#to kill any hope left in maedhros?

[eri-pl]

All for one and one for all

You know what's messed up?

According to one poll, many of you agree with me that the sons of Feanor (at least M&M) would do less atrocities if it wasn't for the fact that each one believed that if he breaks the Oath, the whole family would be doomed.

The wording of the Oath is ambiguous about this, but still, this idea seems even less likely to be true that Eru holding them on the "Everlasting Darkness" part at all.

Makes me wonder, where did they get this thought?

Fëanor? I doubt it. He had many issues, but I think he was more an "individual responsibility" kind of guy, and also a better protection from treason is "if you betray the cause, you are doomed" than "if you betray the cause, we are all doomed".

So, if not Feanor, who else had enough authority to convince them?

Maedhros.

Maybe some of you already realized where I'm heading with this (I'm predictable), but if not: I am certain that Maedhros never had this thought before he went to a cerain parlay.

And then he's back and they don't discuss the Oath much, obviously, they are busy with the war and his trauma, and then the topic of the Oath surfaces, and Maedhros treats it as a certainity that if one of them fails, they all go (he does never ask himself why he thinks so, neither does anyone else ask)…

[thesummerestsolstice]

Continuation of the "Earendil drank the Silmaril AU"–

TW for the Sirion kinslaying and Elwing's attemped suicide

Elwing's advisors encourage her to be strong, not to give the Silmaril to the Feanorian murderers. Of course, none of them know that she couldn't hand it over, even if she wanted to. She tries not to think about what would happen if the Feanorians saw the empty shell of the Silmaril, drained of light. She tries not to think about what they might do to Earendil, if they found out the light lives within him now.

She doesn't really have any options. She cannot give them the Silmaril; she will not yield her husband to the monsters who killed her parents. She encourages Earendil to go on another of his voyages. She tells him that she's confident the Feanorians won't have the guts to actually attack them. She's lying. The day after he leaves, she makes plans to evacuate all those in Sirion who aren't ready and willing to die there.

Not long after, she receives another letter, one that practically radiates anger. That night, she holds her children– her wonderful, sweet children who have feathers behind their ears and starlight at their fingertips. The next day, she plans to have them sent away from Sirion. She knows it won't be long now.

She's still not ready, when the Feanorians come. There aren't many people left in Sirion. There aren't many Feanorians left either. But the fighting is fierce, all old hatred and festering pain. She'd hoped to have another day– just one more, to hide the remnants of the Silmaril. When Maedhros sees her carrying the cracked orb, wrapped in fabric, she knows it's over.

Maybe he can tell, even through the fabric, that something is wrong with the Silmaril, maybe he can't. Either way, he runs after her with burning eyes and a his oath on his lips. She's not quite sure where her feet are taking her until she finds herself at the cliff's edge. She turns, stares out at the stormy sea. When she looks back, there is something almost like horror on Maedhros's face, but all she feels in an eerie calm.

She thinks about her children. She hopes they made it out alright. She hopes they'll find someone else to look after them, when she's gone.

[eccentricmya]

Re: Mae & Mag's last discussion. Some musings.

Why wasn't a third option of 'not surrendering and not pursuing the Silmarils' put forth by either? Why didn't they envision a future where they just went East and lived as fugitives without stealing the Silmarils?

Because I do not think Maedhros was planning to live beyond the War of Wrath at all.

He could either die without going after the Silmarils again and so be damned eternally; or he could get them in his hands by any means and then die in peace, with the Oath fulfilled. Or it could happen as in canon, that he may get the jewels, but he would die in unrest still.

Any way he chose, death was the only future waiting for him. Now where does this leave Maglor?

Submitting to the judgment of the Valar was never an option for Maedhros, as he wouldn't even trust them to decide whether to braid his hair or keep them unbound, in my opinion.

So if Maedhros died without acquiring the Silmarils, damning himself, that would leave Maglor as the only one bearing the brunt of an unfulfilled Oath---something which Maedhros wouldn't want.

Thus the only real choice was to pursue the Silmarils, both for himself and for Maglor. Because at least, in attempting to fulfill their Oath, he had hope for a peaceful death and hope for an oath-free life for Maglor after.

If they failed, as was very likely, then they would die together (I don't suppose they thought that attacking the camp would get them captured, they believed they would either succeed in stealing or be killed for the attempt). A win-win in Maedhros' traumatised mind.

Alas, they indeed stole the Silmarils. And for all of Maedhros' unwillingness to leave Maglor behind to shoulder something terrible alone, he still left him drowning in misery and guilt.

To darkness Maedhros went and Maglor to everlasting loneliness he condemned.

[buttered-milky]

Maedhros goes crazy hard to me because yes he has a villain arc but he also has a suicidal ideation arc. You watch him have fewer and fewer living clues as the book goes on. You watch him have passive SI that gets more and more dangerous until it’s not passive anymore. You watch him slowly implode.

[Silly little essay ahead and we’re talking about suicide so be mindful. Feel free to add your own thoughts!]

Like he starts out pretty okay. The decision to go parlay with Morgoth on his own could actually be argued to just be stupid heroism and nothing else. He’s got things to live for. There are a considerable amount of people who hate him, yes, but there are also a considerable amount who admire and/or rely on him. Also, most of his family is alive and (debatably) well at this point.

And even on Thangorodrim, he doesn’t give up his spirit like we know elves can do. He begs Fingon to kill him, but he never just…lets himself die. There’s a difference between wishing you were dead and planning out suicide—a huge difference. He’s still got ambivalence, and he’s still resilient as hell (literally).

But things are getting worse. He decides to hold Himring. Which is the closest to Angband. The most dangerous. Because he doesn’t want anyone else to get hurt, or because he doesn’t care if he himself does—yet there are still reasons to be alive.

Most of his family is alive, too, and Fingon is anyways, and he’s done something good abdicating. He’s building himself for war, sure, but at least he is still capable of good?

And then the Nirnaeth.

He loses Fingon. He still has his closest family alive, at least, but they are all capable enough of committing atrocities with him. They don’t need to rely on him so much anymore—and none of the other Noldor are.

Maedhros is resilient, but there is less and less to be resilient for.

There’s the Second Kinslaying. He loses many of the few people who could at least understand him. He loses two elf twins who were his one chance at redemption. He’s so tired. There is almost nothing left, anymore, besides the Oath. There’s the Third Kinslaying. He’s lost all but one of his brothers. He gets two more twins he doesn’t even want because they are living reminders of his prior failure. He is still alive, though. Even though probably everyone in the world but Maglor wants him dead, he’s still alive.

And then the Valar take the Silmarils.

Maedhros has this beautiful argument with Maglor. I’ve seen people talk about how flawed Maedhros’ points are during that argument and I raise you this: they’re not designed to be logical. They’re designed to be hopeless. And they’re perfect at that.

Let me tell you something. I don’t know how many of you have argued with a very high risk suicidal person about reasons to live, but I have. You can go on for hours and someone who is truly hopeless will fight you tooth and nail to convince you everything that could be wrong is and that the world is nothing but hell. Doesn’t happen all the time—but there are people who do this. The arguments aren’t designed to be logical. They’re designed to be hopeless. They’re designed to convince you by any means possible that death is the only answer, even if that means is despair.

And honestly, the arguments aren’t even for you. This is just what this person has been thinking. It is justification. No one wants to make a decision they know they’ll regret. So despair as a forgone conclusion must be justified. There is no ambivalence anymore. There are no living clues. There’s only dying.

Maedhros is putting all his resilience and all his stubbornness to work convincing himself and others that killing himself is the only way out.

.

Hope couldn’t kill you on Thangorodrim, Maedhros, and nothing but yourself can kill you now because you’ve made yourself into something desperately strong. Nothing but despair can kill you now. You were holding up hope like a crucifix against despair and now you can only see the cross to die on.

Maedhros, you beautiful fucking tragedy.

.

We talk about his heroism slowly turning to villainy. The heroism is thinly veiled SI. You have to remember he is the narrative incarnation of despair. Suicide is the perfect end for him because despair and hopelessness is the one thread running through all SI. Despair is the one thing you can count on to always beg you to die, and it’s what ends up killing a guy who was otherwise unkillable.

[thelordofgifs]

the fairest stars

What if Angrist was a little tougher, and Beren and Lúthien managed to steal two Silmarils from Morgoth instead of one? Somehow I’ve already written NINE parts of this unhinged bullet point AU here and decided it was time for a fresh post to avoid that one getting too long.

Where we left off: Lúthien has been negotiating with Mandos like a pro, Maglor is nearly-but-not-quite-dead in Menegroth, Thingol has taken one Silmaril from him, Fingon has the other Silmaril and ditched Curufin outside the Girdle even though they did some bonding on the Worst Road Trip, and people are still upset about Celegorm’s death. YES I am well aware that the pipeline from the fairly normal first sentence of the post to this mess is insane.

Fingon and Maedhros are both very, very good tacticians. Between them, it isn’t very difficult for Fingon to follow Maedhros’ directions towards Menegroth, and then to find the hidden pathways by which Huan led Maedhros out of Thingol’s halls.

It helps that Thingol is still under the impression that the Girdle is impenetrable with the aid of his Silmaril, so he doesn’t have anyone keeping an eye out for the High King of the Noldor sneaking into his realm on an Adventure.

Finding Maglor's sickroom/prison cell/whatever is a little trickier, but not impossible. Long ago in Tirion Fingon was a mischievous child, so he's well aware that the best way not to get caught sneaking into a forbidden place is to make it perfectly clear that you belong there.

He strides confidently down the corridors, silently reciting Maedhros' directions to himself. Nobody stops him.

He's hoping that Curufin was wrong, and he'll know Maglor's door by the holy light showing through the cracks; but when none is evident he's forced to take his chances and start trying doors in the area Maedhros indicated at random.

Since he has plot armour is very lucky with this whole improbable-rescue thing he comes across Maglor without any trouble.

Maglor is only half-conscious – quite apart from the wounded leg, he hasn’t eaten in days – but his eyes flicker open when Fingon comes in.

“Hello, Makalaurë,” Fingon says, deliberately cheerful. “I’ve come to take you home.”

“You can’t do that,” Maglor says dazedly. “It burned – in the Bragollach – remember?”

Fingon opts not to answer that. “Russo said you were healing when he left,” he says instead, frowning at the bloodstained bandages around Maglor’s leg. “What happened? Has Thingol been mistreating you? I thought Lúthien at least was kind!”

Maybe he was too hasty in leaving Curufin outside the Girdle.

Maglor hurries to explain that Lúthien is dead, and that he’s actually in this pathetic state by choice or something.

“Right,” says Fingon, “well, you’re coming back to Himring now.”

But Maglor shakes his head. “I can’t, Finno,” he says. “Thingol took the Silmaril from me. I don’t – I’ve been trying to hold it back. The Oath. But I can’t leave it in Doriath and go, I can’t. So you’ll have to leave me behind.” He manages a brave and tragic smile.

On Thangorodrim while Fingon was struggling futilely with Morgoth’s iron shackle, hopeless tears running down his face, Maedhros said, You’ll never be able to free me, Finno, just kill me, please—

Fingon is rather sick of Fëanorian melodrama.

“One step ahead of you,” he says brightly, and he produces Maedhros’ Silmaril from its box, handing it to Maglor before his Oath can stir at the sight of it. “Here it is.”

This would never normally work. But Maglor is very tired and ill, and not thinking as clearly as he otherwise would.

As long as the obvious question doesn’t occur to him until they get outside the Girdle again—

Maglor takes the jewel and gives a relieved little sigh as the bite of the Oath eases. “You really took it from Thingol?”

“Of course,” Fingon lies. “Let’s put it back in the box for now so that it doesn’t attract too much attention?”

Maglor acquiesces. He and Fingon aren’t close exactly, but they get on well – certainly far better than Fingon does with Curufin. There’s an odd shared camaraderie that comes from loving Maedhros; it lends itself well to cooperation in difficult circumstances.

Fingon picks Maglor up – he's alarmingly light – and they begin to make their way back out of Menegroth.

"You're to be my betrothal gift," Fingon tells Maglor, and Maglor actually laughs.

Unfortunately it's much harder to look innocuous when you're carrying someone about five minutes away from expiring on the spot.

They haven't got very far before an angry voice comes from behind them: "Who are you and where are you going with the Fëanorion?"

Damn.

Meanwhile

[I should clarify my definition of "meanwhile" here. Evidently time runs much slower in Aman than it does in Middle-earth, even post-Darkening, or it's difficult to fathom why Beren and Lúthien canonically took two years to return from death. In vague support of this, the Fellowship find that time runs slowly in Lothlórien, presumably with the aid of Galadriel's ring, so I posit that the more Divine Stuff there is near a place (and Galadriel was ofc a student of Melian too), the more weird time shit occurs. So since I've anyway fudged the timelines so that travel times work out conveniently, we can also put the bits of story occurring in Aman here for funsies.]

Meanwhile, Finrod has been following Celegorm around in the Halls of Mandos.

"Was it worth it?" he asks. "Did you take joy in the lordship of Nargothrond, once I was gone?"

"I could ask you the same," says Celegorm, responding for the first time. "Did you die for anything in the end, Ingoldo? The mortal's here, after all your efforts. So much for your oath."

"So much for yours," says Finrod; "it looks like that eternal darkness you doomed yourself to wasn't that dark. Or eternal. So what was it all for? Do you even regret any of it?"

The dead can't lie. Artifice and deception are matters of the flesh, and they are buried with it.

"I didn't want you to die," Celegorm says.

"Well, that's a start!" says Finrod. "I can't say I'm glad to see you here, either."

"O Fair and Faithful one," says Celegorm, "spare me none of your pity. They are already whispering that you will be released soon, first of all the Exiles to walk again in Aman. So it's all turned out rather well for you, despite your evil cousins' machinations."

"I suppose it has," says Finrod, thinking.

The thing is, it was worth it. Beren's life mattered. It mattered that he saved it, even if he died to do so, even if Beren is dead now too (although word is that might be changing).

He did not do it expecting a reward.

"And my werewolf was bigger than yours," says Celegorm.

Finrod rolls his metaphorical eyes. "At least I actually killed mine."

Cousinly bickering is still kind of fun, even when you're dead.

Curufin, fuming outside the Girdle, would not agree.

After a time he's forced to conclude that the only thing he can do is head back to Himring.

The ride through Himlad, once as green and fair a land as any, does not improve his mood.

Also his burned hand is still hurting.

Look: here's the little stream where Celegorm caught a huge fish once; and here are the low hills where, a couple of centuries ago, they held some war games and Curufin's people thrashed Celegorm's decisively.

Here's the copse where, years before the Dagor Aglareb brought tentative peace to East Beleriand, Curufin and his son were surprised by a party of orcs, who took their small patrol all captive.

Tyelpë was just barely of age at the time. How trusting his eyes, then, how baby-soft his hair: how easily he had believed that his father would fix everything.

As for Curufin, he spent the hours-long ordeal learning anew what terror was, rendered compliant by the mere possibility that they could hurt his child.

They were fine, in the end. Celegorm rode up to the rescue while the orcs were still quarrelling over where to take them.

But Curufin remembers: how disabling love can be.

Meanwhile Fingon finds himself surrounded by a crowd of angry Iathrim in their home city.

He sets Maglor down on the floor and sets a hand on his sword-hilt, wondering if he is about to become a Kinslayer again.

(Fingon regrets Alqualondë more than anything; and he'd do it again, for Maedhros' sake. He knows this about himself.)

Before things escalate too far, Thingol shows up at the scene of the disturbance.

"We haven't met," Fingon says. "Fingon son of Fingolfin, High King of the Noldor in Beleriand. I've come for my cousin." He gives Thingol a rather dangerous smile.

Thingol thinks he might be in serious trouble. He attempts to adopt a conciliatory tone (which is really really hard for Thingol ok he's trying).

"He'll die if he's moved," he says, nodding to where Maglor is slumped against the wall, shivering.

"He'll die if he stays here!" Fingon says. "Is this the famed hospitality of your halls?"

"He has been offered every treatment he could ask for," Thingol says. "It is not the fault of Menegroth if he chooses to refuse them. Now tell me, son of Fingolfin, how came you through the Girdle of Melian – without her leave or mine?"

Maglor puts the pieces together. "Finno, you lied to me," he breathes, glancing at the box in Fingon's hand.

Fingon wonders if it would be diplomatically insensitive to kick Thingol.

"The jewel alone does not explain it," Thingol insists. "While I hold the Silmaril my daughter won, surely—?"

"I could have told you that, had you asked," says Maglor. "Silmarils aren't weapons! You can't use one as some sort of military defence."

Thingol is now questioning all his life choices.

He only took the Silmaril from Maglor in the first place because he thought it would protect his kingdom, and now—

Maglor is feeling resigned. He should have known Fingon's claim was too good to be true. Thingol still has the Silmaril, and Maglor can't leave Menegroth without it.

Face pale and set, he attempts to get to his feet, mostly unsuccessfully.

Fingon looks down at him. "Seriously, Makalaurë?" And when Maglor ignores him, he says, "Sorry about this," and kicks Maglor's bad leg – carefully, but still hard enough to hurt.

Maglor faints.

Fingon picks his limp body up. "The Silmaril isn't yours," he tells Thingol.

"The white ships of Olwë my brother's people were not yours, either," Thingol returns.

Fingon inclines his head, acknowledging the point. "I don't wish to start a war over the Silmaril," he says. Maglor is so cold and still in his arms. "My cousins have done enough for that cause lately. Only let me take my kinsman home."

Thingol hesitates. The iron box in Fingon's hand is so close, and Fingon is outnumbered, and he has his injured cousin to worry about—

It could all be over, if he took the second Silmaril. He'd never need to worry about his people's safety from invasion again.

"Elu," comes a voice from behind him, "enough of this. Let them go."

"Queen Melian," says Fingon, bowing his head.

She barely looks at him, meeting her husband's gaze instead. "Time and again you have disregarded me," she says. "Lúthien is lost, and yet you persist with this. Will you heed me now?"

Thingol stares at her, and then, finally, he waves his hand. The bristling guards move aside, allowing Fingon free passage down the corridor.

"I trust you can remember your way out," Thingol tells Fingon, and turns away.

Fingon looks at Melian. "Thank you," he says, "and I am very sorry about your daughter."

He has met Maiar before, of course, in Valinor: but Melian is still unsettling, with her implausibly flawless face and eyes that hold yet the memory of a time before Time.

"Little king," she says, "only hope that you will not know any such pain yourself."

Fingon manages a smile. "I'm good at that," he says. "Hope."

On that note he leaves Menegroth, carrying Maglor, and begins to make the long trek back through the Forest of Region, and thence to Himring.

Curufin has managed the journey significantly more quickly. On a crisp cold morning he rides back through Himring's gates.

Maedhros has been... managing. Not well, but he trusts Fingon.

Beloved, I will bring them back to you. Beloved, I will bring them back to you. Beloved, I will bring them back to you.

But here's Curufin by himself, looking pale and tired, and after all it was only a hastily-scribbled note, not an incantation.

Maedhros arrives at the gate at a run.

Scarce weeks ago it was the other way around, Maedhros riding into the fortress with Fingon's cloak only just concealing his bloodstained clothes: and Curufin met him as he came in and he can still feel the terrible jolt of knowledge in his stomach, and Celegorm is still dead.

How can it be borne?

A thought comes to Curufin and for a moment he thinks it the cruellest idea he has ever had, but Celegorm is dead and his hand is still burned and nobody expects any better of him anyway.

"They're dead," he says flatly, "they're both dead," and Maedhros just – stares at him.

(to be continued)

[tar-thelien]

My Kidnap fam is getting rewritten, and here is chapter 1

Summary:

Elrond and Elros gets picked up by the Feanorian, some of which are on the bridge of falling into complete insanity. Maedhros is tired of everything, and far from stable, Maglor do as he wants and Erestor watches from as safe of a distance as he can. In the end, they are all just doing their best to stay alive - and love tends to grow slowly in treacherous places.

The third kinslaying happens, Amrod dies

Words:1329

Elrond´s POV

El looked up at the imposing form of the Valarauko with hair of fire, as he trembled behind his brother, who he hoped wouldn´t blame him.

Valarauko. That was what his Ada had called the beasts who had attacked his home, Gondolin, and since this tall fire Raug had attacked his home too, it must be one of the Moringotto´s creatures as well, at the least, it would be in league with him.

And when this frightening beast with imposing mithril eyes, curled back its lips to expose those gleaming, wicked white fangs both he and his brother almost fell into the dirt if not for the pole of the tent behind them kept them standing as the Raug before them threw his heavy fur over them.

“Maitimo! Where art thou!?” Shouted someone loudly from the outside, and the Raug, - ´Maitimo? He did not know enough of his father´s language to know what it meant, but he was sure it was something dreadful and bloody´ - who had found them and forced him along with him from the hiding cave that Glossien had told them to stay in, abruptly left the tent. The opening was guarded by one of the red star soldiers, who shot the two brothers a piercing stare with frowning eyebrows.

“Where are our brothers?” they heard the Valarauko ask in its rumbling voice.

“... They´re waiting ahead of us. They said we should ride towards Amon Ereb and that they would meet us when the time comes.”

-o0o-

The sound of shouting and fighting was so loud that it echoed through the narrow stone streets and the little boy felt a surge of panic, suffocating him as they were ushered through a backdoor that opened into a labyrinth of twisting uneven steps hewn out of the rock that led down to the forest.

“You know that we can't leave without Emel!” his brother cried in such a loud voice that the little boy winced. He was sure that some of the monsters must have heard that, and now they would come to kill them too.

“She will meet us at the cave.”

“NO! How do you know that?” said the brother with a frown, and the little boy began sobbing bitterly, the miserable cries escaping from his small throat and wracking his whole frame in despair.

“Shush!” Glossien hissed and she did not waste any more time, rather she lifted the weeping child up into her arms and tightly grasped his brother´s hand before silently hurrying off, “we have to find a safer place, your Naneth will come when this is over!”

After they had been shown under a small waterfall into the cave to hide a red haired elf showed up, proving Glossien right that someone had been following them, running after them with a gaping wound in his stomach yelling in the same language that Ada had talked in sometimes.

The boy didn´t know what had happened just that suddenly Glossien had screamed and then everything turned quiet as a small stripe of red showed up in the water in the cave.

“Pityafinwe, Pityafinwe-”

The brother peered up at the sorrowful voice, engrossed by it he stood up and began walking towards it, showing the boy back as he grabbed for his brother.

As he appeared out of the cave, he could see a dark haired elf covered in red and eight pointed stars, holding the red haired elf, looking straight into the brother's eye. The brother had seen him before, he had been in their room right before a guard had distracted him and he had left so Glossien could take them away.

Glossien who now lay facing down in the red water.

Not long went as three other red star soldiers came to drag the sobbing one away, only one of the soldiers stayed behind. One soldier who now looked straight at the Child.

“What is your name child?”

“El…” the brother replied much to the boy´s horror. But he agreed, that should they die, they would die being known as what their Emel called them.

“No more? Then I shall call you Elros, until you tell me your full name.”

READ THE REST ON AO3

[animatorweirdo]

When the Dragons Fly (Book 3)

Maedhros nearly believed he had caused your deaths. You and your host finally leave for the mountains. However, someone important is not coming along.

[] = High Valyrian

Chapter 3

Warnings: mentions of dead characters, Nirnaeth Arnoediad, angst, Maedhros is sad, destroyed village, everything is burned, some hope in the heart, leaving, someone not coming along, Aelon and his friends being sad.

-------------------------------------------

The sky was grey, and the land lay lifeless and scorched, further ravaged by the war that had taken place upon its surface. At the heart of the battlefield stood a large hill, erected by the orcs who had gathered the bodies of elves, men, and dwarves, piling them high to form what had come to be known as Haudh-en-Nirnaeth, or the Hill of the Slain. The crows were feasting on whatever was left on the bodies, and the wind blew on the banners that were torn and stained with blood. 

Kneeling against the yellowed grass, Maedhros stared at the hill with a heavy heart, thinking of all the dead who died on the battlefield, killed because of his cause and union. 

In his hands, he held the blue cloak and the broken blade. All he could recover from his dear friend, whom the balrogs had hewed beyond recognition. 

Questions haunted his mind as he continued staring at the battlefield. 

How could he have let this happen? 

How could he bring so many people to die? 

Why did he fail so spectacularly? 

The defeat was so great that he had to abandon his own fortress Himring as he had lost too many people to be able to defend it. He could barely even stand, holding onto what was left of his cousin. His eyes stared at the haunting hill that could be seen miles away. 

“Maedhros…” Maglor started as he had come with him with a couple of others. 

Maedhros did not react or answer to his brother in any way. He continued staring at the hill like a statue. At that moment, he did feel like a statue, unable to move and take his eyes off the very thing he had helped create with all the people who trusted him and believed could bring victory. How could he have been such a fool? 

“We need to go. It’s not safe for us to stay here for too long,” Maglor explained quietly. 

“How did it come to this?” Maedhros uttered. 

“I thought I planned everything right…” he said. 

“I thought we had a chance…” he continued

“If I had not come up with this then maybe Fingon would have…” Maedhros uttered, looking down at the bloodied blue cloak in his hand. 

Maglor looked at his brother sympathetically. 

“Don’t blame yourself. Morgoth’s schemes know no bounds, and we only lost many because of the Easterlings and their betrayal,” Maglor stated.

“But all of them still died because of my idea. I am responsible for all of this,” Maedhros said. 

“I am responsible for my best friend’s death,” he said as the tears finally forced their way out of his eyes, dropping to the ground and the cloak in his hands.  

“Oh Maedhros…” Maglor looked at him with pity as Maedhros wept quietly.

Maedhros cried in anguish, remembering his friend’s smile and noble deeds. Even the deed when his friend saved him from Morgoth and returned him to his kin, a deed he was never able to repay. 

Maedhros then looked toward the mountains near Himring, toward the land where your village should be.

His heart ached at the thought of your village being attacked, but since it had only been a few days since the battle. There was still a chance your home had managed to stay hidden and be untouched by the orcs that continued expanding all over the north. 

He dried his tears and picked himself up, carrying the cloak and the broken blade in his arms. 

“Maglor. There is a place we need to go before we leave,” he stated as he approached his horse Bathor, who he had left in Himring before the battle. 

“Of course. But where?” Maglor questioned as he followed him. 

“I tell you later. If we go now. There is a chance they’re still safe,” Maedhros answered, unable to think of anything else than to get to your village. 

Maedhros rode to your village with his brother and guards as quickly as possible. He had the path to your home memorized so the ride didn’t take any valuable time. However, he was then devastated when he found your village burned to ashes and there was no sight of you or Aelon. 

“No…” Maedhros uttered as his eyes darted around the village, looking through all the burned bodies and houses. 

“Let me guess. This was your special place. And there was a special someone?” Maglor questioned sorrowfully as Maedhros looked at your house, finding it ruined and ravaged by the fire that had burned it to the ground. 

It was like the blood within his veins had turned frozen cold as he fearfully looked around for your and Aelon’s bodies. His heart felt like it was being stabbed with a blazing knife as he began to believe he was the indirect cause of the destruction around him and possibly your and Aelon’s death.

You and Aelon were capable fighters, but even you two would not have a chance against hoards of orcs. 

“Maedhros. Look there,” Maglor gently nudged him and pointed toward several footsteps. 

“Those seem like the footsteps of those who lived here. There is a chance that they made it out before the attack,” Maglor explained as the two stared at the footprints that led to the woods. 

Maedhros stared at the several footsteps. His heart was momentarily lifted. He could not find any bodies so there was a chance you two made it out, but now he could not help but ponder and dread where you two could have gone.  

“I find it strange though,” Maglor stated as he looked at the scorched ground. 

"There are a lot more dead orcs and wargs here. Some had been killed with arrows so the villagers most likely fought back, but the rest had been burned to death,” he said, staring at the ashened corpses.

“And it’s not just them. The grass, the trees, the houses, and everything had been burned,” he continued. 

“What exactly happened here?” Maglor questioned. 

Maedhros took notice of the unusual burns around the village, but his mind was still filled with the thoughts of you and Aelon. 

“But let’s have hope, your friend here made it out and is on their way to south,” Maglor looked toward Maedhros. 

“We need to get going. We can’t stay here,” he stated and Maedhros slowly nodded. 

Maglor turned his horse around and Maedhros shared one last glance toward your burned house. 

“(Name), Aelon, forgive me…” he uttered then rode after his brother. 

As morning rose over the hills, you and Baelen began preparing your people for the journey through the mountains. Helena and her family assisted most of the people in packing their belongings, while Eda and Dwenn loaded the wagon with supplies. Surprisingly, even Figwitt was ready to join you with Greeny.

To your relief, the last surviving Watchmen decided to join you instead. In their eyes, you were a capable leader and despite your secrets, they wished to follow you. And Rodrick had managed to convince his mother, who felt skeptical toward your dragons to join you.

You and Baelen reviewed the map. You were explaining to him the road and helping him memorize it until someone caught your attention. 

“Lady (Name). Chief Baelen,” someone said. 

You two looked up and to your surprise, it was Lady Deanna and her people. 

“Do you have room for me and my people for this journey?” she asked with her people behind her. 

“Chief Deanna. Of course. You are very welcome to join us,” you said with genuine surprise as the chief had not decided who to choose in the meeting. 

“That’s a relief,” Deanna smiled. 

“I’ve decided that your plan makes more sense than Horren’s, and if Chief Baelen is willing to put his trust in you, then I can as well. I want my son and people to get out of the north as safely as possible as I had lost many during the ambush in the pass,” she said.  

“I will give you my word that I will try anything I can to ensure your and your people’s safety,” you said, and she nodded. 

You surveyed the people who were coming with you. There had been many more until the ambush reduced their numbers drastically. Combined with yours, Baelen’s, and Deanna’s people, your host barely consisted of fifty individuals. Nevertheless, it was better than you had initially expected. It was unfortunate that so many more had decided to join Horren’s host instead. 

“Have your people already made preparations?” you asked. 

“Yes.” Deanna nodded. 

“Then I guess we are ready to leave now. Tell your people to start the journey through the mountains,” you said to Baelen and then all of you began leaving. 

Aelon was helping Eweniel and Helena’s family pack the rest of the items to Dwenn’s wagon. “Is that everything you have?” Helena asked. 

“That should be it,” Eweniel said, then looked toward Aelon. 

“What about your things?” she asked. 

“I will be flying on Falconer. (Name) said I will need to scout the road ahead from the air. To watch out for enemies, “ Aelon explained. 

Aelon then noticed Ramuel, who was not packing or doing anything. Aelon frowned as his friend and his family looked like they were going elsewhere. 

“Ramuel!” Aelon called out. Eweniel and Rodrick looked toward their friend as Ramuel looked back. 

“Are you not coming with us?” Aelon asked. 

Ramuel seemed to hesitate. “No… My parents said it would be best for us to stay with the bigger host,” he finally answered. 

Aelon’s eyes widened. “But they’re going to the dangerous path. Please! Come with us!” he said as they looked at their friend. 

“I wish but… my mom doesn’t really trust your dragons,” Ramuel answered then looked at Smoke, who looked confused and whined at him. The dragon stepped toward him. 

“No. Smoke. You can’t come with me,” Ramuel gently petted the dragon. 

“I’m sorry…” he uttered, and Smoke only looked more confused. 

Ramuel’s mother then walked over to him. 

“Ramuel. Come on now, and do not touch that beast. You do not know where that thing had been,” she said. 

“He’s not a thing. His name is Smoke,” Ramuel mumbled. 

“I do not care what the name of that thing is. Now come along. We need to get going,” his mother said, glaring at the dragon. 

Ramuel then looked toward Smoke and his friends. 

“Goodbye… I wish you good luck,” he said, leaving with his mother. 

Smoke whined, intending to follow him. Aelon sighed, looking away before looking at Smoke. 

“[Come here, Smoke!]” Aelon called out. 

Smoke hesitated, looking back at him and then at Ramuel. 

“[Come here now!]” Aelon said more strictly and the dragon finally obeyed, running up to him and his siblings. 

Aelon, Eweniel, and Rodrick then stood among themselves. Their faces heavy as they wondered about their predicament. 

“We already lost one friend. Do we have to lose another?” Eweniel questioned. 

“Well, there’s nothing we can do now,” Aelon said. 

“Let’s get going. I need to get on Falconer,” he said as he returned to Falconer. 

Your group finally managed to pack everything, and with you, Baelen, and Deanna leading the way, you began walking up the road through the mountains. Aelon climbed onto Falconer and, with a command, soared into the sky, flying ahead and keeping watch from above.

As he flew, Aelon glanced back at the parting host going another way, feeling a heavy heart as he saw one of his friends among them. Despite his inner turmoil, he pushed his emotions aside and focused on his task as your host began its journey through the mountains.

Taglist: @natchayaphorn@kimnamnu@thatrandomidiot182 @springfountain @maedhrosiseverything2me

[i-did-not-mean-to]

April - Maedhros & Maglor

Ah, MoonLord my dear reader has come up with quite an interesting batch of prompts for me!

So, after all the smut, have some gen stuff :D

Pairing: Maedhros & Maglor

Prompts: Sibling relationships, Babysitting, war, musical instruments, heat

Words: 2005

Warnings: Sadness, regret, loss

“Don’t,” Maedhros said automatically as something whizzed past his head. It was only when he saw the charred bone—a bleak, white accusation—roll down the hill that he remembered where they were.

Long gone were the days when the twins would throw clumps of dirt and paper-thin skins filled with water at one another and their older siblings in mischievous glee.

His heart ached as he thought back on those blessed days of carefree annoyance; their mother, dutiful and devoted, would sneak off with his half-uncle’s wives to gossip about their husbands and unruly children, and he’d be left in charge of a whole pack of feral youngsters.

Back then, he'd been the oldest, but he hadn’t been able to fathom yet how terrible it would be to feel old.

“Food shall be ready soon,” Celegorm declared in a voice so hollow, that it was clear to everyone that he didn’t care whether his brothers would devour the spoils of his ruthless hunt like wild animals or shun them like petulant children.

Once upon a time, his steps had been so light that it had been impossible for anyone but Huan to hear him approach, but his dark deeds and bitter regrets had weighed him down so much that his every movement seemed to set his surroundings atremble with cold dread.

Habit drove the old-familiar words onto Maedhros’s tongue, “Come on, children!”, “Food is ready!”, “Wash your hands!”, but he didn’t speak any of them aloud—what for?

They were elflings no more, and the blood on their hands could never be rinsed off.

It felt to Maedhros as if he already sensed that terrible, blazing heat that had taken their father lick at his ankles, and he thanked the Valar for his prodigious height. No matter how voracious the flames of their Doom were, they’d have a far to go yet before consuming him whole.

Surely, it was also that secret fire’s pervasive, poisonous smoke that made his breath come in shallow, ragged bursts and drove tears into his bright, gentle eyes.

There was no place for pity or nostalgia in a war camp, and if he missed Caranthir’s rare fits of raucous laughter or Curufin’s earnest devotion to crafts of beauty rather than of violence, it was a small price to pay in the pursuit of Fëanor’s expectations.

Suddenly, the dutiful, unerring uncrowned king wondered why their father’s wrath and single-minded determination felt shockingly alive when everything else—their hope, their joy, their very vivacity—seemed to have died so long ago.

These things were not for him to consider or to know, though, and he turned his attention back to the gaggle of brothers, all beloved and regretted already, who closed in on the fresh kill like hungry wolves.

He wished Fingon could be there—he’d always been so good at distracting them by making a witty joke or feigning interest in the various interests that kept the infamous sons of a genius enthralled.

No, Maedhros corrected himself harshly, he was being unfair to one whose heart had ever been more generous than he himself could even fathom—thus, Fingon had probably genuinely cared.

He’d cared so much that he’d died for a cause that had never been his own, many times over, and Maedhros welcomed the crippling pain of loss and guilt washing over him like a wave of sharp-toothed darkness—he deserved to be denied even the comfort of mourning the death of his best friend and true love.

Some of his brothers might have wailed and raged, others would have curled up around the throbbing core of their suffering, but he was allowed neither.

The one person who might have understood and had wise words of comfort to impart was Turgon, and Maedhros knew that he’d probably never hear that calm, grave voice again.

That, he also more than deserved.

“Will you not eat something?”

Maglor appeared with a shallow, cracked bowl in his famed hands. He resembled their father’s family much more than their mother’s on the surface, but he had inherited Nerdanel’s gentle, calming smile and the look of indulgent fondness they all missed so desperately.

“I’m not hungry; give my portion to the…”

“Little ones?” Maglor laughed mirthlessly. “Do you know that, for the longest time, I was convinced that you abhorred sweetmeats and treats? You’d always pass on your cake to me, and I believed that it was due to a personal dislike rather than a sincerely stupid act of self-denial.”

Kneeling gracefully before his older brother, he held out the simple meal stubbornly.

“You need to eat, lest you fade completely. We need you—and I know how cruel and selfish that sounds, but we cannot do this without you. I cannot do this alone.”

And, because he remembered what his interim kingship had done to his creative, wild-hearted brother, Maedhros accepted the proffered bowl wordlessly, nodding his thanks.

“Eat, brother,” Maglor insisted; he’d known Maedhros for too long to be fooled by his courteous manners and his uncanny ability to dissimulate how much he was buckling under the burdens put upon him. “I shall sit with you and make sure that you’re honouring Tyelko’s effort appropriately.”

Grimacing, Maedhros took a tentative bite—the meat was chewy and tasted like wet coal, but he forced a smile onto his lips to assuage the swirling worry in his brother’s eyes.

“It’s not very good,” Maglor whispered conspiratorially, “but it’s warm and nourishing—that’s all we can ask for.”

Maedhros heard the “all we deserve now” even though it was not spoken, so he bowed his head in agreement and went on spooning the tasteless sludge into his numb mouth mechanically.

“Come over, sit by the fire with us,” Maglor went on as he took the empty container back. “Surely, you won’t refuse a bit of comforting heat out of petulant brooding and self-flagellation?”

Not sure whether his wickedly witty sibling was referencing the warmth of the reluctant but unbroken brotherhood or the mundane effect of the small campfire, Maedhros cocked his head and waited.

“I could play the harp,” Maglor went on, unrelenting. “Like in the old days when I’d help you babysit the horrors.”

Out of habit rather than real annoyance, Maedhros sucked his teeth. He might have been prejudiced, but he’d always staunchly claimed that none of his brothers was even half as terrifying as their female cousins.

Indeed, he’d ever believed that Finrod had been dealt the trickiest hand, but the mere thought of his former flippancy on these matters made him now flinch as if struck.

Too many of their kinspeople had perished, and he felt terrible for ever having had a single ungracious thought about them.

“Nobody wants to hear your howling,” Caranthir hissed, but—as per usual—nobody paid his ill-tempered outbursts any heed. Moreover, his two oldest brothers hadn’t forgotten the seemingly endless period when that little red-faced boy had only been able to fall asleep in Maedhros’s arms while Maglor hummed lullaby after lullaby.

“Father would not want you to isolate yourself,” Curufin agreed in Fëanor’s voice, mirroring Fëanor’s grave mien, moving his strong fingers in a perfect imitation of Fëanor’s gestures.

“I…I can’t stop seeing those who are no longer there,” Maedhros replied, shielding his sensitive eyes from the flickering light of the fire—he’d grown to dread the devastating element that had robbed him of all he’d held most dear.

If his brothers understood his words as a thinly veiled reference to their parents, he would not correct them, but he knew that his mazy thoughts comprised others whose very names had become anathema to the precarious survival to which they clung with despairing obstinacy.

Their Flight, the Ice, the burning of the ships, the confrontation at the feet of King Thingol—there had been too many incidents that had torn them apart, but—just for one dark, bleak night—Maedhros allowed himself to miss the children he’d watched grow up in the Blessed Realm until his chest hurt with suppressed sobs.

It was generally accepted that the Oath had erased all other considerations in their crazed minds, and—once again—he wouldn’t correct anyone who believed so, because the truth was so much worse.

He remembered everything: every ephemeral sandcastle, every scraped knee, every impromptu nap against the narrow, bony ribcage of a young, hopeful prince of yore.

How he wished that he could forget that he’d held, defended, comforted, and loved them long before they had righteously started loathing him! If he could excise those memories from his heart, he might well have reclaimed the Silmarils by now; instead, he was torn to pieces by contradicting loyalties until every minute movement made his body and soul writhe in agony.

Maglor had unpacked the battered, old harp he carried around in a worn, oiled skin as if in defiance of their present situation and their hopeless quest.

Little by little, the conversations died as the initially random, mournful notes melted into a variation of an old lullaby, overwhelming in its simplicity and never-changing beauty.

Eyes closed and lips pursed, Maglor conjured up visions of lush gardens and mellow, silvery reveries which stung and soothed their hearts in equal measure.

With every stroke of his calloused, weary fingers, the melodies grew more intricate and enchanting, and even the dead trees around them seemed to bend towards the life-giving solace flooding the barren clearing like a wave of pure light.

The last time his brothers had heard this piece performed, there had been many different instruments interweaving their precious song with Maglor’s flawless harp play, but the stark absence of a supporting accompaniment felt oddly fitting now as it perfectly mirrored his solitary, desperate effort to dispel the omnipresent, suffocating gloom miring them down.

Cruelly aware of how tense and unmoving his forcibly dispassionate mien must have looked, Maedhros tried to let the music drown out the painful knowledge that, had they lived, neither Fingon nor Finrod could have resisted joining their skill and voices to this pitiful concerto.

Alas, they had fallen, and no fire or flame in all of Arda could have replaced the healing, cheering warmth they might have dispensed.

“You have everything you need to succeed,” Fëanor had said as he’d lain, broken and burned, in the loving, trembling arms of his oldest son, and Maedhros had nodded, ready to swear any oath if only his words could soothe his father’s evident agony.

He’d been right, the disenchanted, weary minder of his quasi-orphaned brothers now realised; at the moment of his demise, Fëanor could not possibly have foreseen the terrible, devastating losses his sons would have to face and bear in the single-minded pursuit of their ill-fated vow.

It might well have been a wilfully naïve stance, but Fëanor—having himself left his beloved wife behind in the Blessed Realm—had been convinced that helplessly, uselessly yearning for those who were happy and safe within the keeping of their ungracious jailors was counterproductive and needlessly distracting.

Maedhros wondered how their father’s tune might have changed if he’d known his wife, his brother, his very followers to have died miserably.

In many a way, it was a mercy that he’d died before learning of Fingolfin’s arrival or his subsequent death—despite all his bitter words, Fëanor might not have stomached that knowledge as comfortably as he wanted to make others believe.

Through a veil of flickering flames, Maedhros caught the knowing, understanding gaze of his favourite brother, and his mouth curled into a genuinely fond smile as Maglor intoned a simple song he’d learned at Maedhros’s elbow so long ago.

For the first time in what felt like ages, comfortable drowsiness descended upon the camp as their younger brothers pulled up their bedrolls around their shoulders, bowed with grief and unspoken fear.

They’d sleep soundly tonight, and that alone was worth the terrible loneliness of the two elders whose wakeful watch would not end until the merciless sun came up once more.

-> Masterlist

@fellowshipofthefics: I am still on it :D

[welcomingdisaster]

lakesong

Maedhros & Maglor || T || 1k || ao3

In truth, it is not a battle they can lose. It is barely even a battle. 

The orcs have come from the mountains, but not from any true fortress of their enemy. There are only perhaps forty of them. They wield flaming sticks, metal poles ripped from the outer walls of some abandoned dread fortress. Runaways, Maedhros knows, just by looking at them — or castaways, more probably. He feels an odd kinship with them; broken, angry things, many missing hands or fingers, some hobbling along on wooden legs. He sees their hunger in the sharp lines of their faces, and feels it in the pit of his own stomach; how well he can picture that all-consuming hunger. He is not sure, sometimes, if he has stopped feeling it or simply gotten quite skilled at ignoring the calls of his body. 

And now he ignores whatever sympathy rises in his heart. He knows exactly what the orcs are here for; knows where their hunger shall take them. They have come to take from his people, to run them through their swords and break apart their bones, to tear elven flesh from bone and carry it away with them, to burn their homes for the momentary pleasure of warmth on long-frozen skin. They are hungry and they are hurt and they are monstrous. 

(What shall his own hunger make of him, he wonders.) 

He had been visiting Maglor when the news had come of the intrusion into the gap, only a short way away from the edge of the Noldor settlements, and they had ridden together. With them come sixty of their best men; they are armed with swords forged by the hands of the Noldor and bows woven of elven hair. They are swift, well-trained, and well-fed. 

They find the orcs setting fire to a grain silo. The children and those unable to fight are gathered in the fortress built into the mountain; the others have already readied defenses, another hundred strong. They fight for pride, for love, for their craft, for beauty. They hold out against hunger and pain and ugliness, and in their own way they are meaner. 

Maedhros dismounts to fight. His sword is yet a little awkward in his left hand, but his skill grows with each hit. He feels wroth incarnate; he is alive, here, as the bodies crumble around him, and he hopes the others do not the satisfaction he buys in blood. 

Maglor does not dismount. His hands are ever skilled with string; he rains arrows at the horde of orcs. His form is perfect; he trained for many years in Aman, even before the first whispers of war. Maedhros watches him and thinks, with some dry, dark amusement, of Fingon, who learned without true instruction on hunts and during the war, who shoots off the inside of his hands, a second arrow balanced between his fingers or in his teeth even as draws the first one. He clenches his teeth when the arrow flies, as though daring it to miss. 

Maglor is in every sense his opposite. He is serene, his posture perfect. He sings, a lulling, peaceful sort of melody. It is practical — meant to soothe his horse, to keep her still in the midst of battle — but it gives him an eery note nonetheless. The sun falls upon his skin and his face is pale. The wind yanks at them and his hair is motionless in his braid. Elves and orcs alike shout and scream all around him, splattering blood onto the edges of his robes and the legs of his horse, and he sings a song of cool lake water and rays the of the sun in the clouds. 

It is soft, measured brutality, delicate and dignified. Later Maedhros will count the arrows and see that Maglor had killed more than any of them. 

They work together methodically, each taking their men to clear one side of the meadow of foes. The last orc falls under his captain’s sword, and he turns his attention again to Maglor’s side. 

Only one orc is left standing. He is no way, except his continued survival, particularly notable. Not the biggest of the group, nor the most cruelly scarred. His skin is a grayish green, so typical of his kind. He wields a sharpened stick, red with elven blood.

His voice, when he shouts, is hoarse. He speaks in Sindarin, the dialect sharper and rougher than the other Maedhros knows, as though chopping each word free a little too early. 

“Come down from thy horse, little prince! What coward hides behind his bow?” 

Maedhros chokes on his irritation. Shoot him through the throat, brother, he thinks. 

But Maglor, usually not one to follow such provocation, leaps from his horse. Hands his bow to one of his men and draws his sword, silver and gleaming in the sunlight. 

Maedhros’s skin crawls. He likes Maglor on his horse, away from the fray — likes Maglor where none can touch him. Maglor walks forward, through the corpses of orcs scattered all about him, his head held tall, raven hair pulled back in a thick braid, red jewels gleaming upon his cloak, and Maedhros thinks of their father going to meet the Balrogs. 

“I shall show thee cowardice,” he says. He sings a single note, low and fell. It catches on the blade of his sword, echoes into the meadow. All is silent, now. It is the only sound. 

Dread strikes Maedhros’s heart, then, horrible dread — he feels himself fell and doomed, for all the might and beauty of his brother. The orc, too, pales. 

Takes one step back, then two. Drops his stick and runs for the woods.

Maglor takes a step back himself, his face set in grim satisfaction, and throws his sword. 

It hits the orc neatly between the shoulder blades. He crumbles and falls face first on the battlefield, his arms outstretched. 

Maglor hums another note, striding forward to yank his sword back out of the body. Maedhros had not noticed before that all their men had frozen around them, watching the short exchange. Now the silence breaks, and all rush forward. Help their wounded, pull free their arrows. Search for brothers and sisters among the battlefield. 

Maedhros is among them. He runs to Maglor’s side, taking him by the hands. He is unhurt, of course. Untouched. Untouchable. 

“What purpose could that serve, Káno? Shoot them through the throat next time, and come down not from thy horse. There is no sense to it.” 

Maglor breaks his uncanny serenity. Laughs. 

“I am not so easily felled, brother! None would speak of it had I shot him — see what a song I leave now, one that shall be sung as we ride from this land, and grow bigger and grander in each retelling. See what a story I weave!” 

“Thou shalt be killed,” Maedhros says darkly, “for thy songs.” 

Maglor pinches his cheek, laughing yet. “I shall consider it a worthwhile bargain, even if I am first to fall, for in spirit I shall outlive thee, and all our brothers! Come, Nelyo. I should not like to lose my arrows, nor my sword, in this wreckage.” 

[rebeccas-rambles]

Incorrect silm quotes from this generator

Maglor, taping a knife onto a Roomba: Be free, my child.

Maedhros , entering the room with a small cut on their ankle: Who the f-

--

Elrond: Petition to remove the 'd' from Wednesday.

Maglor: Wednesay.

Elrond: Not what I had in mind, but I'm flexible.

--

Maglor: Oh my Elrond.

Elros: Don't you mean 'oh my god'?

Maglor: You worship your god, I'll worship mine.

--

Fingolfin: You don't need my blessing to go kiss Maedhros. In fact, I was pretty sure you were already kissing Maedhros!

Fingon: Nope.

Fingolfin: In that case, as the archbishop of Fingon's fully awakened gaydom, I give you my blessing to immediately leave and rectify that as soon as possible! Go now, my child, and kiss Maedhros right on the lips!!!

--

Maedhros: What happened to your nose?

Fingon: I used it to break some guy's fist.

--

*Maedhros teaching Fingon to drive and taking Finrod along for the ride*

Maedhros: That's a pothole. To the left!

Fingon: Take it back now y'all *Drives into pothole*

Finrod, sticking their face into the front over the center console: Cha Cha real smooth.

Fingon: I don't think that's how the song goes.

Maedhros, crying and gripping the handle: Please just take me home.

Fingon: Country Roads.

Finrod: To the place.

Fingon and Finrod in unison: I Belong!

Maedhros, crying harder: What the fuck?

--

Maedhros: Hey, random question, what are your favorite flowers?

Fingon: Peonies, why?

Maedhros:

Fingon: Were you going to get me flowers?

Maedhros:

Fingon:

Maedhros: ᶦᵗ’ˢ ᵃ ᵖᵒˢˢᶦᵇᶦˡᶦᵗʸ

--

Finrod: New year, new me.

Maedhros: Bitch, it’s August.

Finrod: Time is an illusion.

--

Fingon: Bottling up negative emotions is bad for your health, so you shouldn't do it.

Maedhros: I know, that's why I bottle up all my emotions, both positive and negative, so it cancels out.

Fingon: Th-that's not how that works-

--

Finrod: No more making fun of me when I misuse dated cultural references, alright? Are we cowabunga on this?

Fingon, sighing: Fine. We're cowabunga.

--

Maedhros You’re drunk.

Finrod:Correction: drinking. Present tense. Grammar, Maedhros.

--

Idril: I can’t believe we have to be stuck in this room together!

Maeglin, swallowing the key: Truly unfortunate.

--

Beren: WHY DID YOU KILL HIM?! HE COULD HAVE HAD HOPES AND DREAMS, HE COULD HAVE HAD A FAMILY!!!

Lúthien: Beren-

Lúthien: It- it was just an ant-

--

Turgon: *holding a salt packet* It’s just a little sodium chloride.

Curufin: Actually, Turgon, that's salt.

Turgon: That’s what I said, sodium chloride.

Curufin: Uh, Turgon, that would be salt.

Curufin: *takes salt packet from Turgon* This is iodized table salt, which in addition to sodium chloride contains anti-caking agents and potassium iodate, which is added to prevent iodine deficiency. So not only are you being overly pretentious by insisting on using scientific terminology for everyday items, you are factually wrong. Your arrogance is your downfall, you annoying little shit.

--

Finrod: I’m doing my best.

Galadriel: You’re not doing anything.

Finrod: Yes, that’s what I’m best at.

--

Finrod: You have any sunscreen?

Galadriel: You can't get a sunburn from a bonfire—

Finrod: It's for my marshmallow ya dummy.

[warrioreowynofrohan]

11, 13, 53 and 72 for the fic writer asks!

Yay! Thank you for asking! <3

11. Link your three favorite fics right now

1) all my war is done by arriviste

I still adore this one. Post-canon Fingon, dealing (or conspicuously not dealing) with the loss of Maedhros, his own guilt, and the return of his adult son (it’s complicated) Gil-galad, whom four thousand years of rule in Midfle-earth have left with a lot of opinions on how things should be managed.

It’s funny in parts, heartbreaking in others, and absolutely gorgeous.

The Sea of Ekkaia was beautiful, in its own way, but that way that was like no other place in Arda, in either Aman or Middle Earth.

It was a dark-blue that was almost black, even in the late afternoon, and the shore was less sand than gravel, a strange inconsistent rubble of rock and broken sea-shells that had been dashed to pieces by the constant fury of the waves. Staring out to sea, one did not see the far-away horizon the way one did on the gentler coast of Belegaer: there was no gentle faraway blue haze through which one might, perhaps, on a clear day, imagine that Middle Earth could be glimpsed, or at least the Straight Path.

No: instead along the horizon there was a seam of silver light, and then a great blackness, where the Sea of Ekkaia met the Uttermost West that was not quite the Doors of Night, but was certainly the end of Aman itself. If you stood on the shore watching, the seam would ripple with a pulse of light, sometimes green and sometimes white.

It was so far from anywhere the Eldar of Valinor lived. While they clustered around the Belegaer like moths to flame, this shore seemed instead to repel them. Was it the sight of the world’s end itself? It might be; yet Fingon thought there was more to why this wilderness was so little visited, this howling black sea lashing itself against a grey shore. It was beautiful, but not in the way Elves liked things to be beautiful: it was too raw, too unfinished, too savage.

It was too close to where Mandos kept his Halls, which were not only a thing of spirit but also matter, at least in the way that things in Aman were both. Too close to where Nienna’s tower looked out into the Void and where she wept, and wept, and wept. It was too close to death and to rebirth, to judgment and to pity.

Devastated by the discovery that the poem that gives the fic its name also contains the line I love another, and thus I hate myself. Because yes, that’s basically the fic.

Some miles further, Fingon said, “Did you ever meet him in Beleriand? After I died. I always wondered.”

“No,” Gil-galad said.

It didn’t seem like he was going to speak again, and Fingon had begun to assimilate that knowledge, that pain – that Maedhros had never seen him, had only ever known him through Fingon’s own eyes – when he added,

“But I saw what he did. Have you ever seen a whole city ruined, and known the ruiners to be Elves? It wasn’t even a city, poor Sirion! It was a refuge, a place for the desperate, as far to the West as they could get, as close to the safety of the Sea. They had so very little. No great stone palaces, no towers, no spires. Little enough fresh food. They were able to grow so little, and they lived on fish, and sea-weed, and what parties of brave hunting parties would bring back; and hope. They lived on hope, and they thought Elwing wore it around her throat, but the Valar didn’t come for them: Maedhros Fëanorion and his brothers did instead, and they burned and killed and ravaged. I’d say they salted the earth, but it was salt already. To fall on any innocent Elven city would be a horror: on poor Sirion it was the greatest cruelty I ever saw, and entirely pointless."

They said nothing more.

If you like it, you’ll almost certainly like the sequel, above the wind.

2) and what happened after by @thearrogantemu

One of the very first Tolkien fanfics I read, and still one of the best, particularly the conversations between Fëanor and Frodo in the second chapter, and Sam and Maglor in the third.

He looked closely at his hands, which were strong and graceful, well-shaped and unscarred. He ran his thumb up the side of his fingers and across the arch of the palm. “This, now, this is not quite right. No, they are too clean, far too clean. They say that the body draws its shape from the spirit but perhaps they overstated the case.”

“What do you mean?”

A shadow passed over his face, and all at once Frodo saw the immense age in his ageless features, as if each year of the circling centuries had landed like a blow. Heat rose against his mind again, searing and heedless and terrible. He tasted acrid choking ash in his throat, heard the wailing of distant voices, and all around him was salt and smoke and the flat metallic tang of blood.

Far to the east in Alqualondë by the sea, the sea-folk faltered at their nets as the shadow of ancient grief crossed their hearts, and in white-walled Tirion, the scepter fell as the High King of the Noldor suddenly stiffened in his seat, and then leaped up and ran to a window. He gazed westward, scanning the horizon beyond the Calacirya for he knew not what, pierced by a nameless hope.

But Frodo reached out in return and clasped both of Fëanor’s hands, and they did not burn, but were only flesh and blood, as his own. The heat faded, and Fëanor held out his hand before him; it was still empty and unmarked.

“No, too clean altogether,” he said lightly. “A hand shows what its work has been: calluses, inkstains, scrapes and nicks, little silver scars.”

If you like it, you will also like the sequel, The Very Wine of Blessedness, and probably others in the same series (‘The Splintered Light’) as well. When All Other Light Go Out (Findis) and Beyond the Western Sea (Finrod and Curufin) are two other of my favourites.

3) I love many of @clothonono’s fics, so the only way I know to answer this is to name the one I most frequently want to reread now. Which is….uh. Rochdeilin. I usually go for genfic so I’m little embarrassed.

It’s d/s russingon vulnerability kink. And it’s wonderful. I’m a fan of Maedhros being a sub, and I rarely see it done well.

If you want funny Russingon instead/as well, Fourteen Hours is hilarious and brilliant. On a different but also humorous note, Better A Holy Discord is basically the Valar MST3King the events of The Silmarillion, and along with the humour has so much insight that it’s basically my mission statement on the meaning of the book and who the Valar are.

13. what’s a common writing tip that you almost always follow?

I don’t deliberately follow a lot, but one - from CS Lewis, though I expect he’s not the only one to have said it - is that you know if something’s working by whether it sounds good when read aloud. I don’t often read my fic aloud deliberately, but I can tell when something seems to have the right beats and cadence, and it’s good for telling when a passage can stand or if it needs work.

53. How do you spend your time when it comes to fanfiction? Are you primarily a fic reader, writer, or a perfect 50/50 split of both?

I don’t do a lot of either - I’m pretty picky, about both my own work and others’ - but I definutely read much more than I write. I’ve only got a small number of fics, most of them short, and I don’t write on anything like a consistent basis. Part of that is due to the answer to the previous question - writing prose that doesn’t sound right is like nails on a chalkboard to me. I have never been able to discipline myself to “just get something down on paper” unless at least some of the words are already taking shape in my head.

72. What order do you write in? front of book to back? chronological? favorite scenes first? something else?

I start with my favourite scenes / the ones are clearest in my head, and an outline of everything else. The outline varies in detail; so e parts will be very detailed, others will just be [x needs to happen here]. Then fill in the bits of the outline in pieces based on what I have the most idea about. But I’m very much a plotter - I can’t write something unless I have sone idea of the main things happening, how they hold together, and the central point/themes.

This was very fun, thanks again!

[austerlitzborodinoleipzig]

Flight Patterns

For @miriel-therindes for the @officialtolkiensecretsanta who wanted something about Elwing. Here’s a fic and the playlist that goes with it. Happy holidays, I hope you like it.

Four flights from the life of Elwing, what came after, and what came before.

I DORIATH

Elwing hates the trees. She hates the forest. Hates that suffocating feeling of being lost in a sea of green, drowned in sickeningly sweet mossy lime.

She learned to climb trees before she could walk. Her mother taught her. It served her well at the Havens, for she was the most agile of them and could climb trees and cliffs to find eggs. I want you as a crewmate on my ship, laughed Eärendil. I need someone to climb to the mast and you could do it blindfolded in the middle of a storm.

She hates the warm and humid smell of the forest, like the breath of a monster asleep after a feast.

She knows the guise and the song of all the birds in the forests of Beleriand.

She lost her family to the dark and cursed woods. She has no memory of it, but when she closes her eyes she can picture it, dark gnarly twisted trees, bending, crushing. Roots surging from the ground, naked, white and wet, like the bones of creatures older, and meaner and angrier than any elf could ever be. Branches bending, creaking, howling, slashing, swallowing stone, ground, flesh. The crumbling, dark, decaying realm of Doriath, caves collapsing on themselves until only dust remains of the fair kingdom of Thingol and Melian.

The forest starved and killed her brothers. The Feänorian killed her parents, but the trees gave them cover.

She is glad when the trees in the woods near the Havens are felled to build boats.

The Vingilot smells like the woods and hills around Sirion on a summer’s day. It smells of flowers and of grass under the sun.

 FLIGHT 

Faster, faster, amid the cries and the tears, the branches and leaves, clinging to the small boats, faster ever faster, until the forest is left behind, until the clamor and the song of steel against steel against stone against flesh fades away. Faster ever faster to the river, to the sea.

Farewell to the tears, the forest, to your family, to your childhood, even though you’re barely out of your crib but from now-on you’re alone.

 II THE HAVENS OF SIRION

Luthien was the fairest of the Children of Iluvatar, and Dior was the fairest man, but Eärendil seems stunned when he sees her with a bride’s veil, the Silmaril at her throat, and he laughs and calls her the fairest of them all, fairer than the Valar, and he should know because his father has seen one, and he kisses her and they are wed under the stars, when the night is so full of light and laughter, and Eärendil’s hair shines golden.

He’s old even for an Elf. He looks old, and cruel, his copper hair throws flames around on the walls of her hall. And he burns bright and cruel, but she’s Elwing, daughter of Nimloth and Dior, granddaughter of Luthien, heir to Doriath, so she grips the armrest, sits straighter, digs her feet into the ground. Maedhros Feänorion all but begs for the Silmaril and she says no.

Galadriel doesn’t want to see it. Never does. It’s not mine, she says. It brings death, she says. It is cursed.

Elwing knows she shouldn’t spend too much time looking into the jewel’s depth. And yet she can’t help it. The light inside. It’s infinite. It’s glorious. It’s alive. And when she wears it she feels its heat on her breast. Alive. Beating. Full of power. Her family died for it. Her family lived for it. Elwing exists because of it.

Maybe she’s deceiving herself but she feels stronger when she wears the jewel. Her songs are stronger. The greens, the flowers, the plants, all that grows under the sky, beasts and birds and Children alike, they all grow stronger. The fires in the hearths burn stronger and the houses are warmer. The people she tends to heal faster and better. She sings and the Silmaril pulses against her skin like a second heart.

She is tending Elros. The boy is unstoppable, always running away getting his brother into trouble. This time it’s a sprained ankle. She binds it and kisses him. The kiss will make it better. "How?" asks Elrond suspiciously, before running away shouting "Aunt Galadriel", followed by his brother, the boy will just not sit still. Galadriel is standing at the door. "Are you crying?" asks Elros. "Yes child I am", she answers, "but those are happy tears". And answering Elwing’s unspoken question she says: "I thought it could only bring death. I think I was wrong."

The people of Bor love their fires. She visits them at night, learns their songs and dances. To become a man they say, you must jump over a bonfire. Elros has begged to let her try. They always light a fire during the longest night of the year. To wait and remember, one of the Wisewomen explains. To carry us through the night to the other side. To remember that we shall see the light again, that the sun will return. Elwing thinks of Arien and Tilion sailing through the sky and wonder if from up there they can see the devotions of the Children of Iluvatar, if they can feel the love and care the people of Bor put into their fires, small sparks carrying their wishes and hopes and concerns guiding, urging accompanying the Sun, following it in its course. She thinks of her husband carrying their hopes, away at sea.

She stands once again in the middle of her hall. Fire has breached the city, flames are at the gates. The Feänorian have come to take by murder and crime, what she would not cede. "We’ll go through the night, and meet light on the other side". She doesn’t believe they’ll survive the night.

 FLIGHT 

Faster, faster, amid the shouts and the fires and the smoke, blood flowing through the streets, wind blowing through her ears, faster ever faster, her body falling from the cliffs, the liquid mass pulling her down, falling faster untill she doesn’t. Untill she soars!

Faster faster, on the wind and the waves, under the moon and the stars, away, away from the stench of death and ruin and betrayal and loss. Her children! Her sons! Sweet Elros and gentle Elrond. Lost to her. Taken, like so many years ago, her brothers were. Lost to an Oath and a Curse and Darkness and the Enemy.

Farewell to Beleriand, to her home. Farewell to her family. Luthien and Beren in their green grave on Tar Galen, where Morgoth himself dares not come. Dior and Nimloth in the Thousand Caves, with no one left to bury them. Elured and Elurin lost to the forest. Elrond and Elros, her sons. Her beautiful wonderful sons to whom the world was promised. Lost to the fire and the steel.

Farewell to all. Now the silence, now the vast emptiness, now the liberation.

III THE SEA

Water and wind carry her to her husband's ship. She lands on his breast amid spray, salt and tears. They killed everyone she tells him. And our children are lost. The Valar never came. And Cirdan’s ships arrived too late. The way ahead is shut. The way behind is destroyed. Eärendil takes the Silmaril in his hand and grips it. "Then we’ll make our own path."

She meets Eärendil, on the beach, on a sunny day. The retreating tides have left a myriad of little pools full of shrimps and there’s a boy her age, disturbing the water with a stick. She joins him and together they spend the morning observing the small universe, and it’s the most peaceful Elwing has ever felt and then she hears him sing.

You’re one of them! she shouts, spitting on the ground. Elf of the fire! You’re one of them! Noldor! They killed my father, my mother and destroyed my home! Eärendil stays still, eyes fixed on her. Then, in a voice so low she can hardly hear it: "the fire took my home too." And he adds, "if it helps, I’m only half-elven."

Oh, thinks Elwing. Oh…

She climbs the mast everyday. Falahtar says it’s useless. And he’s right. The sea at the limit of the world is dark, full of smoke, and ice, and rain, and mist. You can scarcely see the prow of the ship. Sailors start to despair. So many years lost at sea. With nothing around them but the liquid masses of the ocean, empty islands, and failure. Always fighting against the wind, the waves, the current, the blocks of ice if they go too far North.

Elwing feels safe. Here, in the middle of nowhere, clinging to a small boat, to the wrinkled skin of the water. Ice, storms, rains, the cold. She can deal with all of it. The sea is treasonous, but so far, no one has ever surged from the depth of the ocean to attack her. Ice and cold never hurt her, it’s the fire that kills. The sea saved her. Ulmo turned her into a bird and carried her to safety, to her husband. Ulmo sent Tuor to Gondolin, and later led the refugees to safety. The sea will carry them to their destination.

Elwing is of the water, and to water she shall return. She was born amid the foam of the riverfall, at Lanthir Lamath. She gave birth to her sons near a babbling brook, in a cave, with the water singing beside her, and the stars reflected on the glistening dome. The water took her away from Doriath, to the Havens, to Eärendil. And away from the Havens, to Eärendil once more. Always, it has saved her and cherished her. It will save her once more. Save them. Save all of them.

It’s getting dark and cold. Food and water are running low. But the Silmaril shines brighter. Almost alive and its light pierce the darkness. Steadfast, Eärendil presses on. Not far, he says. Elwing and him cling to each other. If we go down, we go down together, he whispers. Yes she says. And then we’ll fly. And even if we find them, what should I say? Elwing thinks of their children. That you have two sons left on Beleriand.

They are a sorry bunch at the mouth of the river. Displaced, miserable, starved, cold and ill. Refugees from Doriath, and Gondolin, and Ossiriand, and Nargothrond and Brethil, and Dor Lomin, Brithombar and Eglarest. Noldor, Sindar, Falathrim, Edain and Easterlings. All carrying with them their fears, hatred and distrust. They once came to blows. All naked, covered in mud, wrestling in the water, all beaten by life and the waves. It all stopped, only the tears remained, washed down the river. They were all brothers of misfortune, and brothers yet. And at the end that’s all they were. Naked children crying.

FLIGHT

Faster, faster, amid the rain and wind, the foam and the salt, riding the crescent of the waves, faster through the grey-rain curtain and the silver glass, to the fragrance and songs on the wings of the wind.

Faster to the white shores and beyond them, a green country under a swift sunrise.

IV VALINOR

On the beaches of Valinor, far away, stands a white tower, glistening in the sun. They say it’s the first thing the sailors from Tol Eressëa, of the Green Havens see when they reach the earth. All the birds of Valinor come to the Tower.

In the Tower, there’s a Lady. She’s the Queen of the Birds. They say at night she turns into a swan. Her songs are the sweetest and the saddest.

She sends seagulls to the lost mariner, and nightingales to comfort children, and falcons to the hunters, and sparrows to eat the crickets and protect the harvest.

They are greeted by the birds, the land isn’t yet in sight. Seagulls, albatrosses, and some strange birds, she’s never seen. Red, with a feathery tail like a flame. The air in Valinor is very still. And so pure it almost hurts to breathe. A gentle breeze carries sweet unknown fragrances.

Every night a nightingale comes to the Tower to sing. Some swear to have seen the bird turn into a woman. The most beautiful woman they ever saw, bearing a striking resemblance to the Lady.

She’ll find none of her family on Valinor, she knows it. But one day a couple comes to visit. She is barefoot, and he is tall, with the blondest hair she’s ever seen, and her heart skips a beat because for one blissful second she thought he was back again on the ground. And then she laughs, because of course they made it. Ulmo has always answered her prayers. And the next night she tells Eärendil she saw his parents, and her husband cries.

She lives alone, but is not lonely. She gets visits from all the folk that live nearby, for she is wise and has seen much. She tells stories of a country long gone, sleeping beneath the waves. They say Ulmo dines every week with her.

While Eärendil pleads, Elwing meets the Teleri. They greet her, the only surviving descendant of Elwë. She tells them of Doriath, and of Gondolin, of the sufferings of Beleriand. She sees Alqualondë and thinks it’s the fairest city she ever saw. Some ask about the ships. What happened to the White Swan ships? They burned, answers Elwing, crying. They burned. Everything burned. Her house got a Silmaril back, she doesn’t know if it is fair. Doesn’t know if the debt is repaid.

Why should we help them ? ask the Teleri, through clenched fists and gritted teeth.

We shouldn’t, thinks Elwing. And she thinks of her sons. Captives and more likely dead. And of her brothers, lost to the woods. No jewel could ever pay for that. And yet...

The Silmaril brought us here, she answers. My husband is of the Noldor. And she tells them of Cirdan and Ereinion. Of the Edain, of Beren and Luthien, of the people of Bor. Of the Tree-shepherd.

And when she’s brought before Manwë, the Teleri come with her.

She listens to the wind and the birds. They tell her the stories of those who still live across the ocean. Your husband killed a dragon. Of course he did. She catches Elros before he departs beyond the circles of the World. He is old, so very old, and so very wise, and she is so very proud. Forgive me, she asks. There’s nothing to forgive, Mother, he answers, and tries to kiss her, but his feä is slipping away.

FLIGHT 

Faster, faster, on the wings, her wings, on the wings of the songs. Faster through the skies and the clouds, over the mountains and the stars, to Manwë's domain, and past that to the Circles of the World.

Faster, to that small ship and the oceans of heaven. To the greatest sailor that ever lived, and the Star of Hope. Faster where the air is pure and everything is so vast even the Valar feel small. Faster, always faster, for miles and hundreds of miles and thousands of miles, through the night and the dark, faster to the new day, Arien and Tilion laughing and joining the race.

Farewell to all that was known or is. Now the space, now the heavens, now the light.

V THE BIRD AND THE STAR

There once was a star who fell in love with a bird. And they loved the Children of Iluvatar very much. Some say there were Elves before, some say they were Men. Perhaps they were both. And they had to choose, the Earth or the Sky. They loved both, so they didn’t. One lives on the Earth, the other in the Sky, and every night they meet halfway. The star shines over all that live in Middle Earth, bringing hope and strength. The bird greets all that come to the Undying Lands, bringing comfort and healing.

-------------------

And here’s the playlist that goes with the fic (I’m working on adding the link, it’ll be one Youtube, as I don’t have Spotify)

Part I Doriath

1 - Slow Motion Blackbird, by Chris Hughes

2 - Wild Swans Suite - Eliza’s Aria by Elena Kats-Chernin, performed by the Tasmanian Symphony Orchestra

3 - Le Chant des Oiseaux by Clément Janequin, performed by the Musica Intima ensemble

Flight : Those Free Butterflies, by Alfred Garrievich Schnittke

Part II The Havens

1 - The Lark, by Mikhail Ivanovich Glinka, performed by Mélanie Laurent

2 - The Nightingale (The Birds), by Ottorino Respighi,

3 - Hoopoe (4 songs from Hafez), by Sally Beamish, performed by Roderick Williams and Andrew West

4 - Uirapuru, The Enchanted Little Bird, by Hector Villa-Lobos, performed by the Paraiba Symphony Orchestra

Flight : Symphony n°3 in D Major, Scherzo, by Piotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky, performed by the Royal Concergebouw Orchestra

Part III The Sea

1 - The Dove (The Birds), by Ottorino Respighi

2 - Owls (An Epitaph), by Edward Elgar, performed by the Cambridge University Chamber Choir

3 - Swan Lake, Op 20, Act IV n°27, Dance of the Swans, by Piotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky, performed by the Montreal Symphony Orchestra

Flight : Push the Sky Away, by Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds

Part IV Valinor

1 - Le Merle Noir, by Olivier Messiaen, performed by Emmanuel Pahud

2 - On Hearing the First Cuckoo in Spring, by Frederick Delius, performed by the Royal Philarmonic Orchestra

3 - Crane, by Meredi

Flight : The Lark Ascending, by Vaughan Williams, performed by the London Philarmonic

Part V The Bird and the Star

The Butterfly Lover’s Violin Concerto, Adagio Cantabile, by He Zhanhao and Chen Gang, performed by Lu Siqing and the Taipei Chinese Orchestra

[maedhrosisbae]

I feel like “I’m Trying my Best” by Anson Seabra is Finarfin’s song. I mean, it can apply to A LOT of people in Silm like Finrod, Turgon, Fingon, Maedhros, Maglor, Caranthir, etc. but I feel like it especially fits Finarfin.

“I know you think I got it all figured out ‘cause I walk around with my head in the clouds, but I’m just a boy with his heart pouring’ out of his head.”

Finarfin was expected to suddenly become king. This was a job he probably never expected to get. Surely his father would never not be king, and if he ever did decide to abdicate Feanor and Fingolfin would fight it out and one of them would be king, and after them, their children. Suddenly though, Finarfin’s father is dead, his brothers and their children have left. His children left. They killed his wife’s people and have abandoned him to pick up the broken pieces they left behind when they set out on their “honorable” and “just” quest to retrieve what was theirs and get revenge for their father and king. He had to be strong, because he couldn’t fall apart like he wanted to.

“I wish that you could see the pain that I’ve seen, all of the times I spent being not me. I hope you know that it’s not always happy in my head.”

His brothers abandoned him, and his children abandoned. His father was just murdered. He lost almost all of his family in the blink of an eye, and he is not alright. Finarfin puts on a brave face for his people though, not letting them see how broken he is.

“ ‘Cause I don’t know the perfect road to go down, but I know, I’m trying my best. I’m trying my best to be ok, trying my best but everyday it’s so hard.”

Finarfin doesn’t know how to be king, not really. Fingolfin was always the diplomat and Feanor had the passion and charisma. What did he have? He has no clue how to do any of this, and he is having to learn and adjust on top of his grief. He is just trying his best to cope and lead his now broken people with his shattered heart.

[fuckingfinwions]

Amnesiac Fingon at Sirion

He gave his name at the gate as "a kinsman of Lady Idril," and asked to be directed to her house. It was true (unless he'd been lied to for the last fifty years), and would cause a lot less panic about lost spirits and ghosts than his name. Being Idril's kinsman was also the reason why he had come, rather than one of his law-brothers or a random messenger from their army.

That someone would come to Sirion from the Feanorian host was inevitable. He only hoped that he could be the only one, rather than returning in a year with an army.

Idril's house was easy enough to find, not as grand as the palace but only a short walk away. A servant ushered him in to a sitting room, taking his bag and cloak so politely that he almost missed them carrying off his sword and short-bow as well. He let them, as this meeting would no go any better if Idril thought he was threatening her personal safety. The threat to her people was one he could not avoid.

Once he had no cloak with it's shadowy hood, he turned his face to the paintings on the wall. He was not trying to hide his identity from Idril, but she was the one he wanted to recognize him first. She was the one who had known him as family and mourned his death, and he owed it to her to tell her first of his resurrection, even if he did not remember her. So he had not braided his hair with ribbons as in his the great painting that adorned Maedhros's sitting room, but only pulled it back so it was a mountain of curls on top his head. He looked rather like Anaire, or at least like the wedding portrait that had been in his father's personal effects.

When he heard footsteps enter the room, he turned. First was a man, in middle age perhaps but still hale, blond with a beard trimmed in the Hadorian style. Behind him was an elven lady with skin only a shade darker than Fingon's own, but hair as bright and golden as buttercups.

"Lady Idril," he said as he gave a half-bow, as their respective ranks were hard to calculate given his apparent death and her father's, with none to his knowledge currently claiming the title of King.

"What - but it can't be, you died! My father saw your head cleft in two!"

"I'm sure Turgon thought he did, and indeed Gothmog struck a heavy blow. But I survived, and with the skill of the healers and the grace of Este have recovered. I would have told Turgon, but unfortunately I couldn't reach him."

The man - Tuor - spoke up. "Dear, who is this? I was under the impression all your relatives had either died in battles of renown, or else never set foot in Beleriand."

"I know who he's claiming, but not why someone would make such a bold lie."

"Because it's not a lie. I am Fingon the Valiant, son of Fingolfin Arakano, former high king of the Noldor."

"You say former high king, but I would expect that title to still be yours if you never formally yielded it or died."

"I did yield the throne, due to ill health, and told the largest group of Noldor I could find. I know I cannot claim it again after years away like a discarded instrument."

"Gondolin was the last remaining kingdom of the Noldor. Everyone else died in the Braggollach or the Nirnaeth, save only Nargothrond which fell to dragon fire years ago. I would have heard if you had come to any of them, the great high king alive at last."

"The last kingdom, but not the last fortress. The sons of Feanor still dwell at Amon Ereb along with their followers, and my husband's kin has been very welcoming."

"Your husband?!"

"Maedhros son of Feanor. We were married even before you left for Gondolin, though I'm not surprised your father didn't mention it."

"He did, but I thought it was just because he was angry at his brother. If you're really my uncle, tell me a story about my mother."

"I'm sorry. I know Elenwe died when you were young, and I wish I could share memories of her with you. But the injury that everyone though killed me was a blow to the head, and I recall nothing before it."

"How can you be sure you're Fingon then, rather than a convenient decoy for the throne?"

"If someone wanted to be the power behind the throne, why I have I never acted to take it? But for more concrete proof, I look just as I ever have, and I was already married to Maedhros when I woke up with the healers. If you've heard any rumors of Maedhros having a spouse, or close friend who could have been a secret paramour, who was not Fingon the Valiant, I am very interested."

Idril looked carefully at Fingon as if she could see a lie in his face, but he held his head proud and steady. After a moment, she sighed. "I'm sorry uncle Fingon, it's just been a trying time. I am glad you are alive, truly."

"Thank you."

"If you're not here to claim the kingship, is this a social call then? We have a lot to catch up on, though I suppose you don't know where we left off."

"Well, not really. I would love to get to know you, and your family, whenever you have time! But I didn't think either of us would get much joy out of it, with no common reference to speak of."

The blond man - Tuor - spoke up then. "I suppose you can't tell me about my father then?"

"I know he helped a lot with readying Dor-Lomin for the battle, but Maedhros would be the one to go to for details."

"I don't think Maedhros is welcome in the city."

"Which brings me to the reason I'm here. I would like to speak with your daughter-in-law."

Idril said, "Speak with? Like Maedhros spoke with Dior?"

"Dior never answered any letters we sent - I'm not sure he knew we were serious. Elwing at least knows the stakes, and I'm hopeful negotiation can help everyone."

"I don't think Sirion needs any help from the Feanorians other than them staying out of the way."

"We're not the only threat out there. There are hordes of orcs in Angband."

"And do they listen to you then? Is this another case like Maeglin; has Maedhros been promised the Silmaril if he brings in the last of Doriath and Gondolin?"

"No! Maedhros is no thrall, and hates Morgoth as much as any. But he could help design defenses for the city, like those that protected Himring. The army of Feanor would provide a great number of soldiers to aid you as well, if we were only allowed within the walls."

"You keep saying 'we', but you are the son of my grandfather Nolofinwe, not Feanor."

"My husband's kin are mine as well; you should know this from your own marriage."

"I've never killed an innocent because my husband said to."

"I wasn't at Doriath. I stayed and manned the keep, and my husband came back to say that half his brothers died. I want to keep all my family alive this time."

"And you don't want the burden of shedding more blood, so you come as if it's not a threat."

"It's not! I came alone, I let your servants take my weapons. If Elwing will not see me, or you will not introduce us, or she spends the whole time spewing insults at my husband, I will leave the city peacefully. We will send more letters, and messengers if there's anyone who the Iathrim won't shoot."

"And if the letters fail? If there is nothing that will convince Elwing to give up her birthright to the ones who killed her people?"

"Than the Feanorians will attempt to get it back directly. But warning of an oncoming storm is not a threat, though your ship may be broken all the same if you take no heed."

"Are you really going to make metaphors about ships after what the Feanorians did at Losgar, and what you did at Alqualonde?"

Fingon winced a moment. "Right, I forgot about that. I know the facts, but they don't feel as important as keeping anyone from dying right now."

[thelordofgifs]

One characterisation choice in the fairest stars that I feel compelled to defend a little is that of Maedhros – and specifically, the way he grieves. Honestly Maedhros being both such a fandom favourite and also SO messy and complex makes him an intimidating character for little me to try to write, so I do hope he comes across in tfs as recognisably himself!

Anyway, I think after the posting of Part 10 (which ended with Curufin’s dramatic lie that Fingon and Maglor were both dead), a lot of people were expecting Maedhros to go absolutely feral and furious with grief; and the direction I chose, of grief that absolutely froze him, grief that broke him, grief that was completely disabling even before the unreality attack started, might be a little unexpected? After all, Maedhros in canon is defined by his resilience: within a few years of being rescued from Thangorodrim, he’s done some impressive political wrangling, learned to fight left-handed, and headed off to the eastern front of the war against Morgoth.

Counterpoint: Maedhros canonically responds to the loss of a loved one by freezing, messing up, or otherwise removing himself from the narrative.

A chronological list of examples:

Finwë. Okay, admittedly Maedhros keeps his head quite well on his grandfather’s death: in some drafts he’s the one who delivers the news to the Valar and (though he doesn’t realise it) his father. What he notably doesn’t do, however, is rush after Morgoth and Ungoliant in a blind quest for vengeance. That’s his father’s job! And despite some superficial similarities, I don’t think Maedhros is much like Fëanor; or, rather, I think he deliberately makes an effort to be different to Fëanor.

Amrod. Not really published silm canon, but it’s worth noting that in the Shibboleth of Fëanor version, after Fëanor realises that he accidentally killed his youngest son, “nobody dared speak of this matter to Fëanor again” (might have slightly butchered that quotation bc I’m not looking it up). This is in a version of the story where Curufin was the only son involved in the ship-burning, so Maedhros doesn’t even have any particular culpability or guilt complex around Amrod’s death, but still – no significant reaction.

Fëanor. One of the obvious examples! Immediately after his father’s death, Maedhros makes the stupidest decision of his life and agrees to parley with Morgoth – despite having just sworn to avenge Fëanor! My own reading of this situation is that Maedhros simply wasn’t thinking clearly; stunned and grieving, he went along with what felt like the easiest course of action, and paid a terrible price for it.

Fingon. Another classic example. Maedhros after Fingon’s death is absolutely defined by his inaction – he spends some thirty years post-Nirnaeth simply wandering in the wilds, and, when time comes for the Second Kinslaying, it’s Celegorm who spearheads that. We aren’t told anything about Maedhros’ reaction to Fingon’s death (because ouch), but it doesn’t feel like a huge leap to say that it devastated Maedhros, so much so that he just. shut down.

Post-Second Kinslaying things get murkier because Maedhros has imo more upsetting things to deal with than his brothers’ deaths, namely his own terrible fall from grace. But I would like to point out that after the Third Kinslaying and one or both twins’ deaths (depending on your preferred Amrod crispiness), it’s Maglor who cares for Elrond and Elros; Maedhros, you could argue, is not in the mental state necessary to do so.

God this got long. Anyway, with regards to tfs specifically, Maedhros is dealing with a loss that’s actually worse than anything he experiences in canon – he thinks BOTH Fingon and Maglor are dead, at the same time! So I hope his reaction doesn’t feel too out-of-character; I was worried, in writing it, that I was woobifying him too much, but I do think there’s some canonical justification for this interpretation of him. Hopefully. And thank you to everyone who’s indulging this silly little story and all my unasked-for babbling about it ❤️❤️

[ladysternchen]

Snippet:

“Lúthien… ah, Lúthien, what have I done? I have sent my cousins away, my cousins who were our only hope of defending ourselves. I have even less idea of how to lead an army than Finrod had. How am I to protect my city should it come to the worst?”

Lúthien snorted.

“Trust me, Orodreth, you do not need them. I was not there, so maybe missed things, but was it not them who drove Finrod out of his own kingdom? I would be glad to be rid of them if I were you, to be completely frank.”

“Well I am not. They are my cousins, I love them and they and their people have done a lot to enforce Nargothrond’s protections. I drove them out of my realm for what they did to Finrod, but before that…”

He faltered, the sudden heat of his last words quickly fading, only to be replaced by an expression of utter hopelessness.

“I do not blame you for seeing them the way you do, Lúthien. Chance be that your view on Curufin and Celegorm is indeed the more accurate one. I know how they seem, and do not think that they have not angered me or Finrod with their arrogance and cruelty. Angrod for his part openly renounced them. But… you see, they were not always like this. You have never seen Celegorm hunting. He kills swiftly, so that his victims would suffer no fear or pain. He honours even the smallest creature. And Curufin, who in the blissful years had endless patience with Celebrimbor in the smithy so that the boy could learn, and test his strength… we were great friends, once. Before the Oath. Before they turned their swords against my own family. And still, I think that our grandfather would have wanted us to get along. He so tried, worked so hard to make everyone feel at home. The bickering and rivalry between my uncles hurt him deeply, and yet it never made him bitter. He welcomed us all with open arms, always. I… I miss him terribly, and should I meet him again one day, I should hope to do him proud.”

“I think you did today.” Lúthien replied gently “Not that I can claim to know much about Finwë, but from what I have heard about him, by someone who missed him not less than you do, though be it in a very different way, he would have been immeasurably proud of your deeds today. You proved that you are a king who is just, and gently, and powerful. And I tell you, you will find the strength you think you lack should need be. You will hold your own. And I think you may find that you have within your kingdom something that will enhance that strength.”

She nodded at Beren, who drew out the pouch and opened it, so that the light of the Silmaril filled the whole room. 

Orodreth managed to stifle his scream of mingled terror and wonder, though with difficulty.

“What…” he stuttered “How? Lúthien, Beren, have you any idea… what have you done? Oh, by the Valar, what have you done?”

Had Orodreth not been an immortal elf, Beren might have feared that the King’s heart might stop beating out of shock. As it was, Orodreth swayed ominously, causing both Beren and Lúthien to hurtle forwards to steady him.

“Breathe for me, little cousin. It is quite alright. Morgoth will hardly step out of his fortress, will he?”

“N…no. Or at least I hope not. He has not done so since my uncle challenged him to his  own destruction. But Lúthien… how could you? Have you any idea what might have happened had Curufin or Celegorm laid eyes on it? The oath… oh, you lucky fools have no idea.”

“You might have noticed that I am only showing you, and that I waited to do so until after the Fëanorians have left Nargothrond?”

But Orodreth still shook his head, looking very frightened.

“You have to give it to them. Well, not them, not Celegorm and Curufin, but to Maedhros.”

“Why would I do that? After all they have done? Beren and I got it.”

“It is their birthright, Lúthien. They are bound to it by the Oath they have sworn.”

Lúthien contemplated her cousin’s words for a bit, then said:

“Bound by the oath they gave to a father who would sacrifice every single one of them for  jewels? Who would lead them to peril, and see them slain? I think not. If they are haunted by the oath, it is because they themselves desire what Fëanor desired. Do not tell me that it was the oath that made them rob and murder my uncle’s people, do not tell me that you really want me to reward them for it by presenting them with the Silmaril Beren and I won a silver tablet. But alright, their birthright it is. And I will give it to them once they retrieved the other two jewels. I will not stand between them and the relieving of their oath. But until they have achieved that, I keep that one Silmaril as weregild for my -our- slain kin in Alqualondë. And besides, I have a feeling that this is how it should be.”

Orodreth grabbed Lúthien by the wrists, pleading now.

“You do not understand. That is what the Silmaril does. It makes you feel good. Of course it feels right to keep it. But as fair as those gems are, they trail behind them a track of blood and bitter grief.”