of the uppermost window, determined to throw herself into the sea.

Elrond looked so much like her.

He looked away, back to the floor.

Neither of them said anything for a long time after that. Eventually, Elrond left him, and Maedhros was once again alone-- which was how he liked it best.

----

The twins put on a brave front and stayed out from underfoot for nearly a fortnight. Maedhros was content to forget about them. If he did not think about them, then he did not have to think about the terror in their faces when he had chased them out of his room. He did not have to think about Elrond’s trembling voice asking for the courtesy of at least knowing when he might die.

Elros still shot him acerbic scowls every chance he got. Elrond, however, had begun to watch him with a detached fascination in the same way he liked to crouch and watch the ants carrying dirt to and fro as they built their tunnels. He seemed to relish watching him, studying him. Maedhros could practically see Elrond taking him apart in his head piece by piece, trying to decide which pieces were threats and which were benign. It stabbed him straight through with a memory of Moryo. He had been like that when he was small, even back in Valinor in the absence of danger. Solemn Moryo who had grown up shrewd and whip-smart, with his penchant for affairs of state and politics of the likes of which even Maedhros had sometimes failed to grasp.

He squashed the thought immediately. The twins already were a reminder of the Ambarussa. He did not need to draw one more connection.

But once he had begun he could not stop. Elrond had Moryo’s shrewdness and Curvo’s cleverness. Elros was at times as wild and volatile as Turko and at times as good-natured and warm as Pityo and Telvo. And with each connection he drew, he sunk further into a trap of his own making from which he could not escape.

He was becoming fond of them, despite all attempts otherwise. And as the year wore on Maedhros thought less and less of any attempts to offload them onto their kin at the earliest convenience.

And in the end, when Elrond first touched his stump with curiosity and overwhelming compassion, that was what undid him. So few Elves could even bear to look at it. It was avoided in a polite attempt to save Maedhros' pride. But Elrond did not care. Maedhros’ hand was not an out-of-tune note graciously ignored, but just another fact about him. Something which made him Maedhros. Elrond had not bothered with looking pained or lamenting its loss. He only lit up with bright curiosity as to how it had been done and salvaged, and asked to see all of the clever contraptions which Curvo had once fashioned for Maedhros to replace it. The inventions fascinated Elrond and he begged to show Elros, and even Elros could not disguise his enthusiasm over the shield designed to loop around Maedhros’ arm, nor the crossbow which was meant to be fitted to it as if it had always belonged there.

The porcupine exposed his belly at last. Over time, the twins ceased to see him as a monster from their nightmares. Elrond first, with his quiet pragmatism, and Elros soon followed out of trust for his twin’s judgment.

Late one night, the twins had fallen asleep on him after listening to a long tale of Valinor-across-the-sea, and Maedhros had frozen stock-still, unwilling to move and wake them.

That was how Maglor found them. He gave Maedhros one of his infuriatingly knowing smiles.

“I thought you weren’t going to get attached?”

“Shut up,” Maedhros growled, though it was half-hearted.

He had not meant to. It would only hurt more when he inevitably had to return them to their kin. No matter what anyone might say of him, Maedhros Fëanorion did not have a heart of stone. Elrond had seen straight through that and burrowed into his core and Maedhros knew it was a fatal wound.

That didn’t stop him from enjoying his time with them while it lasted.

[ambarto]

Older

“Which of us is oldest?” Elros asked.

Maglor’s back was to them, preparing their dinner. “You are twins.”

“But we can’t have been born at the same time!”

Maglor sighed. “Probably not, but I have no idea which of you was born first.”

“I guess you didn’t bother to ask when you took us.”

Elrond kicked him under the table. They didn’t need to start an argument over this. He didn’t want to deal with Elros’s anger and Maglor’s dark guilt now.

Elros glared, and kicked back.

“Don’t fight,” Maglor said, his back still turned to them. “It doesn’t really matter which of you was born first.”

“It does. Maedhros is your older brother, so he can tell you what to do. I want to know which of us can give orders.”

“You can’t give me orders no matter how old you are,” Elrond said.

Elros showed him his tongue.

“Maedhros is various years my elder, so I trust in his experience. Trust, he’s not giving me orders. A few minutes don’t change anything.”

“They do,” Elros grumbled.

-

Despite knowing they were related and not too far in age, Gil-Galad made a very different picture than them. His robes were rich, his hair beautifully braided. He was full of grace and elegant.

Elrond and Elros were dressed in simple leather clothes that Maedhros and Maglor had made them from animal skin. Elrond was painfully aware of his gangly adolescent body. His hair was tied in a simple ponytail. Elros had roughly chopped his short, and a very un-Elvish stubble covered his chin. They were sons of princes, raised by members of a once renowned house, and in this tent with their King Elrond had never felt so painfully out of place.

“Tents will be prepared for the two of you soon, but you are welcome to wait here while they are made ready,” Gil-Galad said.

“We could help with it.”

Gil-Galad smiled. “No need. Many people are glad to see the two of you safe with us once again.”

Elrond exchanged a glance with his twin. It felt strange, to be treated with such reverence. The eyes of the entire camp had been on them as they were brought to meet Gil-Galad in a way that had made Elrond want to hide.

He was just a boy raised in the woods.

“Your Highness, did you know us as children?” Elros asked.

Gil-Galad nodded. “I met you a few times.”

“Then, do you happen to know which one of us was born first?”

Elrond’s head whipped towards Elros. He was bringing that up now?”

“We don’t remember,” Elros said, unconcerned. “And no one was ever able to tell us.”

Gil-Galad had raised an eyebrow. “I believe you were, by half an hour or so.”

“Truly? Thank you.”

Elros’s eyes slowly turned to Elrond’s, shining with glee. Elrond couldn’t believe his idiot brother was supposed to be older. His life had just taken a turn for the greatly worse.

-

“I cannot believe we leave tomorrow,” Elros said.

His eyes were fixed on the sea. Their father’s star shone bright in the sky.

Elrond sighed. “Are you sure of this?”

“We talked much of this already. This is my duty.”

Some people would say Elros’s duty was to lead the Sindar, not a group of Men. First son of the last princess of Doriath. Rightful heir to the throne.

Elrond couldn’t nor wouldn’t ask that of his brother. After all, that same duty would fall on Elrond too, and Elrond had no interest in it. He was a Sindar only by ancestry. He also had no desire to lead people of any race. Leadership did not suit him, and he was glad helping Gil-Galad.

Elros was different. He was more confident, more firm in his decisions. People listened to him, and not only because his blood was that of all the great lords of Elves and Men. Kingship suited him. Elrond had seen years straighten his brother’s back, smooth his moods and gift him with a wisdom that still escaped Elrond. His brother was one to follow.

If only he hadn’t picked the road Elrond could never walk.

Elros smiled at him. “Will my little brother be able to handle himself while I’m not with him?”

“Perhaps I will have time to work without you bothering me every five minutes,” Elrond replied, trying to cover his feelings with as much sarcasm as he could.

-

A child. Elrond held his nephew in his arms, and looked at him in wonder. Elros’s child. Even with nine months to prepare himself, Elrond had not been ready to hold the boy.

“Isn’t he beautiful?” Elros said.

Elrond lightly bounced little Vardamir in his hands. “He luckily took from his mother.”

“May I remind you we look quite alike?”

“We both know I am beautiful one,” Elrond said.

“Say that to all the people who fell in love with me through the years.”

“You have no idea how many people would clamber on top of each other for my hand in Lindon.”

“That implies there are at least two of them.”

In truth, Elrond had no idea either. Marriage was not currently one of his concerns. Studying and transcribing all the lore that had survived the fall of Beleriand was a job that took most of his time, and likely would for many years. If anyone was in love with him, Elrond had no idea.

Vardamir started fussing. Unsure what to do, Elrond gave him back to his father. Elros took him in his already expert arms, gently cooing at his son to calm him down. There was such open love on Elros’s features.

It was not the only thing on them. Elros looked incredibly young for a Man his age, but he no longer showed the youth of Elves. He used to be moody in childhood, but he had become a happy Man, generous with his laughter and smiles. Crinkles were forming around his eyes. Elrond couldn’t say if his brother’s cheek still dimpled when he smiled widely, not with Elros’s beard covering his face.

“I wish one day you will feel this joy too,” Elros said, watching his son go back to his newborn sleep. “I have never been so happy as I am now.”

Elrond smiled. “Well, I couldn’t be the first to become a father, could I?”

“That’s right. Elders first.”

-

Elros’s great-granddaughters were clamoring around a tree. Mairen was trying to climb a tree, while young Yavien looked up.

“What is going on?” Elros asked, spotting them.

“Yavien threw her ball up here,” Mairen said. She tried to prevent her dress from getting stuck in the branches, but it was a losing battle. Yavien’s clothes were better suited for this sort of exercise, but Mairen was taller, and could more easily reach that high.

Elrond looked up, spotting the toy stuck where one large branch forked. “Climb down. I’ll get it.”

He deftly jumped on the branches. His clothes were not made for this, either, but Elrond had a long, long experience climbing trees. Besides, he had more balance and coordination than either of the two girls, and not only because Mairen was still an adolescent and Yavien a child. They were Elf enough that one might spot it, if they looked closely, but they didn’t have the same innate grace the children of Elves did.

Elrond pushed the ball down. “There you do.”

Yavien grabbed it. “Thank you, uncle!”

Elrond smiled at her. It still felt unbelievable at times that Vardamir was a grandfather. Elrond still remembered him as a babe as if it were yesterday. Amandil and Nolondil should still, by all means, be children. Elrond wondered how many generations of his brother’s descendants he would see.

Elros was waiting for him when he climbed down. “Thank you. I would have had to do it myself, weren’t you here.”

“Have you forgotten how to climb trees in these years? For shame. I should bring you to the woods for a while.”

“I’m afraid my knees would not appreciate.”

“Why?”

Elros’s smile held the same shape of his old mischievous grin, his eyes a hint of sadness. “I’m an old man. I cannot hope to keep up with my little brother.”

“Half an hour,” Elros said, turning away from his brother, away from the wrinkles slowly forming on his face, away from the first touches of grey in his hair.

“Half an hour is an eternity. My age is starting to catch up with me, I fear. My joints occasionally have the most annoying complaints.”

Elrond didn’t want to hear about it.

-

Vardamir silently led him to the grave. He spoke no words, and Elrond was grateful, for he didn’t want any.

Elros had said he wanted his burial to be simple. No great buildings, only a grave. He had been born among refugees and raised in forests and war camps, he didn’t wish for a grand monument when the bones of his more renown ancestors rested at the bottom of the ocean. That was what he always said.

King Elros of Numenor would be remembered for Ages. Forever. It was Elrond’s duty to make sure of it.

Vardamir left him, leaving him be. A grey stone box surrounded Elros’s body. He had been laid there upon his death, three weeks ago. Elrond had been in Lindon when it had happened, and even with the fastest ship had only gotten here now. Vardamir said Elros’s death had been sudden and without warnings. Elrond still wished he had known, that he had been able to come here in time to say his goodbye as Elros left.

He sat down, his back against cold stone. He wished he had seen Elros one more time. He was almost tempted to open the grave, to reach inside and drag his brother out, with dark hair and a smooth face as he used to be once.

He knew that after so many days what was in that grave would not bear be looked at.

“You know,” Elrond said, his throat closing up. “I never truly wished to be older.”

Older by three weeks now. Elros had been right when he had said even half an hour was a true eternity.

[sunflowersupremes]

I think I've made like, two sarcastic comments about how I'm glad the Finarfin you've mentioned isn't the Finarfin from my stories (or at least in the splinters like jewel shards verse) but I don't think I've asked, do you have any headcanons on Finarfin? I'm interested if you'd like to share any!

-@outofangband

@outofangband

Yes!!! I remember that comment. I also hope he’s a bit nicer than the Finarfin from Return in Chains, one of my fics (although that Finarfin isn’t evil… just… makes questionable decisions out of desperation, which is basically the Finwean Family Pastime).

I LOVE FINARFIN.

He thinks “Finarfin” (aka Finwe-Ara-Finwe) is a terrible name and can’t believe his brother would have done such a stupid thing. (He also thinks “Fingolfin” is a terrible translation).

After all his relatives took off and left them, he got put in charge of not only the country, but also literally everyone’s CRAP. Meaning, as the only remaining member of the house of Finwë, he had to figure out what to do with all the houses and possessions they left behind. He ended up boarding them up and leaving them, in the hopes that they would come back one day (elven possessions don’t rot or decay, after all).

The only time he used one of his relatives homes after they left was gifting Maglor’s house to Celebrían when she arrived. By that time he had accepted that Maglor would never return, and he figured she had the best claim to it (and it had the largest garden, which he knew she would like, and it was in the artist’s district which she loved). When Elrond actually managed to drag Maglor back with him, Arafinwë was SHOCKED. Thankfully, Maglor was fine with him gifting it to her and just moved in with them.

He just generally seems like he wants the best for everyone. I don’t think he’s a coward, I think he’s just very cautious (and he has a bit of foresight, which means he probably saw that the future would be WORSE if he went as well). I also like the idea that part of his reason for staying was ‘get on the Valar’s good side so I can eventually convince them to help’ not realizing that by the time they helped his entire family would be dead.

He has a great sense of humor and is generally a fun guy to be around. His assorted relatives know they’re always welcome at either of his homes (he has one in Tirion and one in Aqualonde) even if he’s not there himself. Half the time he gets back from vacation to find at least two random nieces/nephews chilling in his house.

He and Maglor both have a similar grasp of emotions and Osanwe. Maglor uses his gifts to fuck with people; Finarfin tries to use his to help people. He spends a lot of time going around fixing all the people Maglor has screwed with.

Arafinwë annoys Maglor precisely because he can see through Maglor’s attempts at manipulation. Maglor tried to trick him into doing something once and Finarfin calmly said ‘if you wanted attention you only had to ask’ (that, of course, was HIGHLY OFFENSIVE as far as Maglor was concerned).

Arafinwë does not want the crown. It is a running joke in Tirion that whenever someone from the line of Finwë is reborn or sails, he tries to give them the crown (it is true, actually, but no one else wants the thing either). He even tries to give it to Maglor once he turns up.

His attempt at inventing democracy backfired when he was elected.

Nerdanel becomes very close to him during the First Age while they bond over missing their children.

He keeps a memorial in the palace garden, with markers - made by Nerdanel - for every fallen member of the house of Finwë. They even add a marker for Gil-Galad after the Last Alliance even though no one has any idea who the fuck he is or if he’s related. The memorials are kept even after the dead are re-embodied, as a reminded of ‘that dumb thing you did that one time’

He makes annual trips to the Halls of Mandos just to ‘chat’ with Namo (and subtly inquire as to when he’s going to be getting his relatives back). Finrod’s release was, in part, to try to appease Arafinwë, but all it did was make him more determined that he COULD get the rest of his family back.

He informs Namo that no, no you will NOT be keeping my brother and his children until the Second Music, thank you very much. (Namo points out that their Fëar are very badly damaged, Arafinwë asks why the fuck Namo thinks that he - as a Vala - is best equipped to heal people who hate his guts)

Fëanor gave him a pet swan when he was five because Fëanor thinks swans are assholes and expected it to terrorize his younger brother. Instead Arafinwë befriended the swan and trained it to bite Fëanor on command.

Arafinwë typically doesn’t eat meat, the only exception is fish.

He can’t figure out why the Valar put Eönwë in charge of the host. I mean, he’s a great guy and a terrifying fighter, but he seems to have a few screws loose.

Elrond and Elros’ return to Gil-Galad was only because of Arafinwë. Maedhros and Maglor didn’t trust the host of the Valar, but Arafinwë sent them a letter promising to personally watch over the twins and arguing that they would be safer with the Host. Because of this, Elrond and Elros resented him for a long time, blaming him for taking them away from their adopted family.

Arafinwë spent a good chunk of the War of the Wrath keeping Eönwë from accidentally causing Diplomatic Incidents or Other Minor Catastrophes. The rest of the War was spent trying to work how the the fuck he’s related to Gil-Galad. He still isn’t sure, he’s pretty sure Fingon might have just picked up a random kid somewhere. Or he might be a Fëanorian, but he kind of hopes NOT. He loves his half-brother, but holy fuck.

It was his idea to turn Morgoth’s crown into a collar, because he was fucking pissed off by that point. It was mostly a joke, but Eönwë, being a himbo, went with it.

He was attempting to negotiate either the return of the Silmarils OR a different way to end the Oath when Maedhros and Maglor stole the Silmarils from Eönwë’s camp. One of the guards they killed was a childhood friend of Arafinwë. Arafinwë already had rooms waiting for Maedhros and Maglor back in Tirion, because as soon as he got them on a boat he was planning to take them straight home, whether that was the Valar’s plan or not.

Arafinwë had managed to arrange a pardon for Galadriel, but she was still angry and proud and announced that she didn’t want it, thus resulting in her getting a personal ban.

He knew Galdalf before he went to Middle Earth and gave him a very long list of things to tell Galadriel, most of which amounted to ‘get over yourself and apologize to the Valar so you can come home you fucking idiot (and please tell Elrond hello, he’s a lovely child, really)’

He adores the Hobbits and can’t believe Elrond managed to bring them. Gandalf who? He gives his grandson-in-law all the credit, thank you very much.

[arrivisting]

some v. rough writing from yesterday I’ll probably not use in the end

They were standing back to back in the camp, surrounded by enemies: by furious Elven and Eldar, by accusing eyes familiar and strange. There was blood on Maedhros’s sword. He hadn’t wanted to kill the guard – he’d barely seemed of age, blond like so few of the Noldor were, wide-eyed. His mouth had opened in a shout above the new slit in his throat, then disgorged blood rather than sound.

There were people all around them, shouting. Someone was crying. They pressed around him and his brother, but didn’t touch them. Did they fear their swords, or fear them, like a foul contagion belched out of Angband?

They were going to have to cut a way out. He could tell Maglor knew it. His brother was stiff and alert behind him. They couldn’t hope to win. They’d fight anyway. They’d fight these angry Elves he didn’t dare look at too closely, lest he recognise them; they were trained to deliver death. This crowd might hold back. Maedhros and Maglor would cut their way out, killing until they were killed in turn; until someone in the crowd got over squeamishness about slaying their own kind and put an end to them.

Maedhros was tired. He hoped they killed him before they killed Maglor, which all but made certain they wouldn’t.

“Fall back,” said a clear voice. It had the bright quality of a Valarin bell, the kind that had rung out whenever the Mingling began, back in Valinor, before the darkness. “Do not harm or hinder them.”

“They have the Jewels,” someone said, and in their voice was grief. “They killed again for them. They slipped into our tents like shadows and left like thieves.”

“They are indeed thieves and murderers,” the Ainu said. Eonwe, with his clarion throat and golden skin, his eyes too light a blue to be natural. His pale hair clasped the shape of his skull in licks like feathers. There were no pupils to his eyes. “But judgment upon them is for the lords and ladies of the Māchananaškad: it is not for you, nor yet even for me.”

The crowd had parted for him as he spoke, falling back before the faint light of his inviolate flesh. They flinched from touching his silver armour or his white cloak with their imperfect hands, their rough bodies.

“The Jewels are our own,” said Maglor. His rich voice seemed less beautiful than usual, coming after Eonwe. “Our father’s. How can we steal what is ours already, unjustly withheld?”

“You have already had my answer on that,” said Eonwe.

There was light enough now that Maedhros could see, in the silver radiance of Eonwe’s form, in the red flare of the torches, faces he recognised, if he dared pick them out.

He didn’t want to.

They were pressing forward, however, through the crowd, into the empty spaces left by others falling back in obedience. There were faces he knew from brighter days in Himring and in the Gap, in Thargelion and in Himlad, from the long bleak years after the Tears. People he had trusted, and led into battle, and lived with side by side; who had turned from his banner after Sirion. Some had merely left, streaming away like lost pearls of mercury: that they had come in the end to Balar was to be expected. Those looked at their former lords with sorrow, with horror.

The ones who had not only turned away but had taken up their arms to protect the innocents of Sirion from their lords: there was horror there, certainly, but a certain hard conviction which wasn’t exactly pleasure. They had seen the end of the road. They had swerved in time. They had been right to be foresworn.

There was one of Turgon’s lords, clutching a spear. Maedhros remembered leaving him wounded but alive after Sirion. They’d killed another one then, hadn’t they? Egalmoth, who’d still been wearing his silly helmet, all gleaming silver, twisting back into a crest shaped almost like a flower.

The last lord of Gondolin’s eyes were accusing.

And there was his cousin, Artanis, with her golden hair half-pinned like she’d risen from sleep, her eyes hard.

He turned from her to one of the flint-eyed Sindar looking at him and his brother as though they were Orcs out of legend: monsters who had fallen first on Doriath and then on Sirion, sawing at the thin silver line of their royal family until it fractured and snapped. That was fair, he thought. He could bear that judgment.

Then – no. No.

“Oh,” Maglor said, in desperate negation. “Oh, no; oh, why did they have to be here?”

That was Maglor: still believing, despite himself, that things might be all right. Still believing that they might sue the Valar for pardon, and one day be forgiven. Still not sure why every chance turned in their hands, why every arrow went astray: why everything was always the worst it could be, every shade of softness extinguished by darkness.

Of course they were all there.

Elrond and Elros. Half-grown, halfway between Elves and men, looking white and shocked. Their sweet, fierce fosterlings with their starling-bright eyes, still wearing their Feanorian motley. It hurt that they were still dressed in drab, little eaglets in sparrow’s guise. They should have been hung with gold and jewels at last, like the princes they were. Why weren’t they?

Celebrimbor, a ghost from the past with their father’s face and eyes entirely his own. The only one of them to escape the net of the Doom. He was reproach itself, the example they could not – would not? – follow. And he was weeping, quietly, and dashing the tears from his eyes with the back of his wrist as though they shamed him.

And, coming forth to stand at Eonwe’s side, shoulder to shoulder – stern, tall, dark-haired – a young man who looked only as old as the twins, although he had been born long before. Gil-galad, High King of the Noldor.

Of course the High King was there, a perfect Fingolfinian in his blue and silver. His battered steel armour and dark blue surcoat were littered with silver stars. He was large: as tall as the Ainu, and broader in the shoulders than Fingon or Fingolfin had ever been.

He had Fingon’s square jaw, but there was something delicate in the modelling of his cheekbones, his mouth: as though some sculptor had been at work refining all the details. Maedhros couldn’t stop looking at him.

He could feel Maglor’s confusion blooming beside him in the dark, then abating. He could guess at the shape of his brother’s thoughts, if not the words:

Why is he so stuck on Orodreth’s boy, when Elrond and Elros are right there?  I suppose it’s the resemblance: he looks a little like Fingon, doesn’t he? Is he imagining Fingon now, risen from the dead to judge him? I’m tired of him flogging himself with Fingon’s ghost. It’s not so close a likeness, anyway. It’s mostly the colouring and the colours. They do say he was Fingon’s, and I can see why they might; if I didn’t know better…

The grown Gil-galad’s eyes were like stars. Cold, and furious, and burning.