#the silmarillion fic

[autumnshighlady]

Am I Making You Feel Sick?

Celegorm x reader

summary: Celegorm has taken things too far, and you're both pushed to the breaking point and things get heated

warnings: THIS IS NOT A HAPPY ENDING FIC! celegorm is an asshole and reader matches his energy, borderline emotional abuse

fic based off of the song Strangers by Ethel Cain

word count: 2.8k

request: you are such an amazing author, i am in awe of your writing! if you are accepting silm requests, can i request a celegorm x reader? we all know that this lil meow meow can be very rude and cruel, even to people he loves, especially when he's stressed :((( what if reader is his wife and lately tielko has barely paid her any attention, causing them to argument :(( and in the middle of the argument celegorm being celegorm gets impulsive and throws his wedding ring towards reader :(((( today i woke up and chose angst

DO NOT REPOST ANYWHERE

✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧

“Are you listening to a thing I’m saying?” You snapped at Celegorm, patience wearing thin. Your husband was pacing back and forth, his fists clenched and his blue eyes dark. His long, pale blonde hair was unkempt, hanging loosely around his face. Normally, your husband took care in his appearance, weaving and braiding intricate jewellery into his locks. When you had first met Celegorm all those centuries ago in Valinor, he was always dressed immaculately, a playful smirk on his face and a mischievous light in his eyes.

But there was no sign of the elf you married before you. There was no light or kindness in his face as he scowled at the marble floor, muttering to himself in Quenya and ignoring you. “I do not think Finrod will appreciate you wearing holes in his floors,” you added. “So stop pacing and talk to me.”

“We cannot stay here,” was all Celegorm said sharply for the tenth time that evening. “I will not be indebted to my pathetic cousin who is content to let a mortal man pursue that which belongs to my father.”

You sighed, rubbing your temples. Too naive you were to think that Celegorm and Curufin’s peace and gratitude to their cousin for sheltering them would last. You had lost count of how many times you had been relocated. Your husband was prideful, his refusal to accept help and be seen as weak becoming your downfall.

“And where do you propose we go, exactly?” All patience you had left was gone, and you crossed your arms and stood in Celegorm’s path, halting his incessant pacing. “Morgoth broke the siege, the Pass of Aglon has been taken, we have nowhere else to go. We have to stay in Nargothrond until we regain our strength. We suffered a heavy loss, my love–”

Celegorm’s eyes narrowed. “You have lost nothing,” he hissed. “It is I who have suffered. You weren’t on the damn battlefield.”

His words cut you like a knife. Normally you could handle your husband’s angry moods, fits of rage that would blow over as quickly as they came. But lately they have been more and more frequent, each one leaving a bitter taste in your mouth. Centuries of war and an endless quest had slowly chipped away at your husband like stonemasons on mountain rock. He had become a shell of the person he was when you fell in love with him, one that was harder to forgive with each argument.

“How DARE you?” You snapped, lifting your chin up to meet his gaze with equal fire. “You think I have not suffered amidst this ceaseless fighting? You think the constant war, the waiting on the edge of battle and having to pack up and move every decade has not had an effect on me? I may not be on the battlefield, but a piece of me is with you every time you go out there in that armour to try and get back some jewels. All because of that stupid oath.” 

To your fury, Celegorm merely rolled his eyes, turning away and striding over to the table by the bed in the guest room you were currently residing in. He grabbed the pitcher of wine, pouring yet another full glass and speaking with his back to you. “I will not have you whining about what you signed up for by marrying me,” he said dryly, taking a large swig from his goblet.

You scoffed, blood boiling. “Only you would call basic communication ‘whining’. I signed up for a marriage to the elf I loved. The elf who spent his days hunting and riding through the forest, who braided my hair in the morning and kissed me goodnight–”

Angrily, Celegorm slammed the goblet down onto the table, splattering droplets of red wine on the wooden table. They dripped down onto the pristine marble floor like blood from a wound. You flinched, stepping back as your husband stormed over to you. There was a mix of hurt and rage on his face as he grabbed your jaw in his hands, cupping your face. The gesture was anything but tender - it was possessive and dominant in a way that scared you. “Are you saying you don’t love me anymore?” He asked, voice trembling slightly.

Tears filled your eyes, but you refused to let them fall. “I’m saying that the elf I married and the one before me are not one in the same, and I do not recognize the latter.”

“That wasn’t an answer.” Celegorm said more sternly. “Yet it told me everything I needed to know.”

You shook your head, the grip your husband had on your jaw starting to ache. “Do not be like this. Do not make me your villain just because you want an enemy you can actually defeat and beat down.”

“The fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“It means you are losing this war, Tyelkormo. And you are taking it out on me and shutting me out because I am a reminder of all your mistakes. I am the face of your guilt and that is causing you to pull away from me because you cannot come to terms with everything you’ve done.” Your throat was thick with sadness, stomach churning at having finally uttered your darkest thoughts out loud. Never in any of your previous fights did you lay the truth so raw for your husband, ripping apart his delusions of grandeur and forcing him to face his reality.

Celegorm’s eyes darkened. “Everything I have done? It has all been for you, to end this quest so we can finally settle down and have a life together.”

You grabbed his wrists gently. “Do not lie to yourself, husband. You cling even now to thoughts of your own glory, and you are blinded by your own ambition.”

Celegorm growled and ripped your hands off of his wrists, releasing your jaw harshly and turning away. As you rubbed your jaw, the son of Fëanor continued his pacing angrily. “I swore an oath to my father–”

“As you did to me!” You yelled, voice echoing throughout the large chamber. Done you were with trying to reason with your husband. His anger and pain had festered like a wound for years, transforming and morphing into a dark and twisted creature that sought only the satisfaction of vengeance.

Celegorm matched your rage, throwing his hands up in frustration. “Why must you insist on my loyalty to one oath and my subversiveness to another?”

“Because one of those oaths is destroying you!” You crossed your arms in defiance.

“I cannot seem to figure out which one that is, as of late.”

You flinched as if Celegorm had struck you. The room felt still, as if any love between you two that was warming the space had been snuffed out. But your tears did not fall, to your surprise. Nor did you feel deeply wounded. You felt numb, as if those words he uttered had switched off all physical and emotional feelings. “If you feel our marriage is the oath that is ruining your life, then why are you still in it?” Was all you said, coldly.

Celegorm ran a hand through his ragged hair. “Why are you? If you feel shackled to this life then why stay with me?”

“Stop turning my questions around because you’re too much of a coward to answer them.”

He smouldered, that fiery rage inherited from his father blazing up within them. “I am no coward.”

“Yes, you are.” You let the words lash out of you, empathy gone. You wanted to hurt Celegorm, to make him feel a fraction of what you felt right now. “You are a coward who is too afraid of what others think. You are a coward who is too afraid to make the choice that you know deep down is right, a choice for which you refuse to make since it is easier to blame an oath you spoke in the fragility of youth all those centuries ago.”

Your husband angrily grabbed the table with the spilled wine, hurling it with all his might against the wall. The wood splintered and shattered with a loud crack, its broken pieces falling to the floor amidst the red liquid. “How dare you–” he began to yell but you cut him off angrily.

“Ah, yes, resorting to throwing things in a tantrum when I force you to see the truth,” you rolled your eyes and scoffed. “You really are your father’s son.”

Celegorm’s face went red, and he spoke through gritted teeth. “That is a compliment. My father was a great elf!”

“Your father was a fool,” you spat. “It was his arrogance, selfishness, and pride that got him killed, and I now see you will suffer the same fate.”

You did not stick around to hear your husband’s response as you brushed past him, slamming the door behind on your way out.

********************

The evening air felt good on your skin, the gentle water lapping at your feet. You sat on a flat rock by the edge of one of the cave’s pools, soft lantern light giving the area a yellow glow. It had been hours since your fight with Celegorm, and you had not crossed paths. You knew your husband would not be the first to apologise, not after everything you said. You were well aware that your words were hurtful, yet no guilt burdened your shoulders. It felt oddly freeing to finally explode like that, to throw words in his face instead of just being on the receiving end. 

Undoubtedly, Celegorm was sulking. Your husband’s temper was something you were always well aware of, and usually you were shielded from it. And for the last few decades, you had tried to understand his pain, to look at things from his perspective to justify his anger.

Yet now, you could not even do that. Celegorm’s madness had gone beyond your reach, the weight of his oath and actions dragging him down under the surface. You were no longer sure if you wanted to drown with him. A hundred years ago, you’d have walked through Angband for your husband. But now, you were tired of fighting. Tired of going to bed knowing that since you’ve been with him throughout this whole ordeal, you served as a walking reminder of the life he could no longer have. 

Celegorm would not be satisfied as Finrod’s guest for long, especially after the King allowed the human Beren to seek out a Silmaril with his blessing. You used to be able to predict how far Celegorm would go to get what he wanted, but now you were not so sure. Would he truly usurp his cousin in a mad scramble to gain control? You did not know.

Familiar footsteps sounded behind you. You didn’t have to turn around to know that Celegorm was standing behind you.

“Am I no good? He spoke quieter this time, sadness replacing the anger in his voice from earlier. “Am I simply not good enough for you anymore?”

You closed your eyes and sighed, refusing to turn and face him. “It is not a question of being good enough for me, my love,” you said gently. “It is a question of being good enough for yourself, of being the male I know you can be. Your endless pursuit of the Silmarils has been at the detriment of me, your brothers, your soldiers, everyone. Yet you keep pushing as if we do not matter.”

“You don’t understand,” he continued, his voice echoing up the chamber of Nargothrond’s caves. “I have to do this. It matters more than anything.”

“More than me?”

A cruel laugh sounded from behind you. “Ah, so we come to it long last.”

You frowned, pulling your feet out of the water and standing up to face your husband. There was no sorrow in his eyes, his mood changing like a storm amidst the flowery spring fields. “What does that mean?” You asked through narrowed eyes.

“It means I always knew that one day you’d ask me to choose between you and the Silmarils,” he said heartlessly, his voice callous and devoid of love. “I’m surprised it took you this long, in perfect honesty.”

Anger churned in your gut. “You have forced my hand into doing so!” You snapped, voice rising. “Am I supposed to live forever in your shadow as a slave to your mindless choices? To never prioritise my own happiness or seek a life outside of war and quests?”

Celegorm gritted his teeth. “Again, you knew what you were signing up for when you married me.”

“But did you know how far it would go? How many losses you would suffer, how many battles you’d lose and how many fortresses would be taken? If you had, would you have married me?”

“I love you!” Celegorm insisted, his blue eyes wide and wild. “I have always loved you and wanted you by my side. It matters not what we face as long as we are together.”

“Do you not hear your own words?” You were yelling once again. “The horrors we have faced have been partially your own doing, you fool! We have been made refugees Eru knows how many times already, been rationing food and living in fear all because of a war you did not start but have certainly helped uphold with vigour!”

“Keep your voice down, many listening ears are turning our way.” Celegorm hissed, glancing around and the shadows of elves scurrying past you in the distance, no doubt wanting to get away from the yelling.

“Good, let them hear us,” you said sternly. “Now they’ll see you exactly as you are.”

He scoffed, shaking his head. “And what is it, exactly, that I am, dear wife? A kinslayer? Murderer? Thief? I am many things but a liar is not one of them. I’ve always shown you exactly as I am, and you have accepted me until now. What has suddenly changed that entices you to hold this against me now?”

You threw your hands up in frustration. “Because you have not seen the error of your ways and refuse to change! I had hoped that as time went on you would mend that broken part of yourself and start choosing the path out of this darkness, but lately you have been rejecting that choice at every turn.”

“Everything I have done has been for a reason! There has been no error of my ways, nor do I need to change! I am simply doing what I swore to do and should not be punished for ensuring I see it through! You have not seen what I have seen, and yet you judge me for my actions. You have not been my wife as of late but a burden I must carry around, one that I can never make happy.” Celegorm’s rage was almost animalistic, like a wounded lion lashing out with anger. “If I’m such a horrible male, then go find someone better.”

With his final words, he yanked off the sapphire wedding ring from his finger, throwing it into the pool. You exhaled in shock, something inside of you breaking as the small but steady stream swept the ring away, carrying it into the deep crevices of the rock never to be seen again.

With a deep sadness, you looked into his eyes. The anger had subsided, and they were now wide as if for the first time in the entire argument, he couldn’t believe his actions. It was like a candle inside of you had been snuffed out - no longer was a scrap of the elf you fell in love with residing within the one before you. The Celegorm you loved was truly gone, replaced by a dark, angry shell of who he once was.

“You’re pathetic,” was all you whispered in disgust as the shock on his face changed into desperation.

“Shit, wait,” Celegorm pleaded, grabbing your hand and trying to hold it within his own large ones. “I didn’t mean–”

“Yes, you did mean it.” You ripped your hand out of his grip before turning to leave. After a few steps, you paused, as if some final hope within you wanted him to follow.

But he didn’t.

You sighed, turning to face your lover for the last time. “Consider yourself freed from the burden of our marriage,” you said coldly. “I hope you get those Silmarils you seek so desperately, and when you finally hold them all you can think of is what it cost you. And as the blood on your hands from the kin you have slain stains their precious light, and all that you hold dear is gone and turned to ash, I pray that you think back on our courtship. I hope the image of me haunts your every waking moment; and not even Lórien himself can banish the ghost of my memory, even as it walks amidst your dreams. I hope the mere thought of me makes you feel sick until the end of time itself.”

[onthesandsofdreams]

The Gift

Fandom: The Silmarillion Pairing: Celebrimbor x fem!Reader Prompt: Aquamarine by @fluffburary

Read @ AO3

Celebrimbor arrives at your door soon after the sun has set.

"I come bearing a gift," he says.

And he is so happy and proud of himself, that you do not have the heart to tell him that he does not need to be giving you gifts at the drop of a hat. Still, you appreciate that he does, how could you not? Celebrimbor's craftsmanship is without par. Not to mention, he has excellent taste. You still love the silk shawls he gifted you when you began courting, not done by his hand, but carefully chosen and crafted with you in mind.

You smiled up at him (damn Feanorians and their height!), "Very well then, come on in. Food's near done, we could eat after."

He follows you inside and settles comfortable in your table. He looks like he belongs, it's something that's very him. He can be princely one moment, the other is just a smith - drench in sweat and dirty, the other, just an elf sitting in a small cottage. Truly, he contains multitudes and you like every one of them.

"Here," he says and pushes forward a small satchel. "Hope you like them."

You raise a brow as you take it. There is some weight to it, not enough to be truly substantial, but enough to be noticeable. You open it with careful fingers, empty it on your hand and cannot help the gasp that leaves you. In the palm of your hand, there is a pair of aquamarine earrings.

They have the shape of an open flower, it's petals glinting with the stones. At it's center, a yellow stone. "They're beautiful!"

"Truly? You like them?"

"Like them? I love them!" You beam at him, clutching the earrings to your chest. It's never been about the amount he spends or gives you, it is that his gifts are always thoughtful and tailored to you. This pair of earrings are no exception. You begin to put them on. "They are the most beautiful pieces I've seen! And certaintly, I own."

He's watching you as you put your earrings on. Then, he gives a satisfied nod, "They suit you better than I thought they would."

You go to him, and kiss his cheek. "I will always love and treasure them, thank you, meleth."

He looks at you, gray eyes soft and with a tiny smile grazing his handsome features. He caresses your cheek with such tenderness, it makes you lean into his touch. "Good, because I made them for you."

"And I shall wear them proudly!"

And is true. But not because they are valuable, but because he spent time creating the design and making them for you. That's what's important. And all the love you have for him is something you'll send forever giving him back.

[thyras]

→ twistedly his

PAIRING → mairon | sauron x thuringwethil

WARNINGS → 18+ only MDNI - implied non-con, unprotected p in v, fingering, oral, obsession, manipulation, one-sided love, betrayal, fall from grace, heartache, blood drinking, vampirism, mentions of torture

SUMMARY → She has always harbored a fascination with him, even desired him. But what she became was more than he could have ever foreseen: twistedly devoted, consumed by her love for him. In that devotion, she follows him over the edge into a world of darkness, only to stumble upon the truth. The truth that would eventually be her end.

PARTS → twistedly devoted - twistedly ruined - twistedly deceived - twistedly broken - twistedly remembered (epilogue)

[dynamicdiplomacy]

New Fic Alert!

The Mirth and Melancholy

Fandom: Lord of the Rings, The Silmarillion

Characters: Elrond, Celebrían, Glorfindel, Ecthelion of the Fountain, Turgon, Melian, Thingol, Maiar

Relationships: Elrond/Celebrían, Glorfindel/Ecthelion of the Fountain

Summary: They've sailed out of the harbour, they're on their way. So why does it feel like there is more than just an ocean in the way of peace. Why does it feel like there's a whole lifetime?

Elrond, Glorfindel, and Ecthelion have left Middle Earth for the glorious homecoming they have been promised in Aman. But the path is never easy, not when there's a ghost involved.

The Sequel to The Tragic and Peculiar

Tags: Ghosts, Ghosts in Aman, Hurt/Comfort, Sign Language, Mute Character, BAMF Elrond, Friendship, Whump, Fourth Age, Angst with a Happy Ending, Can't spell Hurt/Comfort without 'ouch', Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Romance, Flashbacks, Grief/Mourning, Fall of Gondolin

This fic is fully completed and will be updated weekly.

Available on AO3:

[searchingforserendipity25]

finarfin, snow and trust (if you want!)

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

-

Taniquetil froze the blood before it fell. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[blueflipflops]

Have you ever read a really good fic then looked up the author's other works and lo and behold a treasure trove of fics that are exactly your kind of shit? Because god that is what euphoria feels like. I love you random fic writers i unexpectedly find

[fawningbruises]

To see their light, reflected in your eyes.

[whovianofmidgard]

Fated Ends

For Day 3 of @maedhrosmaglorweek

I was inspired to try this kind of poetry by @two-bees-poetry 's work, specifically this and this. And man oh man is it a lot harder than it looks.

Poem is also available on Ao3

[thesummerestsolstice]

Broke: Gondolin was a serious, conservative, prudish city.

Woke: The Gondolindrim were stuck in one city for 400-ish years with no Morgoth threatening them and basically nothing do to. If anyone in Middle-Earth was entertaining themselves with festivals and ragers, it was them. We're talking drunken moshpits, people getting thrown into fountains, endless romantic intrigue between most of the Lords, the whole nine yards.

Bespoke: The Gondolindrim were party animals but they all agreed that what happens in Gondolin stays in Gondolin and never talked about the parties after the fall; which is why Gondolin gets a reputation for being so serious and boring. Most of the Gondolindrim, and especially Turgon, think this is hilarious.

[astral-aromance]

Grandchildren

Imagine being Nerdanel, sure that your family is lost to you forever. You're completely alone. Even after over 6000 years, your bed still feels empty without your husband there. There's no noise in the kitchen where the brothers are fighting over the last apple, despite all of them knowing there's a whole apple tree right outside the window. No smoke coming from the smithy, no papers with blue prints and miracles scattered around. No dog hair clogging up the drain. No music at 3 am. Nothing.

But then, one day, this Elf shows up at your door. He's shorter than usual, and he looks older than you have ever seen an elf look. He says, "I'm your grandson," and suddenly, you are not completely alone anymore. Elrond is nice, you like him. The music room gets used again, even if only a little. It brings you joy.

A few decades go by, and a Raven brings you a summon from Mandos. You except Tyelpë is finally coming home to you, but instead, it's an elf you have NEVER met before. Tall, stoic, and dark-haired, Nolofinwëan in all ways, but his eyes are unmistakably those of your husband. Those of your eldest son. He is just as surprised to see you there, as is Anairë, but you work it out. Turns out Ereinion and Elrond always thought of one another as brothers, now they actually are. One morning, you go downstairs for tea, and you hear the King yell at the Lord about stealing his strawberries off his plate.

Elrond goes to the havens to meet his sons. Surprisingly, the Seagull carried a summon for you as well. Two identical faces greet you, and your heart stings with old grief. You turn to leave, but spot something unusual. Another Peredhil, shy and distancing himself from the others. He looks like Elrond in hair and build, but... Elrond didn't have any other children, did he? One of the twins tugs on his arm and tries to pull him into the crowd, and the newcomer scowls at him. His face turns bright red. Soon after, you find detailed descriptions of Finarfin's failure as a king when it comes to finances on your coffee table.

Tyelpë returns too, turns out he knew all of them, and they get along great. Maybe a little too well, because they start shutting you out. They stop talking when you walk into the room. They hastily hide documents beneath their robes when you pass them. You don't know what they're up to, but at least your house isn't silent anymore, and the forge burns again.

You realise that they are indeed of your house when it comes to stubborn determination when on a quiet Tuesday afternoon 8 Ravens show up to your house with summons, and none of the grandchildren seem surprised.

You are happy as you step out the front door toward Mandos, carrying a basket with 8 sets of robes, a blanket, cups, some bread, some cheese, and a very strong bottle of wine.

[balrogballs]

I'm still sad about this heartwarming and mildly amusing little section where feral adolescent Aragorn brings some joy to Maedhros in his unhinged little way, which I had to cut out of Cast in Stone for structural reasons, especially as I had gone to the trouble of illustrating it!

But I realised it reads perfectly fine standalone, so you guys can have my crumb of Maedhros-joy instead. No context required: Maedhros and Maglor are temporarily staying in the Shire during the late Third Age, Maedhros had a horrible night of traumatic dreams and was being maudlin — until young Aragorn, aka Elros II and the bane of his life, turns up like a bad penny, as he often does. Enjoy!

---

"You look unhappy," said Estel, sitting down before Maedhros, legs crossed. "Does your hand hurt? Surely it can't be as bad as when it got chopped off, can it?"

"No, but leave me be, Estel, I have —"

"All right, but let me ask just one question. I promise, then I'll go away. I just remembered something from my lessons, and every time I ask Ada he looks up at the sky and asks the Valar where he went wrong in raising me," Estel moved closer, looking around for eavesdroppers. "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to. But I would like to know."

Maedhros frowned, swallowed the lump in his throat and dragged in a breath. "What?"

"Fingon rescued you on one of those enormous eagles, didn't he? On that mountain with Morgoth and all of that. It was one of those, right? Manwë's Eagles."

"Yes. He did. I do not wish to answer any further questions on the matter, clear off."

"And it was quite a long journey, wasn't it?"

Maedhros grunted.

"I've always had a question about it… and again, you don't have to tell me if it's too traumatising," Estel's eyes shone, as though he were about to hear a state secret. "And I promise I won't tell anyone."

"Spit it out, boy, or leave me now. I am in the mood for neither company nor memory."

"Did it… you know…?"

"If you're trying to ask me if losing the hand hurt, yes it did," Maedhros snapped. "Now leave me alone, I've had enough reminiscing for a damned century. Get off home, now!"

"Oh, shut up, I wasn't asking about your stupid hand, I don't understand why you think everyone sits around thinking about your hand," Estel scowled, pursuing his lips, before deciding his quest for scientific knowledge was more important than whatever had crawled up Maedhros' arsehole and died. He widened his eyes conspiratorily, looked around again. "My question has nothing to do with that! I just wanted to know, did the eagle… you know?"

"Estel, I am not going to repeat this, get out of my sight right this —"

"Did it take a shit?"

"Did… what?"

"Did it take a shit?" Estel flushed as he said the word, Elrond's parental touch finally taking hold, though in a predictably useless manner. "And if it did, how big was it? As in, was it normal bird crap, or was it, you know — like a bucketload of it?"

Maedhros blinked. Estel held his hands out to demonstrate.

"I've always wanted to know that about them, you know," the boy continued, stroking his chin like a philosopher. "Manwe's eagles, that is. Surely if they're big enough to carry two people, one being a towering beast like you, their droppings must be massive."

"What…?" Maedhros couldn't formulate words, a state of being Estel clearly had no familiarity with. "Their… what?"

"And yes, I know they're divine, all of that, but surely they can't be toilet trained, can they? I just don't see Manwë having enough time to toilet train an eagle, you know. Could you imagine just… going about your day, and having this massive tub of birdshite fall on your head? Oh, it could drown a person, I'm sure of it!" Estel grinned, as if said occurrence would be the best day of his life, had it happened to him. "So, did it? And if it did, did you see if it went on someone?"

Maedhros sat there blinking at the boy in complete silence before rising quietly, taking the now-extremely-familiar ear, and slowly — like he were a corpse — leading Estel to the village gate. He didn't say a word, only gestured weakly and put up three fingers, a signal the now sulky boy was very used to.

And as Estel, muttering darkly all the while, neared the completion of his first punishment-lap of three around the village green, he heard something that sounded like a donkey in immense pain. It was a sound so tremendous and unexpected that it brought Maglor running from the house, gaping at the source, having not heard such a thing in centuries. It was no donkey, but Maedhros in complete hysterics, sitting on the ground exactly where he was when he beckoned Estel to run, sobbing with laughter, actual tears pouring down his face, which itself was screwed up and flushed so pink he looked like he'd been badly sunburned. He was trying to explain the situation to Maglor (who had been glaring at Estel as if he had personally killed his brother, and now looked upon him like he was Iluvatar himself) but Maedhros was howling too hard to even stand, let alone form coherent words.

Estel pretended not to notice, and started on his second lap. Though objectively speaking, the laugh itself sounded like something between a foghorn, a pig and whatever noise he imagined Ungoliant would make — there was something rather lovely about it that brought an inexplicable little smile to his face.

[autumnshighlady]

Love You For Infinity

Elrond x adopted daughter reader

summary: you’ve been in a depressive episode for weeks, and your thoughts turn dark - luckily, elrond is there to help guide you 

warnings: depression, self harm thoughts, mention of suicide, VERY bad mental health

word count: 3.5k

requests: It’s taken me a year to finish this oneshot due to my mental health. It was a bit difficult to write for reasons I won’t get into, so i apologize for the long wait. If you can relate to the reader in this fic at all, please know that you are not alone, and you are loved <3

IF YOU ARE STRUGGLING WITH THOUGHTS OF SUICIDE AND ARE IN NEED OF HELP PLEASE REACH OUT TO A PROFESSIONAL OR A HOTLINE

DO NOT REPOST ANYWHERE

✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧

You wandered through the gardens, feeling the warm sunlight soak into your skin. It was a beautiful day – the flowers were in full bloom, their scents filling the spring air, countless colours surrounding you as you made your way down the cobblestone path. The aged moss and lichen draped the marble statues and carvings along the gardens, an ancient beauty contrasted with the new growth. But you could not bring yourself to enjoy the scenery, nor stop to smell the flowers you loved so dearly. For all their vibrance, they seemed dull, muted, despite their bright colours. The glowing sunlight that so many other elves basked in felt too hot, too invasive. The sweet spring scents were choking you, stifling their air in your lungs as you tried to breathe.

            You had once loved wandering through the gardens of Imladris. Now you felt nothing but indifference, the guilt of losing such a joyous area of your life gnawing at your gut. You used to spend hours in these gardens, soaking in the scenery and revelling in the nature around you, content to simply sit on one of the benches or lay down in the grass and let the sounds and scents of the environment wash over your mind.

Now, you could barely stand to walk through the familiar path. Still, it was an improvement, considering it had taken all of your strength to get out of bed this morning. The task alone was daunting, yet you felt no sense of accomplishment. Most days had been like this lately – sleepless nights tossing and turning, yet no motivation to get out of bed when the sun rose, no drive to get yourself ready for the day. Instead you would simply lay there, sheltered in the confines of your room, closing off the rest of the world.

You hated every minute of it. You hated the fact that you felt so useless, the weight of simply getting up being too much to bear. You loathed that no matter how hard you tried, you could not bring yourself to join your friends for breakfast or pick up a good book and read. You hated feeling so weak, so empty – your brain screamed at you to stop wasting away, to get up and do something, anything. But you just could not.

Hours of pondering and crying into your pillow was not enough to figure out why you felt this way. Nothing bad had happened, no traumatic event to set off this episode of pain and depression that felt neverending. You were simply an elf from the Woodland Realm, who had been sent to and raised in Rivendell after the darkness began to creep into what was once Greenwood the Great. You worked as a scholar in the libraries of Imladris, safe within the House of Elrond. You had not seen some violent war, as some of your peers had, nor had you known anyone close to you who died or suffered tragically. Your life was pretty much perfect, your days amounting to reading, art, and simply wandering the grounds – none of which warranting the pain which now seemed to have spread through your entire chest, threatening to cave it in and shatter every piece of you.

You brushed my finger against a rose carelessly, letting your hand wander down from the soft petals to the thorny stalk. You felt a sting of pain, a thorn snagging your pointer finger. Instead of wiping away the blood, you just stood there and dragged your finger further down the thorn, creating a longer red line, content to let droplets of blood spill onto the marble pavement, deep red contrasting with the white floors. At least I could still feel something, you thought bitterly, relishing in the pain slightly. At least you had not gone completely numb.

“My Lady?”

You turned at the sound of a familiar voice. Lord Elrond was standing a few feet behind you, clad in his regal silver robes. He wore no crown, yet still possessed that regal authority that he was so renowned for. You felt your gut twist as you saw the concern flood over his face as you turned your body to face him.

You could see in his eyes he knew something was wrong, but your body gave you away entirely. You knew your eyes looked hollow, framed by dark circles that sucked the life out of your face. Your dress was slightly too big, evidence of the weight you had lost in the past few weeks as you isolated yourself in your room. A sick part of you delighted in it, always having been insecure of your size. Your hair which was usually well-kept and styled hung loosely around your face, knotted and frizzy in some parts as it cascaded down your back.

To cover your shame, you bowed your head in formality. “My Lord Elrond.” You managed to say, staring at the pavement as you inclined your head, eager to get away from his piercing gaze.

Elrond sighed, visibly attempting to soften his gaze. “My dear, must I remind you again that you may simply call me Elrond?”

“My apologies, my Lord.” You mumbled, straightening up and finally meeting his gaze. He did not correct you. Instead, his eyes travelled down to your hand and the blood that still dripped from it.

“You are hurt.” Elrond stated, his eyebrows furrowing. He stepped forward, a gentle hand reaching out as if to assess the wound, but you found yourself stepping back.

“I am alright,” you said quickly, moving your hand back to your side. The blood smeared your midnight-blue robes, but you did not care. “I simply snagged my finger on a thorn. A careless mistake, that’s all.”

Elrond’s eyebrow raised, and dread filled your stomach as you knew he didn’t believe a word you said, or at least he did not buy the too-casual excuse you pulled out of your ass. Your relationship with Elrond had always been relatively close – as close as one can have with an elven Lord of Imladris. When you had arrived in Rivendell as a child, Elrond had ensured you were well cared for. He became involved in your life – often bringing you gifts and trinkets, showing you around the place. Reading to you evolved into him teaching you how to read, sitting at the table with you and his children at dinner. Elrond had taken a special interest in you, always finding a way to make sure you had everything you needed beyond what a normal elven lord would do for their people. Sometimes you wondered if this was due to him losing Celebrían right before you arrived, as if his protective instincts had doubled with wife’s departure to the Undying Lands. He could not spare her from torment, but he could do his best to make sure you never met the same fate. Things changed a bit as you grew older – not wanting to impose on the family he already had before you, you found yourself growing a bit distant. You had no desire to be a burden to him, you were not his blood nor did he raise you, but he still played a paternal role in your life. Even as you began to make a life for yourself in Rivendell, that kindness and care Elrond had shown you as a child prevailed. You and him still had walks in the garden, he still ordered books from other kingdoms he thought may interest you. It was complicated, as he was not your father per say, but he was all you had, and he was important to you. But at the same time, he was still the Lord of the town you had the privilege of residing in and living under.

Guilt clawed away at your gut as you realised how even more distant you had become in these past few weeks. You could not recall the last time you had a conversation with Elrond or sat down for dinner with him. Surely, he noticed your absence but did not want to intrude, trusting you to make your own choices and open up if you were ready.

But you were too far gone for that approach, and deep down you knew that he knew it too.

“That is more than a simple thorn prick, little one,” Elrond said, the concern on his face seeping into his voice. “If you will not tell me what happened, at least let me take care of it for you.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but quickly shut up. You knew from the look in his eyes he was not going to let this go. You gulped down your nausea that was produced by your stomach, which churned knowing where this conversation was headed.

Arwen had made attempts to get you out of your room lately, none successfully executed. You cried even harder as she softly knocked at your door, her gentle voice ushering you to come out and join her for breakfast. You knew it broke her heart when you did not answer, unable to even crawl out of bed and unlock the door. She and her father knew something was wrong but had waited for you to come forward to them about it.

You guess they had waited long enough.

With your non-bloody hand, you accepted Elrond’s outstretched arm and began to walk with him towards his quarters. He did not hold you close to him as he usually did, as if he was afraid getting too close would scare you off. Instead, you walked in silence, which you appreciated. Other elves bowed their heads at him as you passed, but you kept your eyes to the ground.

Five minutes later, Elrond shut the door to his room, grabbing some herbs, water, and bandages to tend to your wound. The silence prevailed, and you sat down on the bed and let him take your hand. He began wiping the blood off, waiting a few seconds before saying softly, “I am glad to see you in the gardens again. It has been a few weeks since I last recall you spending time there.”

You sat quietly, torn. Part of you wanted to break down in ugly sobs and explain the struggles of the past few weeks, to open the floodgates and let go of every horrible and depressing thing you had felt and thought you had over the last while. But the other part of you screamed at yourself to suppress it, to make yourself go numb, a practice you now excelled at. Deep down you knew you wouldn’t have to make that choice – Elrond could see right through you. You knew that one look into those kind eyes and you would crumble, so you looked at the floor.

“Arwen has not seen you lately either,” Elrond continued gently, beginning to wrap up your hand in soft bandages. “Neither have I, in fact. Are you sick, my dear?”

“I…” Your throat went dry as you tried to speak. Say something, come on, say anything, you screamed at yourself. But no words came out.

After tying the final knot, Elrond looked up. “I can tell that you are unwell. I understand that you are grown now, but you are still my little one, and I wish you would know that you can always turn to me in time of need.”

At his comforting voice, you involuntarily looked up and met his gaze. Seeing those kind, concerned eyes that had watched over you all of these years opened that gate inside of you that you had tried desperately to keep sealed for so long. Like a dam bursting, tears spilled down your cheeks and your body shook with sobs. The world around you stopped turning, leaving you enveloped in a flood of your own pain. Your chest hurt, feeling as if it was filled with cement. You felt lightheaded, gasping for air between sobs.

You couldn’t take it anymore. You couldn’t keep living like this. You were in so much pain you couldn’t handle it. You weren’t strong enough, it was going to kill you. Everything you felt raging inside of you was all-consuming, your own thoughts so loud and relentless, screaming at you all day and night to the point where you figured only death would release you from them. You were stuck in your own head, and the fight to swim to the surface was too exhausting to bear.

You felt movement, and the space on the bed beside you shifted as Elrond sat down. He wrapped one arm around you, cradling your head with the other and bringing you close to him. “It’s ok,” He murmured, stroking your hair and holding you as you sobbed uncontrollably. “It’s ok, little one. Let it all out.”

And so you did. You let yourself feel everything – the guilt of neglecting your job, the pain in seeing your friends give up their attempts to see you, the hateful thoughts about yourself that clouded your mind telling you that you were deserving of nothing good, all of it. You clung onto Elrond as you cried, feeling so overwhelmed that you may implode. “I can’t… I can’t, I can’t,” You managed to choke out between sobs. “It hurts so much, please make it stop, please make it stop, Ada.”

Ada.

You had never called Elrond ‘father’ before, always using his name or title. You did not want those around you to think you were getting special treatment, or to seem like you were expecting it. Before you could gather your wits and apologise, you felt him hold you tighter.

“It’s ok,” He repeated. “You are safe. You are strong. You can overcome this, but not if it is burning up inside of you. Let it all out, my dear.”

You nodded into his chest, your relentless chants of I can’t fading out as you slowly regained control over your breathing. The raging sea that was storming inside of you calmed down to a simple rocky surface, the weight of everything lifting off of your chest slightly. You stayed there for a few minutes, letting Elrond hold you close as you calmed down.

He had done so much for you, more than you could ever hope to repay him for. Yet here you were, crying like a child despite the perfect, safe life he had worked so hard to provide you with. What a fucking ungrateful brat, you thought to yourself bitterly, allowing yourself a cruel sob.

You managed to peel yourself away from Elrond, sitting upright. You put your head in your hands, wiping away your tears as you took a shaky breath. His hand remained over your shoulder, rubbing in comforting circles. “I am sorry.” He murmured.

You laughed half-heartedly. “What are you sorry for? I’m the one who should be sorry, not you.”

“You have nothing to apologise for,” Elrond said softly, but firmly. “I am sorry because I should have noticed this sooner. I should have noticed that you were hurting and found a way to help before you suffered this much. I failed you.”

You pried your head from your hands and turned to face him, and your heart nearly broke. The noble elven lord looked so sad, so guilt-ridden at the sight before him. An elf who had seen thousands of years of suffering, who had lived through the most brutal wars in Arda’s history, looked more defeated than ever as he looked at you. That guilt churned inside you again as you realised you had caused this. “You have far from failed me, Elrond.” You said quietly. “You have given me everything, more than I could ever ask for. I have no reason to be this sad or act this way.”

Elrond cocked his head, brushing the hair out of your face. “Is that what you truly think?” He asked gently. “That you need a reason to be sad?”

“Uh…yes?” You said, puzzled. “There is nothing in my life that is going wrong, or even remotely horrible. I have not been traumatised by battle or had to run from a sword. My village was never raided by orcs, I have never known hunger nor harsh winters. I truly have nothing to be sad about.”

Elrond paused for a minute, contemplating your words. “Just because you have not fought in war does not mean you have not suffered,” He said. “You are a young elf; you are allowed to feel whatever your heart feels. Circumstance does not spare you from pain or suffering. Things like this are not always the result of war or hardship. Sometimes we hurt for no reason, and no amount of explanation will reassure us nor will it change what we feel in our hearts.”

You sighed, cheeks damp. “It doesn’t make me feel any less ungrateful. I’ve never even been courted. Nobody has ever looked at me like that. All of my friends have been shown that type of affection, except me. I don’t understand what makes them worthy of it and not me.”

“You are young, little one. You have centuries ahead of you to find whatever love you may wish. You’ve only met a fraction of the people who will come to love you. Give yourself time, allow yourself to be comfortable in your own skin. I know it is easier said than done. If you cannot be at peace with yourself, no soul in this world can fill that void for you.”

You swallowed thickly. He was right – you felt like a stranger in your own body. Like the bones and flesh beneath your skin belonged to another. But sitting here with the elf who had been a pillar in your life for as long as you remembered, you began to feel more at ease within yourself. You sniffled, wiping your tears from your face with the back of your hand. Elrond reached into his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief, dabbing at your cheeks gently.

“Someday,” he said softly. “Someone will love you exactly how you deserve to be loved. I did not meet my wife until I was 1759, and even then, I loved her in secret for many a century.”

 Arwen had told you stories of her mother. It always brought a deep sadness to her eyes as she remembered her mother’s grim departure to the Undying Lands. You knew the tale all too well, for talk of the tragedy Elrond had been faced with travelled all the way to the Woodland realm. When you had first arrived in Rivendell, the wound Celebrían’s departure had cut him deep. It took years of you getting to know him before his eyes went from hollow to bright. One day, you had snuck a book from the library on the elves of the First Age. It was then when you stumbled across Elrond’s story, a sad pain in your heart as you read about him and his brother’s early years during the wars and the period that followed.

“I’m sorry,” you said after a few moments. “About your wife. And everything that has happened to you.” You weren’t sure what had prompted you to say that, for you blurted out the words before you could stop and think. Elrond had never discussed his past with you besides the occasional story told in the grand scheme of sharing wisdom and life lessons.

But there was no defensiveness, for Elrond simply put a hand on your shoulder. “Thank you,” was all he said.

The two of you sat in silence for a few minutes, the only sound being your hitched breath as you calmed your breathing down. A slight weight had been lifted off your shoulders, lessening the crushing feeling in your chest. For weeks, you had feared Elrond finding out about your depressive episode and thinking less of you for it. Deep down, you knew that was illogical, but the thought had haunted you nonetheless.

“I want to help you, my dear,” Elrond said, grabbing your hands and looking at you with all the love and care a father would. “But only if you will have it. If you do not wish for my interference, I understand and will be there if you need me. But I urge you not to walk this path alone.”

“I don’t know if there’s anything you can do,” you said quietly.

“I cannot change what you feel in your heart and soul. But there are little changes, perhaps, we can make to get you on the right path. If you would like, I shall have our breakfasts delivered to your room, and I may join you for breakfast and then we can go on a walk. It does not have to be long, nor strenuous. Simply something to get you up and moving at the beginning of the day. Once you climb that step, you may find things become much easier.”

Emotion clogged your throat. “You would do that for me?”

Elrond gave you a gentle smile. “For you, anything. I may not have fathered you, but you are my family. And I will move heaven and earth just to make you closer to the stars if that’s what would make you happy.”

[onthesandsofdreams]

Ever Love [2/?]

Fandom: The Silmarillion Pairing: Celebrimbor x Reader Prompt: #28 from @fictober-event

On AO3

"'Just say what you want to say Tyelpe', what kind of advise is that?" Celebrimbor grumbled to himself as he went over paperwork in his desk.

"How can I tell Y/n that I am mad about them? How could I properly express my affection and devotion to them? I could do piece of work they asked of me, I would give them my very soul and yet… words are not enough. I am not my uncle Maglor, who could have them swooning in no time with truth spoken. I am no bard to properly express my love.

"I wish I could have some of the courage that my grandfather had, to simply stand in front of them and tell them what lies in my heart. Alas, I did not inherited that fire. If only I could borrow it, only just so I could tell Y/n that I love them."

A cough made his head snap upwards, only to find you standing there at the door, a tray of food in your hands. He felt his eyes widen, how much had you heard?! He cleared his throat, hoping that his voice did not quiver when he spoke. "Yes, Y/n?"

You walked in, set the tray in the small table he kept in his office. And then, you walked towards him, beamed and said, "I love you too, Tyelpe."

He felt his heart fit to burst.

[thyras]

→ twistedly ruined

PAIRING → mairon | sauron x thuringwethil

WORD COUNT → 8k words

WARNINGS → 18+ only MDNI - implied non-con, fingering, obsession, manipulation, one-sided love, betrayal, fall from grace, heartache, deception, blood drinking, vampirism, torture

SUMMARY → She has always harbored a fascination with him, even desired him. But what she became was more than he could have ever foreseen: twistedly devoted, consumed by her love for him. In that devotion, she follows him over the edge into a world of darkness, only to stumble upon the truth. The truth that would eventually be her end.

AUTHORS NOTE → hi remember how I said this was only going to be a two parter? Welp it's three now. I am just enjoying them so much I can not stop writing them. I have breathed life into this story and gotten carried away. I am devoted to them now and I will see myself out with this pair because honestly did not know I needed this. Welp it's gonna get spicier and more angsty cause we know just how this story ends.

ao3

It had all begun so innocently.

A quiet fascination. A touch. A flame.

But beauty, when twisted by secrecy and desire, had teeth.

And as the pieces of Elenwë’s life began to unravel—thread by thread—no one, not even she, was prepared for what would come next.

Her fingers fidgeted with the edge of her gown, smoothing fabric that didn’t need smoothing, trying to calm hands that wouldn’t stop trembling. She walked the length of the great hall, its golden inlays and glittering light now feeling cold, distant. She had been summoned—but not through her usual channel, not by the usual words.

And when Eönwë himself had come to her door, waiting in silence, she had known something was wrong.

She had dressed quickly, robes carefully chosen, twisted and secured her hair with trembling hands. Her appearance was pristine—as though presentation alone might shield her from whatever judgment awaited.

But still, her heart pounded.

The halls of their master and mistress were still beautiful, still radiant, yet the light felt different. Dimmed. Her brother walked beside her, but he was silent, his steps too slow. Measured. He did not look at her.

They used to talk as they walked these halls. Share thoughts. Debate the patterns of the stars, the harmonics of the Song. But now, silence pressed between them like stone.

“Brother?” she asked, voice quieter than she intended. “Has something happened?”

Still, he did not speak.

Elenwë reached out, desperate for anything familiar, and placed her hand on his arm. Her touch stopped him. He turned his head slowly, looking down at her—and when their eyes met, her breath caught in her chest.

His crystal gaze, once so warm, so full of fierce love and shared memory, burned now with something else.

Fire.

A fire beneath the surface.

Not passion.

Righteous fury.

And in that instant, she knew.

Something had happened.

And she had not seen it.

Had not felt the ripple.

Had been distracted—again—by flame and skin, by moans muffled behind locked doors, by the ache of her body instead of the will of the Song.

She had missed something. Something great. Something terrible.

Her fëa quivered with the truth she didn’t yet know but already feared.

And her brother, still silent, turned from her and resumed his path down the corridor—leaving her standing in the light, shaking.

Alone.

Elenwë swallowed hard, letting the silence settle in her throat like a stone.

She paused just a moment longer outside the towering doors, her heart thundering in her chest, then stepped forward.

Eönwë opened the glistening doors—crafted from light itself—and motioned her through.

Alone.

She hesitated only a breath before obeying.

The chamber swallowed her in golden light, but there was no warmth in it today. Only gravity. Weight.

Her feet moved silently across the polished floor, each step reverberating in her chest as though the Song itself echoed her unease. She looked up and saw them: Manwë, Aulë, Oromë, and Tulkas—gathered, speaking low and sharp, brows furrowed in quiet fury.

They did not turn to greet her.

But she heard them.

Her hearing, even in her fana, still carried the gifts of her raven form—sharp, far-reaching, impossible to silence. And what she heard curled ice through her gut.

Melkor.

That name, once only whispered, now passed openly between the mouths of the Valar.

Her stomach twisted. Her breath caught.

Melkor’s name brought with it memory. A tide of guilt, shame, and failure.

Because when it had begun—when the darkness beneath his charm first stirred, when deception seeded itself into the earth of Almaren—Elenwë had not seen it.

Had not warned them.

She had been elsewhere.

In a forge bathed in fire. In a bed laced with shadow. Beneath Mairon’s hands.

And now, she understood. Too late.

She had been entrusted to be Manwë’s eyes. His voice. To watch, to listen, to know—before others even sensed the shift.

But she had known nothing.

She turned her head, slowly, toward the open door.

Eönwë stood there, unmoving.

And she saw it—the mantle of duty now resting on his shoulders. The firm line of his jaw. The steadiness of his posture. The quiet grief in his eyes, sharpened by disappointment.

He bore her role now.

He carried what had once been hers.

Her stomach sank further as the truth burned through her chest like cold flame.

Her place was fading.

Her usefulness dimming.

The Song—the eternal, divine harmony that had once sung her name among the stars—was quiet now. Her thread, once bright, now frayed and out of tune.

She felt it, deep in her fëa.

The beginning of silence.

And she feared she would no longer be a part of it.

“Elenwë,” Manwë spoke, his voice a deep, resonant timbre that seemed to vibrate through the very air. Though gentle, it struck her like a bell tolling in her chest.

She startled at the sound, then caught herself, dipping into a graceful bow.

“My lord Manwë,” she said, her voice steadying with practiced poise. “How may I be of service?”

When she lifted her gaze, his eyes met hers—clear, unreadable, like the sky before a storm. Around him, the others remained silent, watching her with expressions that were not hostile, but not warm either. There was scrutiny in their stillness. Caution.

And judgment.

Manwë gave a single nod, then extended his hand, motioning her closer.

She obeyed, crossing the space between them, her footsteps echoing faintly in the chamber.

“Eru has entrusted us with the care of his Children,” Manwë said. “They will awaken soon—and we must guide them. Shelter them. Teach them, if they will accept it.”

Elenwë listened intently, each word a stone in her chest.

“We wish to bring them here, to Aman,” he continued. “And you have flown those skies countless times. You know the lands of Middle-earth like few others. Could you assist in this effort—serve as guide, as guardian, as voice?”

A pause.

She felt it—like a blade drawn, hovering just above her skin.

This was not merely a mission.

It was a test.

A chance to reclaim what she had nearly lost.

She swallowed hard, her mind flicking—unbidden—to the flame that still lingered on her skin, the memory of hands, of lips, of whispered worship in the dark. She thought of Mairon. Of his smile. Of his voice saying her name like it belonged to him.

This task meant no distractions.

No delays.

No Mairon.

She could not falter again.

“Yes,” she said quietly, but with growing resolve. “Yes, my lord. I will go where you ask. I will serve however I am needed.”

Manwë studied her a moment longer, as if weighing not just her words, but the truth beneath them.

Then he nodded once more.

“Then go prepare yourself,” he said. “You will leave when the stars rise.”

She bowed again, lower this time, and turned to leave.

As she passed the threshold of the chamber, the great doors whispering closed behind her, her heart pounded—not with fear, but with something deeper.

Resolve—and the ache of something she knew she would have to abandon.

But as the golden light faded behind her, Elenwë whispered to herself a silent promise:

This time, I will not fail.

Elenwë was there when they awoke.

She was the first face many of the Children saw as they blinked into a world still shrouded in shadow, their eyes unaccustomed to light, their spirits raw with wonder and fear. She met them with warmth, with patience, and with the quiet strength of one who had once lost her way—and now chose, moment by moment, to find it again.

Her presence was a balm.

A soft radiance in the dim places, her light neither blinding nor cold, but gentle. Measured. Earned.

Manwë was pleased. He spoke little of it, but she felt it in his glance, in the subtle shift of trust returning to the way he addressed her. There was no celebration, no formal pardon—only the steady rebuilding of what had once been broken.

And for her, that was enough.

With each crossing—each group of Elves ferried across the vast sea to Aman—her fëa grew calmer. Her spirit, once restless and divided, now moved in harmony with her task. Her thoughts no longer strayed with such dangerous ease. Her dreams, once filled with flame and whispered names, grew stiller. Lighter.

She no longer took on her fana unless duty demanded it. She remained as she truly was: light without form, will without mask. And in that choice, there was peace. Not because she was hiding—but because, for the first time in many long ages, she was not pretending.

She was content to be what she was meant to be.

Content to carry her quiet light through the darkness of the world.

And in that dark place, where shadow still stirred and whispers of Melkor clung to the edges of the land, she became a beacon—silent, unwavering, untouched.

Or so she hoped.

Perched high among the branches, Elenwë watched the Children sleep, their breaths soft and even beneath the boughs of the ancient trees. The stars glimmered overhead, a soft canopy of silver, and the hush of the forest sang in harmony with the stillness of her soul.

But then the air shifted.

The branches stirred beside her—not with wind, but with presence.

She turned her head, slowly.

There he sat.

A black raven, feathers catching the moonlight with an oily shimmer, blue eyes glinting like deep, frozen water. Too bright. Too familiar.

Mairon.

After all this time—after ages of silence, of restraint—he had come again.

To be fair, she had not sought him out. She had remained in the world beyond the sea, buried in duty, steadfast in purpose. She had not returned to Aman save for brief moments, and never long enough to risk falling back into him.

And she had not wanted to.

Not truly.

Not until now—until his presence sent that terrible, beautiful note through her fëa. That familiar swelling of the Song that bent around him like light to a black star. When he was near, she could feel it—how her melody wavered, how her rhythm faltered, how desire, ancient and ruinous, clawed its way to the surface.

She hated him for it.

And hated herself more for how easily it still rose.

The raven squawked lowly, tilting his head toward the deeper trees beyond the glade, inviting her away from the Children—from her task.

She shook her head and rustled her feathers in sharp reply, hopping down to a lower branch, further from him.

No.

But Mairon had never been one to take silence as a final word.

He followed, landing beside her in a flurry of dark wings. She felt it before it happened—his mind brushing against hers, coaxing, coaxing—soft, warm, dangerously familiar. He asked for entrance, not with words but with intent.

She slammed the door shut.

A sharp squawk escaped her in warning, more forceful this time. She leapt again, this time across the glade to another tree, placing a clearer distance between herself and the shadow wearing her form.

Her gaze remained fixed on the sleeping Children, heart hammering like it hadn’t in years.

Even in silence, even in bird-form, he could shake the foundations of her resolve.

And still—he watched.

Waiting.

As he always did.

She turned her gaze back to her task, forcing herself to still the tremor in her wings. Her breath came slow, deliberate, as she settled once more into the hush of the glade. The soft, even breathing of the Children below rose gently into the night air like a lullaby, and for a brief moment, she found her center again.

Then—snap.

A sudden burst of wings.

The branch across the glade cracked and splintered beneath the violent force of his departure. Mairon took to the skies without a word, a streak of shadow cleaving through the moonlight. Whether it was frustration or strategy, she could not tell. And that uncertainty curled uneasily in her chest.

But he was gone.

And with his absence, the temptation retreated like a receding tide.

Elenwë exhaled, the sound light but weighted. Her fëa unclenched, her mind clearing. Yet something lingered—something colder than she had expected. Not relief. Not peace.

Emptiness.

She hadn’t noticed, not fully, until now—how his presence had fed a warmth in her. Not just carnal, not just forbidden. But a light, artificial though it may have been, that once mirrored the radiance she had carried so easily in ages past.

And now that he was gone… it was as though he had taken her flame with him.

She wrapped her wings tighter around herself, the cool night suddenly too sharp against her feathers. The chill seeped deep, and she shivered—not from the wind, but from memory.

Her eyes dropped again to the Children.

Nestled together in sleep, some entwined instinctively, their arms curled around one another, their bodies warming one another with that same luminous energy Elenwë once knew. The same light that once poured from her unbidden, effortless.

They were radiant.

Bound by closeness, by intimacy, by the purity of love not yet fractured by power or pride.

She had felt that once.

Truly.

Before fire. Before secrecy. Before her song had been tuned to a darker harmony.

For a brief, sacred time, she had known what it was to be joined to another in the music of being—as though they had been sung into existence on the same note, rising and falling in unison.

Her heart ached, not with bitterness, but something more fragile. Something closer to mourning.

Still, she smiled softly.

Let them have it, she thought. Let them know it. Let them be warmed by what was given freely.

For all that she had strayed, for all that had burned away, Elenwë still believed in the grace of Eru’s greatest gift to his Children.

Love.

Uncomplicated. Undemanding.

Unspoiled.

The sound came suddenly—soft, deliberate. Boots pressing into damp leaves.

Elenwë’s head snapped up.

Her body tensed, wings shifting, feathers bristling. Her beak parted, a warning call forming at the edge of instinct—ready to rouse the Children, to drive them into the shadows for safety.

But then—

Through the trees, a flicker of red-gold flame.

Mairon.

His fana stepped into view, lit by starlight and the heat that clung to him like a second skin. His copper hair glowed like a slow-burning ember, eyes catching hers with practiced ease.

“Is this better?” he asked softly, as if his sudden materialization weren’t a violation. As if this weren’t a calculated game.

She turned away from him with a sharp flick of her wings, ruffling them with clear disdain.

“Come now, Elenwë,” he coaxed, voice curling around her name like smoke. “You are the one who hurt me, after all.”

At that, something snapped.

She turned sharply, beak wide in a piercing squawk that shattered the quiet of the glade. Her wings burst open and she launched herself into the air, fury propelling her upward like a storm wind.

Her heart pounded—not just with anger, but with the humiliation of his audacity.

Hurt him?

When he was the one who had pulled her again and again from the path. When he had wrapped her in flame and whispered of love while eroding everything she once was.

How dare he.

She shifted mid-flight, her form folding and reforming in an elegant blur of light and will. Limbs extended, feet met earth again—fana reborn.

It had been ages since she wore this shape. Her limbs stiffened with disuse, but the grace returned quickly, as it always did. She stood tall beneath the trees, hair pale as starlight, eyes cold and unreadable.

Mairon stood a few paces ahead, leaning casually against a tree, his smirk devilish—satisfied.

He had gotten what he wanted.

She had come to him.

And it thrilled him.

“You always burn brightest when you’re angry,” he said, voice dipped in mock admiration. “I missed that fire.”

Elenwë took a step forward, chin lifted, light shimmering faintly around her like a shield. “You speak of hurt as if I were the one who scorched the world behind us,” she said, her voice low and sharp. “As if I were the one who made a game of unraveling the divine.”

His smirk didn’t fade.

And that infuriated her more.

Because no matter how far she flew, no matter how hard she tried to repair the threads she had frayed—he always came back.

And she always answered.

“What do you want?” she asked, her voice like tempered steel, her gaze narrowed to a blade.

Mairon pushed off the tree with the ease of someone who knew the effect of every step, every glance. He walked toward her, slow and deliberate, until the space between them vanished like breath in frost.

His hand lifted—lightly, reverently—and touched her chin.

The contact was instant.

Flame met wind. Heat and cool spiraled in a quiet dance, circling them in that old, familiar way. The kind of warmth that didn’t burn outright, but seduced—wrapped itself around her fëa and whispered promises in a language older than words.

“You,” he breathed, his voice thick with want and memory. His blue eyes searched hers—not playful now, not taunting. There was hunger, yes. But something more dangerous beneath it.

Conviction.

“You cannot have me,” she said quickly, her voice cutting through the rising pull like a gust of wind slicing flame.

He tilted his head, that damned half-smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.

“Cannot?” he echoed. “Or will not?”

The words hung in the air like the scent of ash after fire. An echo of an age-old question—the very one he had once whispered to her before their fall. The same one she hadn’t answered then, not truly.

She glared at him, heart twisting with every memory that question dragged back from the deep.

Then she tore her chin from his grasp, stepping back—just enough to break the current flowing between them. The gales around her pulsed outward with the force of her retreat, pushing the warmth from her skin like shedding a cloak she hadn’t realized she was wearing again.

“No,” she said, firmer now. “That answer belongs to another time. And I no longer live there.”

Mairon’s smile faltered, only for a second.

But she saw it.

And for the first time in a long while, he did not close the space between them again.

“They don’t trust you,” Mairon said, the words falling from his mouth like fact, not cruelty. Not accusation. Just truth.

Elenwë’s eyes narrowed, her light flickering ever so slightly around her form. “And you know this how?” she snapped.

But her voice wavered at the edges.

Because something in her chest tightened at the sound of it. A burn—not of rage, but of something far more dangerous.

Doubt.

Mairon stepped forward, slow and deliberate, always aware of the weight of each movement, each breath.

“Why would he send you here?” he asked, tone smooth as still water. “Why keep you here… if he trusted you? If he truly believed you were whole again?”

She stiffened, the ache in her chest pressing tighter now. “This is an honor,” she said, though even to her own ears, the words lacked their former conviction. “To guide the Children. To protect them… to bring them home.”

He tilted his head, watching her with quiet calculation.

“Yes,” he said. “It is an honor. But why wasn’t it your brother? Why not someone else of their highest confidence?” His voice softened to a whisper, threading through her defenses like silk. “Why is it always the one they no longer know what to do with… that they send into the dark?”

She stared at him, her expression carefully held—but inside, something fractured.

Because the doubt was already there.

It had lived quietly inside her since that first day Eönwë turned away. Since the court stopped calling her name. Since she had stopped basking in the light of the Trees. Since her wings, once always in motion, had become still too often.

They trust me… she tried to think. They gave me purpose again.

But still, she stood in the shadows of a marred world. Still, she guided others into the light—never quite allowed to return fully to it herself.

And Mairon saw it. He always saw it.

The place where her longing lived.

“I chose this,” she whispered, but even she wasn’t sure whether it was for him—or for herself.

Mairon didn’t argue.

He didn’t have to.

Because doubt had already taken root.

And the Song, so carefully returned within her, skipped just slightly—off-key, if only for a beat.

Mairon reached for her again—so gently, as if his hands held no past, no weight. His fingers slipped through her silvery-white hair, tucking it softly behind her ear.

She didn’t pull away.

His eyes shimmered beneath Varda’s stars, the light reflecting in his gaze as if even they had led him to her. And when he spoke, his voice was low, reverent, shaped with care.

“I trust you,” he said, and for a moment, it felt like creation itself had paused to listen. “I always have, Elenwë—more than anyone. More than all of them.”

Her breath caught. Sharp. Unsteady.

Her eyes fluttered closed as his touch anchored her, fire wrapping around her like arms once too familiar. His presence pressed closer, molding her body with invisible heat, melting resistance with every inch.

“You are everything,” he murmured, lips barely brushing her temple. “To me. To this world. And this so-called honor…” his voice darkened, honey laced with ash, “it is only a prison. A chain he’s made you believe is golden.”

His fingers traced the length of her neck, soft and slow, fire licking at her skin with feathered insistence. Her form trembled—not from fear, but recognition. Flame curled around her like a serpent, coiling at her ankles, her waist, her heart.

The stars above remained silent.

And within her… something shuddered.

His words—his trust, his devotion, the illusion of it or the truth—sent a chill spiraling through her spine. She had always ached for his praise just as deeply as she had once craved the sting of his scorn.

Elenwë leaned into him, her fana pliant, lit from within by a hunger she had buried for too long.

She had spent too many ages in shadow. Too long watching others embrace what she had lost. Too long pretending that duty could ever silence desire.

And now, with Mairon before her, flame rising and breath thick between them, her fëa trembled with surrender.

She had fought.

But in the end, she belonged to fire.

And she let it consume her once more.

“Take me,” she breathed, eyes fluttering closed, the words a fragile invocation, trembling with need.

Mairon stilled for a heartbeat.

Then he laughed—low, dark, edged like the blade of a fallen star. The sound cleaved through the quiet glade, soft enough not to wake the Children, sharp enough to shatter her resolve.

His lips crashed into hers, furious and full of claim. No patience. No pretense. Only hunger.

His hand found her throat—strong and sure—gripping her like she had always wanted. Like she remembered. His fingers pressed just enough to steal breath, just enough to awaken the ache at the center of her being.

She gasped into him, and he devoured the sound like it was holy.

They moved in a blur of flame and gale. He pressed her back, guiding her through the trees with predatory grace, until her back met bark—rough, real, grounding. His body caged her there, a living inferno, his fire rising in waves, testing her, teasing her, promising to burn her clean.

Her arms wound around his neck, fingers clawing into his skin. She pulled him closer, always closer, not from fear of being lost—but from the desperate need to be found in him again.

Her winds stirred wildly, rustling the leaves above them, pressing into him like breath into lungs, feeding his flame. And his flame rose to meet her, flickering, licking, devouring every barrier left between them.

Together, they were chaos.

A dance of destruction veiled as intimacy.

And Elenwë—once so radiant, once the voice of the skies—let herself be engulfed again. Not just in body, but in soul.

Because in his hands, she felt something she had not in ages.

Not warmth.

Not peace.

But purpose.

Twisted. Tainted. Terrible.

And utterly hers.

They tore the cloth from between them like it had no meaning—no memory, no sanctity. Only an obstacle.

Hands moved feverishly over skin, seeking the familiar terrain of each other’s bodies, kneading soft flesh, fingers digging into places once worshipped, now reclaimed in desperation. Their mouths barely parted except to breathe—or moan.

Mairon spun her, pressing her against the tree, her cheek brushing rough bark as his grip tightened in her hair, pulling her head back with practiced possession. The cool wind licked against her exposed skin, but her core burned, aching to be filled—claimed.

His breath brushed her ear like a promise wrapped in smoke.

“Be mine,” he growled, the words more command than plea.

“Follow me,” he breathed, a whisper coiled with power.

She whimpered, hips twitching, as his fingers slid between her folds—slick with need, pulsing with anticipation. Her back arched into him instinctively, mouth parting in a silent cry as her forehead pressed harder into the tree.

Another slow swipe of his fingers.

Another broken whimper from her lips.

Then—he circled her, slow and deliberate, his touch a spiral of sensation that cracked through her thoughts, chasing away reason, memory, doubt.

Her mind should have held onto the meaning of his words.

The weight of them.

Follow me.

But all she could feel was him.

His fingers, his heat, his control.

The same control he had wielded in that forge ages ago, when he first molded her with his fire and her will bent beneath the beauty of it.

“I’m yours,” she whimpered, the confession falling from her lips not as rebellion, but as truth.

A truth she had never dared speak aloud. Not to herself.

Not to Eru.

Her flesh shuddered as he slipped into her, fingers still playing her like strings stretched tight—tuned to his perfect touch. He moved with confidence, with reverence twisted in sin, with the knowledge that her body had never forgotten him.

Mairon moved behind her, flame curling around her spine, wrapping her in heat and hunger. She cried out, not in pain, but in rapture.

Because he was perfection.

He was ruin.

He was hers.

And she—once light, once loyal—was already lost.

It came as no surprise.

Not when the shadows crept in and claimed what she had been tasked to guard.

Not when her pleasure, her distraction, had silenced the warnings, dulled the senses that once soared sharper than any wind.

She had failed.

And there would be no forgiveness for a second fall.

The Children were taken—swept into shadow while she lay wrapped in it willingly, her body bound in heat, her mind lulled into surrender. And when the Valar came to call her back to account, they did not come with sorrow.

Only scorn.

She was cast out, stripped of duty, of title, of home. No longer Manwë’s raven. No longer the voice of the skies. No longer the silent strength that bore messages through starlight.

Her brother did not speak a word to her.

But his silence was louder than any judgment.

Even Eru turned away.

There was no mourning of her name. No lament.

And still—it did not shatter her.

Not like it should have.

For the light had long since left her. Hollowed out. Unrooted. A vessel emptied of its former radiance.

But in that hollowness, something burned.

Mairon.

His flame had waited there in the dark, unwavering, bright and terrible. A beacon of beauty. Of ruin.

And in that fire, she found her shape again.

So she fell—not with resistance, not with tears, but with will. Her grace unraveling behind her like a ribbon cast into the void, she walked forward into the shadow with him, hand in hand.

When he told her of Melkor—when he spoke plainly of allegiance and dominion, of the new world rising from the old—she did not flinch.

She had known long ago, when he first whispered against the Valar, when his words curled with doubt and desire. She had heard the dissonance.

She had ignored it.

Whispers of fallen Maiar had swirled like wind through the mountains of Aman—agents of Melkor hiding in plain sight, lured by power, by promises of shaping Arda in their own image.

But power had never been her hunger.

Not truth.

Not glory.

She wanted only him.

His flame. His hands. His voice in the dark saying her name like it was holy.

And so she stayed.

Not because she had been cast out.

But because she no longer wished to return.

What she did not know—what she could never have foreseen—was the cost.

Not the exile. Not the loss of light.

But the after.

The slow erosion of what little she still clung to: the belief that, at least in falling, she had fallen with him.

It began subtly, like all great betrayals do.

Mairon grew distant. Sought her less. The fire in his gaze no longer lingered. His hands, once fevered and worshipful, now remained at his sides. He offered her no warmth, only silence.

And it broke her.

It hollowed her further, drove her into a quiet, shaking madness that clawed at the edges of her once-divine mind. She had given everything—light, name, honor—for him. She had walked willingly into shadow, thinking his hand would never leave hers.

But he had let go.

Then came the chains.

Not forged by Mairon, but by Melkor—his master, their master. The first fallen, the great unmaker. His hands were cold and cruel, shaped by a will that sought not love, but domination. He looked upon her with eyes that saw not a partner, not even a servant, but a project.

A weapon.

Something to remake.

To terrify the ones she once called kin.

And Mairon?

He stood there. Silent. Watching.

And when Melkor asked for her—asked to reshape her, to mold her fana and fëa into something new, something monstrous—Mairon did not speak.

He only nodded.

And she accepted.

Because she was his. Because she had chosen this path. Because love, even twisted and bruised, still burned at her core like a sacred wound.

So she endured it.

The torment.

The reshaping.

The nights of darkness and ruin.

And when it was done, when the forge was cold and her body no longer remembered its original light, when her screams had quieted into breathless sobs…

He did not come to her.

Not with a touch.

Not with a word.

Not with the fire she still begged for in silence.

She curled into herself in the stillness of that void, unmade and remade, and wept for something she would never again speak aloud.

But even then—even then—she did not question her choice.

She had chosen him.

She would always choose him.

Because even if the flame no longer burned for her...

She still burned for him.

Then, on a dark eve, he came.

After Melkor had finished with her—after the forge of shadow had cooled and she lay upon the stone, her body limp, chained, pliant, as if there were anything left in her to give.

Her once-luminous hair, the hue of starlight, now fell in dull strands of crow-black, streaked and matted with the thick, black blood of a fallen being. Of a broken fëa.

Her crystal eyes, once reflecting the clarity of Varda’s skies, were now dimmed—dark sapphire, deep and cold, like still water untouched by moonlight.

She did not whimper.

She did not speak.

She only watched as he approached—unrushed, composed. The fire of his hair still gleamed like copper kissed by flame, still as vivid as it had ever been. And her darkened heart, battered and trembling, still surged at the sight of him.

She ached for him, even now.

Even like this.

He knelt beside her and raised a crystal goblet—cut from a vein of flame itself. The liquid within shimmered crimson, thick, clinging to the sides like blood clung to flesh.

He did not explain.

He only offered.

And when he told her to drink, Elenwë did.

Every last drop.

It hit her tongue like molten iron—sharp, bitter, laced with something older than death. The liquid spread through her like wildfire, racing through her veins, seeking something to devour.

And she looked to him as it consumed her.

Red dripped from the corner of her mouth, trailing down her chin like a mark—like an anointing.

And for a moment—just a moment—his gaze met hers, not cold, not cruel… but reverent. Familiar. The way he once looked at her in the forge, when her name still sang through the heavens.

Then came the pain.

Agony unlike anything she had ever known.

Her body arched violently, chains clattering against the stone. Her limbs seized, her breath caught in her throat, her scream silent as her fëa twisted inside her. The shadows within surged to the surface, writhing beneath her skin, remaking her, rebirthing her into something else.

Something new.

Something monstrous.

And he left her.

As she thrashed.

As she burned.

As her soul was unmade and rebuilt with ruin as its core.

When consciousness returned hours later, she was alone. The stone was slick beneath her. Her body trembled, slick with sweat and shadow. Her lips were cracked. Her lungs ached. Her heart beat like it had been replaced with flame and ice.

But it was her throat—her throat that betrayed her.

It burned.

Not with heat. But with hunger.

A deep, gnawing thirst, sharp and all-consuming, twisting her insides until she cried out—loud and broken. Her voice echoed through the chamber like wind tearing through dead trees.

She needed it.

The red.

The liquid.

The taste of what he had given her.

And for the first time in her long existence, Elenwë—once the voice of the skies—sobbed not for love, not for loss, but for craving.

Unholy.

Unrelenting.

Unquenchable.

Thuringwethil.

Woman of secret shadow.

The name echoed through her, not like a title, but like a binding. Spoken not aloud, but breathed into her mind by the one who once held her as lover, now as master.

Thuringwethil.

No longer Elenwë, sister of Eönwë. No longer the pale raven who flew across the skies with messages of light and hope.

She had been unmade.

And remade.

Mistress of shadow. Servant to the one they now called Sauron.

Time lost meaning. She could no longer feel its flow as she once did. The chains that had held her finally fell away, but the hunger—that cursed, searing thirst—remained. It drove her wild. Wracked her body. Bent her will.

And when the doors of her prison creaked open, she did not walk.

She flew.

No longer did her wings shimmer with starlight. Her feathers had been stripped away—replaced by thin, leathery skin, stretched and silent, made for stealth and horror. Her body was sharp, shadow-carved, built to slip through cracks in stone, to pierce the night like a dagger in the dark.

She rose from the halls of Angband like a plague-born wind, slicing through the sky. And when she descended upon the lands of Arda, it was not as a guide, not as a guardian.

It was as a predator.

Her thirst was a curse with no end—and she quenched it only with that which Eru had once cherished.

The Children.

She drained them.

Not always of blood—but of breath. Of spirit. Of essence.

And as she did, they began to whisper her name in terror.

Thuringwethil.

No longer voice of the Valar.

But the shriek in the woods. The shadow in the rafters. The wind at the door.

Where once she had borne the messages of heaven, now she carried death’s kiss, delivered in silence and sealed in crimson.

And so the stories spread.

Of the blood-drinker.

The beast of Melkor.

The bat-winged woman who once sang among stars.

She was no longer light.

She was legend.

She was shadow.

She was vampire.

When she returned, he was waiting.

Mairon leaned casually against the frame of the archway, posture relaxed, as if her reappearance were expected, inevitable. His flame still shimmered—still beautiful, still dangerous. But she no longer flinched at the sight of it.

She no longer burned for him.

She descended in silence, wings folding as she shifted out of her monstrous form—her skin smoothing, her limbs reshaping, taking on a fana more familiar, more approachable.

But it was not the Elenwë he remembered.

There was no softness in her now.

No plea.

No trace of the woman who once wept for his absence.

She passed him without a glance, her footsteps measured, her mind sharp. Her thoughts no longer clouded with yearning, no longer muddied by hunger for touch or praise. The hunger she carried now was different.

Focused.

Controlled.

And no longer his to feed.

She knew.

She had known for some time now—the depth of his betrayal. That he had never chosen her for herself, only for what she could be beside him. Power in his bed, power in his wake. A flame to feed his own.

A lie wrapped in desire.

A tool cloaked as love.

He had broken her once to make her useful. Beautiful, yes—but obedient. It had taken darkness, pain, remaking to see it clearly. And now she did.

She did not fault him.

But she would not suffer him either.

“Thuringwethil,” he breathed, her name leaving his lips like a prayer, or a summons.

The name sounded different when he said it. Less like mockery. More like regret.

She did not stop.

Did not turn.

Did not answer.

But her fana pulsed.

The spot where his flame had once touched her light seared again—old memory, old ache, a scar that still hummed in her skin. But it no longer had the power to break her.

She walked into the darkened corridor beyond him, steps echoing against stone.

He was behind her, still burning.

But she had become something colder.

Something honed.

Something sovereign.

And she no longer looked back.

Thuringwethil became what she was forged to be—devoted, tireless, a creature of shadowed flight and silent purpose.

She ferried messages between Utumno and Angband, her dark wings slicing through the poisoned skies as the Valar closed in. While others whispered of fear, she obeyed. She was faithful. She did not flinch at the fire of the storm rising from the West.

She flew through war.

Through ruin.

Through the end.

And when the final blow fell—when Utumno was shattered, when Melkor was taken and bound in chains wrought by the wrath of Eönwë himself—she did not scream or break.

She endured.

Trapped now in crumbling Angband, left behind in shadow and stone.

With him.

But there was no summons.

No touch.

No fire to draw her in.

So she wandered—like mist, like ghost—through the broken halls. A silent wraith moving between fallen pillars, empty forges, and half-whispered memories that clung to the cold walls.

She fed when needed.

Oversaw the scraps of Melkor’s will that remained—the rebuilding, the birthing of new darkness, the reshaping of old horror. The Uruks obeyed her, eyes lowering when she passed, for her presence demanded reverence, or fear.

But she never sought him.

Not once.

And yet… she felt him.

Not in form, but in flame.

A flicker brushing against her shadow as she drifted through the dark. A heat at her back when she lingered too long in the war halls. The faint taste of fire in the air when she spoke to the Uruks, who often stilled mid-sentence, sensing something greater close by.

He never revealed himself.

But he watched.

Perhaps from pride.

Perhaps from shame.

Perhaps from the same silence she now held between her fangs.

For theirs had never truly been love—it had been creation. Collision. Flame and wind tangled in ruin.

And though she no longer needed him, no longer answered him…

He was still there.

And she still burned.

Quietly.

He found her in one of the deep chambers—hidden far below the main halls, where the echoes of the Uruks did not reach. A sanctum carved in quiet, where shadow breathed slow and time stretched long.

She stood with her back to him, her presence as silent and commanding as ever. Cloaked in darkness, bathed in the low flicker of torchlight that danced in warm hues against stone. Her raven-black hair cascaded like ink down her spine, pooling at the waist of a gossamer gown so sheer it clung to her as though it too were afraid to lose her.

Her skin was pale—beautifully wrong—sickly and cold, yet untouched, unmarred. A remade vessel of power.

Of his power.

Mairon watched from the threshold.

Watched the creature he had once made for himself. Not to love. Not truly. But to claim. To wear at his side like a crown of ash. And she had been so willing—then.

But now…

She was more.

More than he expected. More than he had allowed.

And he hated that it drew him even deeper.

She was breathtaking in her brokenness. In her wholeness rebuilt by ruin. In her refusal to bow, now that her spine had hardened in shadow. She had found something far worse than his love, and far stronger than his control:

Sovereignty.

He said nothing. Made no sound. He simply stared.

But she turned—slowly, purposefully. Her eyes, once crystal, now pools of midnight. Darker than even his. A gaze like death’s lullaby.

They met his without flinching. Without fear.

And in that moment, he was under her again—not through lust, not through worship, but through awe.

She did not smile.

Did not nod.

Did not fall to her knees, whispering his name.

She turned away.

Dismissed him like wind brushing past a closed window.

And something inside him twisted.

Mairon bristled at the gesture, that familiar rise of fury clawing at his pride. She had dared ignore him. Refused to bend. He was her master. She had drunk of the goblet—of the elven blood laced with his own essence. It had made her. This power she walked with, this body she wielded, this form that struck fear into even the most loyal of Melkor’s creatures—

It came from him.

She owed him.

Her devotion.

Her fire.

Her desire.

But she gave him none of it.

Only the reflection of what he had once given her, in those golden, poisoned days:

A love dressed in reverence, soaked in deception.

A chain wrapped in silk.

A promise, laced with manipulation.

And now—now—she returned it in kind.

He had made her his shadow.

But she had become a shadow he could no longer cast.

“What can I do for you, my lord?”

Her voice floated through the chamber like a siren's whisper—sickly sweet, angelic in its tone but hollow beneath, like a cracked bell still pretending to sing. She did not turn. She stood at the arched window carved into black stone, staring out over the scorched horizon of Angband’s ruined breath, a hellscape stretched beneath a bruised sky.

Mairon remained still.

He did not answer.

He only watched her.

This creature he had reshaped, whose spine he thought he had bent forever. But she stood straighter now than she ever had in his arms. Regal. Cold. A force.

He had given her this.

A piece of his flame still burned in her—a thread of his essence woven into her rebirth. He could feel it from across the room, flickering with restrained power. And he ached to stoke it. To press against her, set it ablaze, and feel her gales rise in answer.

He hungered to see what she would become beneath him now, not in submission, but in full defiance—what her shadowed form, no longer bound to light or shame, could coax from him.

He wanted to touch this new Thuringwethil.

To map her curves with reverence and hunger. To relearn the symphony of her body, this time without masks, without illusions.

But she would never be pliant again.

Never the trembling creature he once seduced in the glow of Aulë’s forges, her voice a song of devotion, her will soft beneath his flame.

No.

That Elenwë was ash.

And what stood before him now was not a lover to be claimed—

—but a queen.

She did not look over her shoulder, nor shift her weight in invitation.

She knew he was watching.

And still, she made him wait.

Mairon’s hands twitched at his sides, wanting to move. Wanting to grab her. Spin her. Kiss her with fire and fury. Break her or be broken by her.

They had time now. For the first time since the Song was sung, they had time.

Time to explore. To test. To tempt.

To fill the dead halls with their lust and scandal.

Time to find out what shadow and flame—unbound, unrepentant—could create in the dark.

And yet… he took no step forward.

Because she had not asked him to. Not yet.

When she finally turned to face him, her lips curved into a smile that could tear the breath from gods.

It was not sweet.

It was not warm.

It was predatory.

Blood-red lips parted just enough to reveal the gleam of her pointed teeth—teeth that had tasted the essence of Eru’s most beloved creations, had sunk into living flesh and drawn from it the very music of life.

Mairon wanted to taste it too.

Not the blood—but her.

Her ruin. Her rebirth. The essence he had helped forge, now standing in its final, untouchable form.

“Come now, Mairon,” she purred, her voice honey over steel as she walked with deliberate grace to the bed at the center of the room. She sat on its edge, never breaking eye contact, her power draped over her like the sheer black gauze of her gown—nothing hidden, everything offered.

“You’ve always been a man of many words,” she teased, reclining back on her hands, her silhouette haloed by torchlight. “Why stop now?”

Mairon stood frozen in the doorway, caught between lust and awe. She was utterly breathtaking—her sickly pale skin radiant in its own unnatural way, her form more divine now than it had ever been cloaked in light.

“I have nothing to say,” he answered finally, voice low, rough.

Thuringwethil laughed—a deeper, darker sound than he remembered. She flashed him a smile that gleamed with shadow.

“Must be new for you,” she said, tilting her head, “not needing to wrap me in pretty lies. No more poetry laced in manipulation.”

Her words struck him—not cruelly, but cleanly. Bold. Blunt. She had never spoken to him like this before—never without the soft veil of reverence. She was untamed now. Fully her own.

He stepped forward.

Into her space.

Into her.

The warmth of her essence wrapped around him, thick and sweet like spiced smoke.

“It’s easier,” he admitted, his eyes dragging over every exposed inch of her, “but no less arousing.”

And had she been the girl he first undid in the forge—soft-voiced, snow-haired, sacred—she might’ve flushed.

But now?

She only tilted her head and pouted her lips.

“Would you like me to beg?” she whispered. “To get on my knees and thank you for your precious gifts?” Her lashes lowered, sultry and slow. “Shall I show you what it’s like to thirst for something so profane, so sacredly wrong, that not even you could fathom it?”

One hand lifted.

A single, pointed fingernail curled toward him, beckoning.

And he came.

She parted her legs, slow, deliberate. An invitation. A challenge.

“You made this,” she said. “Wanted me like this. You desire to taste it, don’t you?”

Mairon swallowed, breath catching. She reached for him, trailing that same fingertip up his chest, over his robes, watching as his body responded—shuddered beneath her touch.

Her lips curled again. Not with sweetness.

But with dominion.

He stifled a moan.

“I am not bound by shame,” she whispered. “Nor by the Song. I have been ruined… and remade.”

[dynamicdiplomacy]

New Fic Alert!

The Tragic and Peculiar

Fandom: Lord of the Rings, the Silmarillion

Characters: Elrond, Celebrían, Glorfindel, Ecthelion of the Fountain, Elladan, Elrohir, Arwen, and Lindir

Relationships: Elrond/Celebrían, Glorfindel/Ecthelion of the Fountain

Summary: There are peculiar happenings in Rivendell. When they finally discover that it's all the work of a ghost, Elrond has only one idea who it is - Maglor, the elf doomed to never return to Westerly Shores. But when the truth comes to light, no one can quite believe it.

A Rivendell ghost story featuring our favourite Elflord, his wife and children, and all the other members of the household.

Tags: Ghosts, Ghosts in Rivendell, Can't spell Hurt/Comfort without 'ouch', Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Child Arwen, Glorfindel is a Horse Girl, Ecthelion is Doing His Best, Elrond is a good dad, Spooky Ghost becomes Grandfather!

This fic is fully completed and will be updated weekly.

Available on AO3:

[searchingforserendipity25]

Galadriel, Guilt, for the prompt meme

Thank you @merfilly <3! Tw: references to cannibalism.

-

It was better, when the Queen was away. Galadriel felt the evil of the thought, the dangerous ingratitude, and thought it nonetheless. 

It was easier, when Melian was away, to watch her own skin ripple in the reflection, her own shining tresses and bright eyes bring out the questioning white fish that dwelt in the glowing caverns.

Always they came, the creatures of the the deep waters, from their nesting places where not even the luminescent stones cast their queer light, and the Song of the queen's handmaidens was stifled by a shadow that made the water almost thicker than light.

It had been dolphins that had been her friends, in her mother's land; carps, in the ponds of Tírion. Melian kept strange pets, however, creatures with nothing to feed on but their own kind; and Galadriel did not seek their friendship in the least.   

Often she pretended not to notice them. When Melian was present, all was delight. Living ivies grew around and through the carved bark of the great stone columns that lined their halls; and the stone, too, seemed to breathe, to shift, to exhale their own dews and gentle shadows. 

There was much joy in Doriath. Even in Thingol's absence; but in the summer the city of the caves diminished. The recitals were less high-minded - more amusing, at times, more licentious, but not noble. The marchwardens came only for rest and supplies; and the nobles that remained were those with their own work and aims rooted in the underground.

Artanis had the lakes. Lord Celeborn had his wanting of Artanis. Galadriel, he would have named her, if she were to allow it.

Artanis suspected she would, in time. For now she was far too busy doing remedial cramming, skimming Iathrim poems and interviewing Master Daeron and keeping her eyes opaque as the eyes of the fish none of the Sindar dared to touch, or fish, or eat, so foul were they accounted.  

Were it but the waters! The task Artanis was left behind to keep: to study and oversee the queen's own boudoir, her mirrors made of the stuff of clarity, rainwater made changed by Melian's own hungering mulch and hummus, soil and stone and stalactites, ever-dripping into the caves. 

There her handmaidens sewed and conversed, recited poetry and sang and played such workings of power as would have made the tame, Valar-taught scholars of Tírion tremble with fright. These things Artanis sought to know; and it was difficult to succeed, when always the Queen was watching, and always she must be false.

Melian's school was not Kementári's; and Artanis was so far behind. 

“So it may be, as you judge! Yet the queen is gracious even unto her pupils. Stern, but gracious. Melian will not resent one evening away from the working of the waters.”

“I would,” said Artanis. But she never sent him away. She knew he would go, if she did; so she did not. 

“Galadriel, if you wish to be,” Celeborn said, laughing. His bare fingertips moved in the water, made strange by its blackness; he moved them with grace and speed away from a collision. “Even these beasts know to value the glory of you.” 

“They are foul things,” said Artanis, polishing the ewer with downcast eyes.

“They are what they are,” Celeborn said. His fingers did not touch the fish. But then neither did he rise and flee with curses, as some handmaidens did. "Wretched things; but wise in their way, to keep near to what light they can manage. Behold! They know their worth well enough to flinch when we linger too long near.”

Galadriel looked at her own reflection, her eyes as bright as the eyes of the cannibal beasts, and did not reply.