#well i think its maedhros now

[sesamenom]

was looking through some of my old art and found my original feanorion designs (minus parts of curufin and ambarussa)

[youareunbearable]

I made a spotify playlist for one of my fav Silm fics of all time "A Thread Unraveled" by ScribeofArda on Ao3 or @theheirofashandfire here on tumblr

Summary of fic: "Maedhros wakes up again, on the first morning of the Nirnaeth Arnoediad. Of course, nobody calls it that. For them, it hasn't happened yet."

The paylist follows the general vibe of the narrative: Maedhros' realization of the cycles, his struggles, his saving grace, and his determination to succeed in battle with his loved ones alive no matter how many times he has to get back up and try again. The songs genre is mostly: indie, folk, with some musical numbers thrown in because honestly, its not one of my playlists without a musical song or two

This is a brilliant fic so if you havent read it already i would reccomend! It's also an ongoing series and I've probably read the entire thing over a dozen times, its really become one of my favourite comfort fics/series of all time.

[sweetteaanddragons]

I Could Not See to See

(Title taken from Emily Dickinson's "I Heard a Fly Buzz When I Died," a poem about the transition between life and death. It felt appropriate.)

(Summary: Morgoth's darkness blots out even the stars. Maedhros loses hope that any of them can survive this.

Some six thousand years later, Elrond refuses to lose hope when it comes to bringing home everyone that he can.)

The last time Elrond saw a star in Beleriand was when he was thirteen. After that, the Enemy’s smog grew too thick; only the sun’s light was fierce enough to bleed through it, and that only weakly.

He was also thirteen the first time Maedhros turned to him around the campfire and said, “When you die - ”

Elrond was not sure precisely what his face did at that moment. He thought Elros would have gone for a weapon if their hands had not been so occupied with the first bowls of hot stew they had been able to risk for three fortnights.

It helped that the most threatening thing Maedhros was handling at the moment was the ladle for said stew. It helped, too, that it had been a very long time since Maedhros had been the most immediate threat to them. He had slain three wights for them only that day and taken a nasty slash to the leg in the bargain; Elrond did not think he would so lightly turn and slay them now, especially while the leg was not yet well, and Elrond, for all his youth, was already the best healer among them.

Still. It did not stop Elros’s grip from changing ever so slightly on the bowl of stew.

“If,” Maglor said hastily, sitting down between them and Maedhros and heavily stressing the word. "If you die.”

Maedhros - the greatest swordsman Elrond had ever seen - looked down at the cut on his leg that even he was not quick enough to stop. Not when surrounded by so many enemies; not when protecting two more vulnerable targets; not when so many plants have shriveled beneath the choking smoke and animals have grown so scarce. “If,” he said sardonically.

He did not complete his thought.

It was two years later before Maedhros turned to them again and said, “When you die.” He paused there for an interruption, but there wasn't one.

Around them, what remained of the Feanorian followers were doing their best to make camp as far back from the mouth of the cave as they could. Outside, the rain hissed down, and there was something evil hiding in its whispers.

There were fewer of them than there were before the rain began to fall.

Maglor was still there. Maglor was by the mouth of the cave, singing up a draft to push back against the winds greedily pushing the rain farther inward. His mouth grew tight at his brother’s words, but he didn't stop the song.

“When we die,” Elros prompted from where he was leaning against the rough stone, wincing as Elrond inspected his wrist, swollen from his fall in the desperate scramble up the mountain.

“I don’t know where you’ll go.” The words were flat, but Maedhros’s eyes were as worried as he ever let anyone see. “You might be counted Men; if you are, there is little I can do to advise you, save to say that if there is any danger where Men go, you should certainly seek your kin.”

“Tuor, Turin - ”

“Huor, Hurin - ”

“Nienor, Morwen - ”

“Yes,” Maedhros interrupted before Elrond and Elros could get too far into their game of seeing who could remember the most ancestors. “Though if it comes to it, I’d recommend more toward appealing to Beren and Luthien and less toward Turin. I know little of his curse, but from what little I did hear, you will not want to tangle with it if it still remains.”

Elros refrained from pointing out that at least hiding behind the edges of a curse would be a familiar state for them. Elrond suspected that even someone not half entwined with Elros’s mind could guess it, judging from Maedhros’s weary twitch of the lips.

“But if you are counted as elves, that is another matter. Mandos’s Halls will be safe; I cannot speak for what you will find when you are released from them.”

The part of Elrond that still remembered being six years old and watching as his father sailed away in desperate hope of Aman’s salvation wanted to protest. Aman was perfect; Aman was untouched.

But he was not six years old anymore, and he had heard enough speculative whispers by now to know that just because the fires of Alqualonde must have long since burned out and those first darkness-fueled riots long since ended, it did not at all mean that all in Aman must be at peace. Conflict would not have ended with the Noldor’s exit.

“Stick together and use your best judgment as to whether it is better to be Sindarin princes or Noldorin princes or anonymous children of nowhere in particular. But before that - ” Here, he broke off and with a sharp gesture summoned Farande over from the throng of people investigating the back of the cave for danger. “Before that, you must get there, and if the wraiths and spirits that have haunted us this past month are any indication, that may require more cunning than it once did.”

Farande saluted as she drew near. “My king,” she said, before turning to them and taking on a tone Elrond had never heard her use before; she sounded like Maglor when he was teaching. “Mandos’s call is loud, but even in the days when all there was to oppose it were some leftover traps, Melkor’s was tempting.”

It took Elrond a moment to process this. His hands paused in their gentle prodding of Elros’s wrist. “You’ve died before?”

Elros peered around him curiously as though the information would somehow make Farande look different than she ever has before.

“On the great journey to Aman,” she said. Her tone did not invite further questions. “After the final blow, your spirit will linger about your body for a few moments in confusion; already, you will begin to hear the calls. They will tug at you. When I fell, Mandos’s was by far the stronger.”

She said nothing about what she suspected about now.

The hissing whispers in the rain seemed to get louder.

“The Enemy is cunning,” Maedhros said. His eyes were suddenly very hard to look into. “He lies well. It is not surprising that some fëa may have become confused by him.”

“Can you teach us what Mandos’s sounds like?” Elros asked Farande. “So we don’t get confused?”

She grimaced. “I will sing up the best memory I can for the company,” she promised. “But it will not be perfect. And without knowing what form the Enemy’s lie takes, I cannot promise it will be close enough. Which is why, when you fall, you should keep your fëar as near as you can to your bodies until I can come find you.”

Elrond recoiled a little. “But houseless spirits - ”

“Not houseless,” she said. “Namo is too stubborn to give up the call so quickly. He will not cease calling for some time; certainly not so little as it will take for me to find you. I can guide you after that.”

Elrond supposed this might work; he had seen communication with the dead before.

But it had always been the Enemy’s dead, bound closer to the world through his magics, and the communication had always been on the order of as forcefully as possible shooing them away. He was not sure Farande would be able to find them to speak to him - unless she didn’t need to, he supposed; if she went to their bodies and assumed they yet lingered, she could speak well enough, although how she would hear them describe the sounds they heard -

Elros’s mind had already raced further ahead. “That will only work if you die in the same battle as us,” he pointed out. He didn’t bother asking what would happen if he and Elrond didn’t fall in the same battle; the idea was too unthinkable. “What if you don’t?”

She raised one scarred eyebrow, almost laughing. “You think you will outlast me, little prince?”

“No,” Elros confessed freely. Farande had been fighting since before elves first saw the light of the Trees; it was hard to credit the rumor he had heard that she was once a healer when her hands were so quick with her blades. “But what if we fall in a fight and you don’t?”

“I will,” she said, all laughter gone. “I swear it to you as I swore it to my king, little prince: I will. And I will lead you home.”

For just a moment, Elrond stared at her in blank incomprehension.

“It won’t take me long,” she promised, her hand, just for a moment, brushing up against her own neck. “You know how quick I am with a knife.”

Elros recovered quicker. “You can’t,” he protested. “Namo won’t let you out, not after - “

She laughed in earnest then, high and clear. “I will be twice slain and thrice a kinslayer. Namo will not let me out regardless, and I would not want him to; Aman was never for the likes of I. No, his Halls shall suit me fine, and I can think of no better mission to bring me there.” 

She bowed to Maedhros and went back to her work, still laughing as she went.

Elrond stared after her. He could not seem to swallow.

“If that was a ploy to get us to train harder,” Elros said from behind him. “Congratulations, it worked.”

Maedhros didn’t smile.

(It did not take someone as perceptive as Elrond to see that Farande had made no preparations to depart.

“Your sons yet linger,” she told him. “I would not leave them alone.”

“No,” he agreed. There were others who had said such, and he was glad of it. “I worry for them.”

“I will defend them to my last breath,” she promised.

“I have never doubted it! On these shores, you shall keep them safe if any can. But Elrohir . . . Elrohir, at least, will sail, I think. I am not sure about Elladan, but I think he will sail for his brother’s sake. They will sail, but the sea is wide, and my sons are not sailors. I do not know that any Cirdan’s folk will yet linger when they decide to try it.”

Farande said nothing.

There were many who had said they would linger a while longer. He worried for them all.

But there were few he thought as likely as Farande to let themselves fade to echoes beneath the trees.

“You promised once to guide Elros and I west if it came to it,” he said softly. “I ask no oaths, Farande; you know that. But is it so greater a thing to ask a different guidance home?”

She swayed forward - swayed back. Swallowed, as she looked down to the courtyard where Elladan and Elrohir played at fighting and laughed below.

“It was no home to me,” she said at last. “It - could be, for them.”

“It could be for you,” he said, softer still. “Surely there is yet some untenanted valley in Aman where our people can gather again.”

The laughter swelled louder below. It had been long since he heard it from them so light and so free.

She swayed forward.

“I will sail them west,” she promised. “If you ask it of me, my lord, then yes; I will get them home.”)

[eri-pl]

Silm reread 18: Tears Unnumbered ye shall shed

So, we got here. But first, B&L get an epilogue.

First, a tidbit about reembodiment: B&L take their physical forms again in Doriath. I guess they go from Mandos to there in spirit. (It's all "allegedly", anyway). Everyone is happy and afraid when seing them (very reasonable reaction I think) and Luthien heals Thingol from (depression, more or less).

Melian looks in Luhien's eyes and is sad. She "realized they will be apart till the end of the world and after" (huh?) and again, we have Pengolodh's favorite stylistic tool: "nobody ever suffered more from any loss than Melian suffered then".

Oh, I found the quote in original: “But Melian looked in her eyes and read the doom that was written there, and turned away; for she knew that a parting beyond the end of the world had come between them, and no grief of loss has been heavier than the grief of Melian the Maia in that hour."

B&L go to Ossiriand, it vaguelly feels like they don't neet to eat anymore? But unclear.

Anyway, back to the proper plot Feanorians. Maedhros gained hope, because he saw Morgoth is not untouchable. He starts creating the Union, but the wording about him doing it … even without knowing the story, if I read it carefully, I would probably be worried about how it will go.

And we have a clear reminder of the Oath and all that. Orodreth doesn't trust the Feanorians because C&C (makes sense I guess) (Finrod would probably join the Union but anyway). Gwindor joins Maedhros, going against his king's orders… we know how this will end for Gwindor.

doriath. Mae&co had sent brash letters to thingol along the lines of "you will be our enemy if you don't give the Silmaril back" and Melian advised Thingol to give it to them! But he is angry at their tone and at C&C, and also B&L have suffered so much for this jewel…

Sidenote: If your main claim to a piece of treasure is "but I/someone have sufferred so much", keeping it is probably going to end badly.

Also thingol wants to keep the Silmaril, because it is this jewel's power…. wait what? "And every day that he looked upon the Silmaril the more he desired to keep it for ever; for such was its power." [original] WHAT.

Ok, that is new. So, the Silmaril is canonically addictive? Or is it only because it has been in Morgoth's crown?

So, anyway, Thingol sends Maedhros a dissing answer and Maedhros leaves him be, because the Union is more important. Yay, Maedhros, great job, you are doing well! (For now :((( )

Unfortunately C&C threathen Thingol with genocide, after they win the wart. Which they assume they will. So thingol fortifies and doesn't go to the war. (Mablung and Beleg go, but Thingol allows them reluctantely, so they end up better than Gwindor)

Bór! :) and Ulfang :(

Maedhros plays his hand a bit too early :(

Also, another mention of Morgoth's spies (plural) and traitors. So, I guess the fallen Men, enslaved Elves and shapeshifting wannabe-Saurons sabotage the Union as much as they can.

Battle, Fingon doubtful, problems, suddenly: Turgon! First good surprise of this battle (it will be a whiplash…)

The Noldor want to charge too quickly, but Hurin stops them, because he is wise.

Morgoth wants to kill Fingon especially. Why? Probably to break Maedhros. (Also, revenge for the rescue, maybe.)

Gwindor gets unlucky chance (that's what happens when you go to war against your king's orders, I suppose)

The Noldor get really motivated and almost win. Morgoth is trembling of fear XD as they bang at his door. This is pretty cool of them. But then they all die. :(

Another turn: the Noldor might have won, but Ulfang. :( [Maglor kills him and it's probably the only named character that we are told is killed by Maglor, which is interesting]

Also, Glaurung is there.

Fingon dies. Also, his banner is silver and pale blue, which I did not remember.

Hurin, Turgon, foreshadowing for Earendil. Maeglin hears it all, but does not comment, and he remembers it and I have no idea why the book tells us that, this line feels so odd. "Maeglin, Turgon's sister-son, who stood by, heard these words, and did not forget them; but he said nothing" It's apparently odd to more people because there's a reddit thread about it. huh, ok, makes sense.

So, Hurin is brave and great and I will need to make a post about how the story is an ecosystem and the benefit of one character's heroics sometimes lands to another character's lap and it's painful but also quite real. So. Hurin. But we'll get back to him later.

Morgoth is happy, because divides and betrayal and stuff like that. :/

Also this (Ulfang) is why the Elves don't like Men anymore (except the Edain).

Cirdan is besieged, allo we learn that there are Orcs who can use explosives, and orkish engineers and what not. Interesting. they destroy the ports, Cirdan&co escape to the sea and to Balar.

Turgon again sends ships to Valinor, again it doesn't work (again I suppose he didn't ask Ulmo about his opinion or ignored it), and we are told who kills those sailors: not the Valar. "Only one, Voronwe, was saved by Ulmo from Osse's wrath". So yea, it's the "not rebel, but not not-rebel" sea guy. Don't blame the Valar for this.

Turgon is the rightful king of the Noldor (says the book), Morgoth hates him, because Fingolfin, and because he's a friend of Ulmo, and because Turgon's vibe scares him. We have a wonderful line about how even back in Valinor Morgoth was anxious every time he saw Turgon and tbh this is criminally underexplored in fics (this whole period is) and must have been quite hilarious.

Hurin disses Morgoth, Morgoth curses him and his wife and kids, takes him high up, and curses him again for a good measure.

Results of that: in the next chapter.

[thelordofgifs]

the fairest stars: post v

The "Beren and Lúthien steal two Silmarils" bullet point AU is into its fifth post! Masterpost with links to all previous parts on tumblr (and on AO3, although that's lagging behind) here.

Part the twenty-sixth! The problem of Dorthonion.

Maedhros sends a letter to Beren.

I know you left Dorthonion long ago, he writes. But I fear Sauron may use his position there to attack Hithlum from the south. Have you any thoughts on how we can defend ourselves?

He includes his gracious thanks to Beren for returning the Silmaril to him, too, but Beren skims over these.

It was never about the Silmaril, really.

After he has read the letter twice over he sets it down with a troubled look and goes for an hours-long walk.

"Is Beren upset?" Túrin wants to know. "He said he'd play Dagor Bragollach with me."

Lúthien does not miss how tight the skin around Morwen's eyes go, hearing that.

"I don't know, dear," she says carefully. "He should be back soon. If not, I will play with you instead, one of the games we used to play when I was a girl before the Sun first rose."

Túrin seems to accept this as a compromise. He goes off to talk to old Sador while he waits.

Lúthien glances at Morwen, who is putting away the luncheon-dishes, having politely rebuffed Lúthien's offer of help. "He does not mean to make light of it," she says. "The battle, I mean. He is only a boy."

"I know that," Morwen says, rather sharply. Then she seems to regret her tone, for she takes a breath and says, more mildly, "So Maedhros Fëanorion is interested in Dorthonion, now?"

"It seems so," says Lúthien. "It would certainly be dreadful if a land which so many people love so well were to be turned into a stronghold of the enemy."

(The memory of Tol-in-Gaurhoth haunts her yet. Finrod loved that tower, once.)

"Well, yes," says Morwen. "But it already has been, has it not?"

Lúthien looks at her in surprise. "And so we must strive to retake it, surely," she says. "It is the land of your girlhood too! Do you not wish to see it restored?"

"Dorthonion is lost just as surely as my girlhood is," Morwen says firmly. "There is no use in mourning it."

"There is a use!" Lúthien protests. "If we do not fight, then – then Morgoth wins! It is all our duty to resist him, is it not?"

"Beren gave Dorthonion up," Morwen points out. "Even he could not hold it forever."

Lúthien lifts her chin. "Beren held Dorthonion far longer than anyone could have expected of him," she says. "And he was not wrong to do so."

Morwen just looks tired. "You say you were a girl before the Sun rose," she says. "Sometimes it seems to me you still are."

Lúthien thinks this rather unfair, but to her dismay Beren agrees with his cousin when he returns from his walk – at least insofar as Dorthonion is concerned.

"Let it go, Tinúviel," he says quietly. "Dorthonion is lost."

"And can it not be reclaimed?" Lúthien presses.

But the gaze her husband turns on her is filled with enough distress that she drops it.

"Maedhros does not want to restore Dorthonion," she points out. "Only be aware of its strengths, and how they might be turned against the Noldor."

"True," Beren says, with a sigh. "I can give him that."

He writes back to Maedhros, detailing the geography of his homeland as best he remembers it, the hidden pathways in which orcs might lurk, the high points of Ladros from which attackers can be seen for miles.

"What do you think?" Maedhros asks Fingon, making little marks on one of his maps with the new information.

Fingon is leaning over his shoulder, careful not to be seen touching him.

"We do not have the forces to launch an invasion," he says, with a frown.

"No," says Maedhros; "nor do I think it possible were we to have three times the people we do at present."

Fingon glances at him. "Dorthonion is not Angband," he says. "I do not think it unassailable, at some point in the future."

"Perhaps," says Maedhros, who sounds unwilling to argue. "All the same, Beren seems to think it would be easy enough for Sauron to assault Barad Eithel from the south, should he wish to do so. It would not be wise to leave those paths unguarded."

Fingon chews his lip thoughtfully.

The Noldor of Hithlum are diminished since the Dagor Bragollach, and they can expect little help from other quarters.

He does not want to divide his forces, when the main threat is still Angband in the north.

"The thing is," says Maedhros, "if I am right that Sauron dwells in Dorthonion – or Taur-nu-Fuin, to give it its true name—"

"Dorthonion is its true name," Fingon says.

Maedhros flashes him a smile and carries on. "If I am right"—and it is plain to see that he is sure he is—"then Sauron may not actually be in communication with Morgoth at present. But he will wish to regain the favour he has lost, I am sure. So we can expect attacks on both fronts: but not necessarily coordinated ones."

"That is not a very great advantage," says Fingon.

"But something!" says Maedhros. He looks cheerful. War-talk always brightens Maedhros: he likes to have a problem to turn over. "You might set up an outpost in the Fen of Serech. Our people know those paths better than the orcs do, and they will be able to give us advance warning when the attack comes." His mouth twists wryly. "That might have been enough to save us at Himring."

Fingon sighs. "It would not, as you well know," he says. "But that is good advice, Russo."

Maedhros puts a hand on his arm, a gesture as close to a caress as he dares in this crowded hall. "It is a problem," he says. "I will think on it, and see if I can come up with any better solution."

"Please do," says Fingon; "only, you might talk your ideas over with me, too. You need not solve all our problems alone."

"All right, my King," Maedhros says, with a smile, and his bright eyes follow Fingon as he heads off to begin his duties for the day.

Beren's was not the only letter that arrived at Barad Eithel today.

Do you think, Lúthien writes to Maglor, Morgoth's corruption can never be reversed? Must Dorthonion be nothing but a wasteland full of pestilence for ever more?

I might have thought so, after the Dagor Bragollach, Maglor writes in response, for it seemed to me then that our Doom, so long-delayed, might be catching up with us, and the Valar spoke truly when they said we could avail nothing against Morgoth's might. But you and Beren cut two Silmarils from his crown – so I think there is more hope in the world than we believed.

In that case, answers Lúthien, perhaps it is worth trying to cleanse the land: if not by strength of arms, then by Song, and courage, and hope.

She does not lay the suggestion out plainly, but Lúthien has never been very subtle, and Maglor understands her meaning well enough. You forget, he warns, that even Finrod fell under the Doom of the Noldor, and all his strength in Songs of Power availed him nothing against Sauron. And I his cousin am a Kinslayer. I do not think it is within me to drive Sauron from Dorthonion.

Not alone! is Lúthien's blithe reply. But you would not be alone. Did we not come to an accord: that fate need not bind you forever?

Perhaps that is going too far. Perhaps Morwen was right, and she is just a silly girl, and to hope is childish.

But when Maglor's reply arrives, he writes, I am growing to believe my Oath can be – if not broken, at least dissolved. If we shackled ourselves with words, surely we might un-shackle ourselves the same way. But I know not how, and meanwhile we still only have one Silmaril, and it cannot be held at bay forever.

I know not how either, answers Lúthien, but I think you are right, and moreover that you do have the strength to hold it at bay until we have found a solution. You did so in Menegroth, after all. Do not lose faith.

Maglor wants, very badly, to believe her.

"You write often to Lúthien," his brother observes, one afternoon.

"I think," says Maglor, "she might be a truer friend than either of us deserve."

Maedhros squeezes his wrist affectionately. "Not you," he says. And then, "What do you write to her about?"

"Different things," Maglor says. "Dorthonion. The Oath."

Maedhros looks at him swiftly.

"You cannot deny," says Maglor, "that it is a problem."

"No," says Maedhros, with a sigh. "No, I cannot deny that." He pauses. "What has Lúthien to say about it, then?"

"Only that she does not believe we are bound for ever," Maglor says thoughtfully.

"Káno," says Maedhros, and then he pauses. "I know – you said you did not wish to – but have you thought of asking her again? If she will speak to her father—"

"I have not asked her," says Maglor. Maedhros is standing tense and pensive beside his chair. Maglor leans his head against his brother's side and tries to explain. "Lúthien left her father's kingdom for a reason, Nelyo. I know not if Thingol will even listen to her. And besides—"

"Besides?" Maedhros prompts gently, after he is quiet for a while.

Maglor stares at his fingers. "It isn't the right answer," he says. "I don't know if I can explain why. Yes, that Silmaril does not belong to Thingol, and yet..." He looks up at Maedhros. "But I will ask her, if you command it."

Maedhros takes a sharp step back, and then another. "No. No!" His face is white. He takes a breath and smiles, with noticeable effort. "I am not your lord any more, Káno. Himring is fallen. You need not take command from me."

Maglor does not like the violence of his distress, and still less how swiftly he masked it.

"It was never about Himring, Nelyo," is all he says.

"Then what?" Maedhros asks, his voice low.

Instead of answering Maglor reaches out a hand, and after a moment Maedhros hesitantly comes close enough to touch again.

Maglor twines his fingers with Maedhros' and says, "I really do think there is a way out, Nelyo."

Maedhros manages another smile, and says nothing.

While all this letter-writing is going on we must turn our attention to a city that receives no letters at all (because nobody knows where it is).

Maeglin and his force of Gondolindrim are ready to depart.

"We do not know when the attack will come," Turgon says, "so do not reveal yourselves too hastily. Perhaps you will be able to return to Gondolin unheeded, if all goes well."

Maeglin hesitates. "Of course, uncle," he says smoothly.

He understands Turgon's caution, but he wants his glory! If Turgon will not be there to witness it, he wishes at least for tales of his exploits in battle to be carried home on many admiring tongues, to have all the city saying, Lord Maeglin – no, Prince Maeglin slew a dragon, and Prince Maeglin saved the High King's life, and Prince Maeglin's quickness of mind meant none had fewer losses than the Gondolindrim—

Perhaps Idril will smile to hear them, and favour him with an admiring look.

"I may be sending you forth too soon," Turgon says, troubled. "My brother fears an attack will come, but that does not mean—"

"Father," Idril says quickly, "think of how pointless it would be if the attack came before we were there, and Glorfindel, Rog and Maeglin ended up revealing our presence after everything was already lost. Better that they go now, by the secret ways in the mountains – there is no harm in their waiting there for a time, to see whence the Enemy will attack."

Turgon cannot deny the wisdom of this.

Maeglin can, and does, later. "You just want to get rid of me," he accuses, coming across Idril in the corridors of the King's House later that day.

"I see now why you are named for your powers of perception," Idril says, coolly; "they are mighty indeed."

"I might die," Maeglin says. "Shan't you be sorry then, Idril?"

"I have nothing to be sorry to you for," Idril says.

"You won't even let me leave you something to remember me by," Maeglin says. "I could make you a new foot—"

"We have been over this," Idril says. "I don't want a new foot, or anything else. Leave me alone, Maeglin."

Maeglin looks at her mithril prosthetic with disdain. "You are too sentimental," he says. "I could make you a far better one than that old thing."

"You're arrogant, certainly," says Idril, "but for all your confidence you are not yet the equal of Celebrimbor my cousin – either in the forge or in general agreeableness. If you do come back from all your heroic deeds, try to do so a kinder person. Or, better yet, don't come back at all."

Maeglin glares at her, but Idril walks away before he can respond.

The force sets out the next morning. Turgon sends them with his blessings, and with quiet, grave words of encouragement for the three commanders.

Maeglin and his House of the Mole have been working for some weeks, while the muster progressed, on making hidden tunnels through the Encircling Mountains, leading north from Tumladen to the Fen of Serech. They are not yet finished, but the army will hollow them out further as it journeys, and with all luck they will be able to return from the battle undetected.

It seems to Turgon, now, that he is sending his people – and his sister-son, Aredhel's only legacy! – into a gaping maw of darkness, and he knows not if they will ever return.

"I should be leading them," he tells his daughter, troubled.

Idril puts a hand on his arm, a gesture both stately and affectionate. "You are not doing wrong, Father," she says.

There is a little wobble in her voice. Alarmed, Turgon glances at her to see that there are tears in her eyes. "Itaril! What is the matter?"

Idril smiles and wipes at her eyes. "Nothing," she says quickly, "nothing."

"Are you worried for your cousin?" Turgon asks. "He is very young, I know, to command a whole force."

Idril chokes out a laugh. "Worried! No, I am not worried for Maeglin."

She looks down to where the force, arrayed in shining armour, is beginning to disappear into the tunnel.

Maeglin, slight and proud and dark-haired, is just visible at its head. He pauses to look back at her.

The sun gleaming bright off her golden hair, her chin lifted, her blue cloak whipping about her in the breeze: she is a promise, thinks Maeglin, or a challenge, or a guiding star.

Don't come back at all. Well, maybe he will not – or else he will come back worthy of her.

(to be continued)

[erendur]

Elwing, "the people of Sirion" , drug money and bad decision-making

My two cents that nobody asked for on the Sirion situation (with (almost) no discussion of property rights ! because I think that's beside the point !), for which I will draw a lazy parallel with No Country for Old Men.

So : 1. The Silmaril as dirty drug money

In No Country for Old Men (book or film, makes no difference here because I am going to simplify the shit out of these themes), the protagonist stumbles one day on a drug deal gone bad at the US-Mexican border. There's been a shoot-out, and everybody is dead (I said I was going to simplify). Amid the massacre, the protagonist finds a suitcase full of what is clearly dirty drug money (several millions of dollars worth of it). He decides to take the money, and run away with it to a better life. He thinks his odds are pretty good : he is a skilled hunter, and a Vietnam veteran, so he can move around in the desert pretty much undetected, and can shoot well. He has good survival skills, and is poor. Obviously (spoilers), things do not end well for him. The gangs whose dirty money he has taken are very determined to get their money back (is it really "their" money is beside the point there), are obviously very violent, well-armed, and not squeamish. The protagonist ends up dead.

Now of course the bad guys in the story are the violent drug cartels. But also pretty obviously from my point of view, taking something from violent, determined and ruthless people; that they consider to be theirs, whether they are right or not, is very poor decision-making. It's not about what is morally wrong or right (the DRUG LORDS are in the wrong, obviously), it's about what is a sane decision and what is not.

I don't know about you, but if I were to find a stash of very obviously dirty money somewhere, I wouldn't bring it back home. I would leave its vicinity so fast that I would probably beat a world-record for velocity.

And the worst you think the Fëanorians are, the least sense it makes to keep the Silmaril away from them, especially after they have very clearly proven their determination to kill for it in Doriath.

Pre-Doriath, you could argue that few people knew about the oath. Even people who hate the Fëanorians would frankly be at pains to find anything bad that they did between Alqualondë and the massacre at Doriath (and Alqualondë was not about the Silmarils, or not directly). So the decision made by Thingol or Dior not to return the Silmaril at that point could have been born, in part, of a bad reading of the situation : they did not expect the Fëanorians to attack, or if they did, the expected to win (and thought they were in the right, but I won't go into this now).

Post-Doriath, though ?

Which leads me to : 2. Who took the bad decision to keep the drug money away from the violent drug-lords (and who are "the people of Sirion ?")

So now, lets' get to Elwing - and "the people of Sirion" (I'm using quotations marks on this one, because I have thought about this).

The Silm says that "(...) Elwing and the people of Sirion would not yield the jewel which Beren had worn and Lúthien had worn, and for which Dior the fair was slain ; and least of all while Eärendil their lord was on the sea, for it seemed to them that in the Silmaril lay the healing and the blessing that had come upon their houses and their ships".

It's presented here as though the decision to keep the Silmaril - or, in my analogy, the drug money that the violent drug cartel had firmly asked to be returned - was a collective one. It's Elwing AND "the people of Sirion".

I have several thoughts on that. The first one is that it seems that even though Maedhros writes to Elwing, she doesn't seem to be too much in charge of the situation. We are also told, earlier on in the same chapter, that :,"Bright Eärendil was then lord of the people that dwelt nigh to Sirion's mouths ; and he took to wife Elwing the fair (...)", so it seems that it seems that Eärendil is in charge, and Elwing is...his wife. It's obviously my interpretation, but in spite of the whole "gender equality" among Elves, women seem to have very little power, especially at a political level, so I fully believe that she did not make that decision alone.

Who, then, are "the people of Sirion" ? For me, given the context and the time period Jirt is drawing from when creating his world, it is pretty clear that "the people of Sirion" are Eärendil's, or maybe Elwing's, advisors, or at least the most important people in Sirion (lords and the like), that were left in charge along Elwing when Eärendil left. I don't believe that it means that the decision to keep the drug-money was a democratic one, because we just have zero instance of democratic process/decision making in Tolkien's world. It's all monarchy-this and lord-that.

In any case, these people clearly feel that they cannot give the Silmaril back without Eärendil's approval. What right, as an aside, does Eärendil have to the Silmaril, you might ask (that's the "almost" part of the "almost no discussion of property rights") ? To me, it seems again that given the time-period Jirt is drawing from and all that, he has a "right" to it because he is the lord of these people, and Elwing is his wife. Married women in Medieval England did not have property rights, all of their possessions automatically became their husband's.

But back to "the people of Sirion". Even if you disagree with my analysis that it basically means "Sirion's important people who were left in charge along with Elwing because she can't be trusted to make all the decisions on her own because she is a woman", this would be a mix of refugees from both Gondolin and Doriath.

Now, the people from Gondolin have lived for centuries walled off in their magical city, and have escaped it amid hellish destruction and Balrogs. They would sound like the kind of people that would think that they could take on a few Fëanorians (wrongly, but they only find out about that later). So the decision to keep the drug money would make some sense. They think they can defend it.

The picture the quotation above gives of "The people of Sirion", however, make them look like they are mostly concerned with the Silmaril in relation with the people of Doriath. " (...)the jewel which Beren had worn and Lúthien had worn, and for which Dior the fair was slain."

Could be sympathy, could be the people of Doriath speaking there. And that's where I feel like screaming "give the drug money back to the merciless drug lords, you fool !!!!" Because, if the people of Gondolin get the benefit of the doubt as to how much they know about the evilness and the determination of the Fëanorians, the people of Doriath do not ! They were there ! They fled from the massacre ! How on Earth do they think that keeping the Simaril is a good idea ???

And then, we have the final lines : "for it seemed to them that in the Silmaril lay the healing and the blessing that had come upon their houses and their ships."

They don't want to give the Simaril back, because they think it does them good. The Silmaril as a holy object seems wholly addictive, and no one seems to be able to give it up voluntarily. And to go back to my drug money analogy, would a bunch of refugees be able to benefit from a few millions dollars, and do good things with them ? Sure, they would. Would they put the money to better use than the drug-lords ? Sure again. Does it make keeping it a good decision ? Nope, certainly not.

So, to sum up that long portion, "the people of Doriath", along with Elwing, seem to take the decision to keep the Silmaril because

some of them, the Gondolin ones, might underestimate the Fëanorians' determination / overestimate their strength ;

they think they can't make the decision to get rid of the Silmaril without Eärendil, their true lord ;

they are making decisions based on the sunk cost fallacy effect (the Doriath people have already suffered so much at the hands of the drug lords, we can't give them what they want to make them go away, even though we know first hand how determined and ruthless they are - not rational decision-making - it's the same logic that makes you watch 4 seasons of a bad series because you've spend so much time watching the first 4 that you don't want it all to have been for nothing - or throw good money after bad - yes, that car has been a defective piece of crap from day 1, but I've already spent so much money on it that I have to keep going in the hope it eventually finishes by getting better)

the Silmaril is addictive

And all of this just makes for poor decision-making.

And my conclusion would be :

don't take the drug lords' money

don't think you could do good things with it and that that's reason enough to keep it

don't think that having had your relatives murdered over it should mean that you have to keep it all cost

and just bloody return it if you are asked for it, even if you think that the tone of the letter is a little bit stiff and haughty. It's not about who has a right to the dirty money, it's about saving your own skin.

[animatorweirdo]

Why Elves Should Not Drink Coffee

(Not gonna explain myself. This was just an idea that popped into my head. I hope you enjoy it. )

Warnings: Coffee Madness.

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

*You and Elrond spending some time together*

Elrond: (Name), what are you drinking? I do not think I have seen that kind of drink before.

You: Oh, It’s just coffee. It helps keep me awake in the morning. 

Elrond: It helps you keep awake. That sounds like something that could help many improve workflow and avoid falling asleep during important times. 

You: Yeah… hold back on that statement. 

Elrond: ???

You: You see… it was me and my friend who first introduced coffee, and it proved to be more trouble than good because of its potent effect on elves. 

Elrond: What do you mean? 

You: Coffee is pretty harmless to humans since it only causes anxiety, tiredness, addiction, and something in between. To elves… it causes them to be extremely hyperactive. 

You: During the first three days, there were already four incidents. 

1 Incident 

You: *Groans* I hate Mondays!

Camilla: Oh, stop whining. 

Faye: Hey, you two. What are you drinking? 

You: Coffee because I hate my life. Wants some? 

Faye: Sure.

Faye: *Drinks a whole cup* 

Faye: *Smacks her lips* An interesting taste. Well, I need to get back to work. I see you two later. 

You: *Watches her leave* Camilla, coffee is safe for elves, right?

Camilla: Should be. Why?

You: I don’t know. I just feel like we made a grave mistake. 

You: *Shrugging your shoulders* Oh, whatever. 

*Later that day* 

*You and Camilla arrive at the healer’s wing* 

You: And then he was like: I’m not a little boy. I’m an alpha male, and I will — Oh my god! What happened here?!

*You two witness the main infirmary in a mess. Sheets on the floors. Patients aggressively tied with bandages, and everyone staring at Faye with pure terror*

You: Faye…Everything alright buddy? 

Faye: *Visibly shaking like she was on overdrive, smiling and speaking fast* I’m fine! I never felt better! I’m quite active today! We should get to work! There are patients and medicines to be sorted. Oh, what a wonderful day! Sun emoji, smiling face, and a rose. 

Faye: *Walks off* 

You: Did she just mention a sun emoji? 

Camilla: I think that’s our cue not to give her coffee in the future. 

2 Incident 

Maglor: I heard about the incident in the healer’s wing. I hope your friend is okay. 

You: Yeah, Faye is alright. It was a pain in the ass to wait for her to tire herself, but we managed to get her down and rest. 

You: To think coffee had such a strong effect on her. 

Maglor: Well, accidents happen. 

You: *Remember something* Wait! I remember serving you once coffee. Did you end up giving your brother some by chance? 

Maglor: You did, but I did not feel any different. I gave some coffee to Maedhros since he seemed to have trouble focusing on his work, but now that you mention it. I haven’t seen him in a while. 

You: How long has this ‘while’ been? 

Maglor: Around… three weeks? 

*You two stare at each other in silence* 

You & Maglor: Oh Shit! 

*You two quickly arrive at the study where Maglor last saw Maedhros*

Maglor: *Opening the door* Maedhros! We’re coming in! 

*You two find him in a messed up study. Thousands of papers were stacked, and the red-haired elf was still sitting on the table, his hair messed up and dark circles under his eyes, and his left hand black with ink.* 

Maedhros: *Falling front and back on the chair* What do you two want? Can’t you see I’m busy? 

You: Doing what? You’re just scribbling on the desk at this point. 

Maglor: Brother?! Have you not moved an inch since the last I saw you?!

Maedhros: What are you talking about? 

Maglor: It’s been three weeks! 

Maedhros: *stops in thought* Three weeks?

Maedhros: It doesn’t matter. I have work to do. 

Maglor: *Grabs the back of his chair and pulls him away from the desk* Oh no, you don’t! You’re going to sleep! 

Maedhros: *Starting hissing at him* 

You: I need to tell Camilla to avoid sharing her coffee recipe. 

3 Incident 

*After getting Maedhros to rest* 

You: Okay. That was awful. I can’t believe this brown juice could make your brother last that long without sleep and food. 

Maglor: It seems coffee is more potent toward us than we imagined. 

Curufin: *Appears out of nowhere*  What is more potent toward us? 

You: My friend’s coffee recipe. It’s only supposed to serve as a morning drink, but turns out, you elves turn ten times more active if you drink this. 

Curufin: *Stares at the cup of coffee, thinking*  Hmm…?

Curufin: *Grabs it and takes a drink* 

You & Maglor: No! 

Curufin: *Stares at you two confused* 

Maglor: Brother— how are you feeling? 

Curufin: I— feel fine? 

You: You sure? No sudden urges to do something or test your limits to unimaginable expectations? 

Curufin: I think you both are overreacting. I do say that this is a fine-tasting drink. My compliments to your friend. 

Curufin: *Leaves* 

You: Someone who compliments Camilla’s coffee must have a soul just as dark as hers or none at all. By the way, did you notice any changes in him? 

Maglor: I— can’t actually say. Let’s keep an eye on him, just in case. Who knows what might happen if he turns out like Faye or Maedhros? 

You: I’m already scared just thinking about it. 

*Later* 

Curufin: *Standing on the table, messed up hair, and yelling invention plans* Don’t you see?! This is our chance to defeat Morgoth! We just build this here and there! Then we just—!

Celegorm: *Visibly scared* Holy shit! Calm down! What has gotten into you?!

*You, Maglor, and all the nearby elves hiding in the vicinity*

You: Oh my god! Can your brother be more insufferable than this?! 

Maglor: This feels like typical Curufin, but ten times more confident his plan will work in the end and if he was ten times angrier than Caranthir. 

You: Well, no shit. He’s literally yelling at us like a German soldier in the Second World War and even Celegorm out of all people is scared! 

Curufin: TOD ALLEN ORKS!!! 

Celegorm: *Crying at this point* What are you even saying?! 

Present day

You: After that incident, Curufin was banned from even getting near coffee, and what’s even more ironic was that when he finally cleared his head from the caffeine rush. He blamed me and Maglor for embarrassing himself even if it was he who drank the coffee and ignored our warnings. 

You: After that, Camilla and I made sure that coffee was banned for the greater good. 

Elrond: Sounds reasonable. But those were only three incidents. You told me there were four. 

You: Oh yeah! Actually, that happened way after. I’m not sure if you remember, but you and your brother had a part in this one. 

4 Incident

*You, Maglor, and the twins having breakfast* 

Elrond: *Points at the pot of coffee* Ada, can I have a taste of that? 

Maglor: *Slightly sleep-deprived and not fully comprehending the question* sure. 

Maglor: *About to pour him a cup of coffee*

You: *You slap his hand away in panic* Don’t give him that! You know what coffee does to you! They’re gonna be jumping off the walls! 

Maglor: Calm down. I’m sure it doesn’t have that strong effect on children. 

You: You sure about that? A sugar rush is something, but do you really want to know what a coffee-filled elven child can do? 

*You two then see Elros having a taste and Elrond drinking from the pot*

You: Boys! 

*The twins look at you without an expression.* 

You: How… are you feeling? 

*Later* 

Elrond & Elros: *Laughing maniacally, running and jumping on the walls* 

You & Maglor: *Chasing after them* 

You: I bloody told you so! 

Present day 

Elrond: Oh dear! I do not wonder why I can’t remember much of that day. 

You: Well, you and your brother were knocked out on the bed after a full day of running and hiding. Let's just say. Maedhros did not enjoy having to avoid jumping children on caffeine energy drinks. 

Elrond: *Chuckles as you two arrive in the kitchen* 

You: You know, now that I think about it. The coffee was made from my friend’s recipe at that time. She always liked to drink it strong, so maybe if I tone it down a bit. It could be less potent toward elves. 

You: *Stops* Oh no!

Elrond: What’s wrong? 

You & Elrond: * See your coffee pot empty*

You: Where did all of my coffee go? 

*You both hear a crash in the distance and someone screaming*

[welcomingdisaster]

splinter

for @russingon-week, t, blood & gore warning (specifically related to amputation), fingon/maedhros, 1k, ao3

Russandol has fallen, insensate, against chestnut-brown eagle feathers. In the darkness he seems as one of his mother’s statues, too pale, too bloodless to be elven, incomplete. Findekáno imagines taking handfuls of clay and scouring them, pressing them against Russandol’s cheeks to give them volume, of filling out his chest where his skin clings to his ribs. Bubbles of blood-brown spittle form on his lips, over cracked skin. He turns and tugs weakly at the tourniquet wrapped around the stump of his left hand; but when Findekáno bats his hand down he yields easily, though his hand comes away stained, bloody.

Bloodier.

Perhaps he shan’t survive this, Findekáno thinks, perhaps I killed him, only slower than he begged me to.

He glances up, back towards the cliff. There is the hand, pale, dead—the dark chain hooked beneath the flesh, fresh cuts atop old scars. Disembodied and dead it looks as meat hung up to be drained of blood, butchered crudely. Some part of Findekáno cannot help but be dissatisfied with the craft; he would have done better if he’d had a saw, a chisel, a clean space to work, if Russo had held still, damn him—

Russandol cries out then, below him, the sound of a wounded animal more than an elf, and though Findekáno knows he could not have heard the thought he’s instantly sorry for it.

“Art safe,” he murmurs, bending low to press his lips to the very top of his head, where the roots of his hair are bloodied least by pulling, “art safe, art safe. One more thing only.”

Then he turns back to the hand.

The ice has trained him to expect dead bodies to be cold, rigid to the touch; but as he reaches out to touch it he finds it no cooler than Russandol’s sweaty forehead, no cooler than the day around them, limp and yielding under his touch. On some old instinct he laces the fingers of his left hand with it, and thinks he feels some last spasm, some twitch. The leg of hare, kicking one last time after its neck has been wrung.

“Doest thou feel that, Russo,” Findekáno murmurs, and below him Russandol shakes and shakes and shakes, smearing blood onto brown feathers. Some new, practical part of Findo—born, he thinks, on the ice—wonders if the eagle shall want to be wiped down. What cloth he can sacrifice, suited to the task.

He prods his fingers under the dark link of the chain, but it holds tight. One thing left, one thing only. He needs to, to—

To take his blunted knife, and carve best he might around caught skin, to leave as little behind as possible. Pull, until the hand comes loose, and fold it gently against his chest, as the body of struck down messenger dove, to hold it tight and thank it for breaking, for letting free.

Needs to stab once more at the chain, ineffectually, blindly, as some rehearsal for stabbing at Morgoth himself, to feel the the knife slip against the dark metal, to jam his own knuckles painfully into the rock, to cry out, wordless, half-sobbing, damn you, damn you, damn you—

To watch blood fall into the pit below them, onto the dark rock. Skeletons lie there, Findekáno has seen, the shells of orcs and elves alike scattered cast-down below the pit, and now perhaps Russo’s red blood waters their thirsty porous bones.

To yank at the flesh, roughly, until the thin malnourished skin tears like paper, leaving behind white scraps on the dark metal, to pull desperately at each scrap of flesh too, slippery as fish-skin beneath his fingers, to leave nothing behind, to cry, knowing his tears fall to join Russo’s blood.

His robes are grayish in hue and not particularly well-made or warm; he did not want to take anything nice with him, so that his good things might be pulled apart and re-sewn to fit Turukáno in the case he did not return. He had left a note to that effect, pinned to the front of the best robes that hard survived the journey; he finds himself wondering, as he stares down the front of his clothes, stained red with blood, if it has yet been found. He wrote nothing else.

Now he wraps the gray cloth about his hands and wipes down the chain with it, the hooks, the specks of flesh and thin shards of bone, these last as wood splinters, catching on the edge of his sleeve. Lets it fall back, and hit the cliff. It makes an oddly pleasant sound, a metal clinking that would not be out of place in a melody, that would sound quite well with harp. Later in the nightmare of blood and skin and bone he’ll best remember the little clinking sound. Later he’ll hear bells and shudder.

Then it hangs, unmoving.

Like no one’s been here, he thinks. Like no one went.

Below him Russandol stirs. Makes a sound that might be his name, the fingers of his left hand bunching in fabric of Findekáno’s leggings, grayish, weak. Findekáno bends, and gathers him up, wrapping his arms about his waist. Rests his chin on the top of Russandol’s head and breathes in deeply, feeling the rock dust in his hair settle inside his lungs.

Curled as they are against Findekáno’s chest, the fingers of the right hand go not grow cold. Oddly they feel heavier than the elf they had once belonged to, more solid. Marble, broken off oddly from hollow clay, another strange detail of the horrible dream logic of the day.

“We go,” Findekáno says, and turns Russandol’s face up to kiss him, hands on the side of his face, staining his pale skin red. Redder. “We go. Just cleaning up, that is all.”

[melestasflight]

WIP (no longer) Wednesday

Thanks for the summon @eilinelsghost. A snippet from Fingon's Kingship WiP:

Fingon feels Maglor’s eyes upon him throughout the modest feast. His cousin watches him between words and sips of red wine as carefully measured as the notes of his musical compositions. Maglor does not speak of battles or brothers, not yet, he waits. Ever since they were children in Valinor, people had always praised Maglor for his voice, his unsurpassed talent in stirring hearts with a single note, but Fingon knows otherwise, for Maglor’s greatest skill is patience. In this, he is Nerdanel’s son, one who excels in the art of stillness, in seeking the right moment, and in listening. He always listens, it is why he understands music to its very foundation. Maglor listens now to every word Fingon says, he captures the subtle changes in the pitch of Fingon’s voice when they mention Himring in passing. Maglor waits patiently, but Fingon has long run out of patience. He had been patient for close to four hundred years only for the fires to scorch it all. No longer. ‘Why have you come, Maglor? Did Maedhros send you to pacify me?’ ‘No one has sent me anywhere.’ His cousin does not look startled.  ‘What is it you want then?’ ‘I have come to end this war.’ Fingon lets out a laugh as sharp as Húrin’s liquor he has been drinking with his dinner. ‘Well, cousin, if you had a solution to defeating Morgoth why did you not say so the moment you arrived?’ ‘I meant the war between you and Maedhros. It is ridiculous and we have more pressing matters.’ ‘More pressing matters than Finrod’s death? Have you moved on so quickly?’ Fingon’s voice is now certainly causing heads to turn toward them. He does not care, this wound is still bleeding open and he cannot pretend it is not there even if he tried.

no pressure tagging @gwaedhannen @thelordofgifs @jouissants @zealouswerewolfcollector if you want to share a few lines from a wip (I think that's what this game is about lol)

[a-world-of-whimsy-5]

hi!! I have a request, if it hasn't already been taken, for kinktober! Maybe a Feanor x AFAB reader and age difference/first time?? I was thinking that maybe she's his apprentice in the forge and though he didn't like her at first, he grows a liking to her. However, he feels a little guilty due to her being the same age as Maedhros (I'll let you decide what to do with Nerdanel 😅). Maybe they're working really late night and he finally snaps? Anyways, thank you!! Your writing is so awesome and I can't wait to read all your kinktober fics!! ❤️

I hope you like this!

"Arrangement"

Pairing: Fëanáro x Fem (18+ AFAB) reader

Themes: SMUT/NSFT

Warnings: Kissing | Age difference | Nipple Play | First time | Oral sex | Masturbation | Penetrative sex | Open/Poly marriage

Wordcount: 3.8K

Summary: After an outburst, Fëanáro makes a stunning confession while the two of you are alone in the forge.

Minors DNI | 18+

Fëanáro stood right behind you, his arms on his hips. “Take care when bending the prongs, y/n,” he cautioned sternly. “Gold so pure can twist and break very easily.”

“Of course, my lord,” you replied. Your attention never left the ring resting in its stand, nor did your hands shake while you bent each prong, slowly and carefully, over a flawless green emerald. Still, it proved to be a most daunting task. The gold was still warm and quite malleable, you had never crafted anything this fine before, and Fëanáro insisted on peering over your shoulder. That unnerved you far more than even the precious object taking shape beneath your hands. The firstborn son of Finwë never seemed to think highly of you or your skills as an apprentice smith. He never fully revealed the extent of his dislike of you, but you still saw it in his less-than-pleased eyes, and you heard it in the harsh bite in his voice. Perhaps, by doing well with this new craft, you would be able to please him for once.

The ring was now complete. Fëanáro circled around you, picked it up as gently as he would a delicate leaf, and held it to a nearby lamp, turning it this way and that within the light. His body was stiff, as it always was whenever he was around you. Nevertheless, he regarded the ring intently. As of this moment, he could perceive no discernible flaw.

“This will do,” he murmured, placing the ring upon a smooth marble slab resting on the workbench. The gold will cool soon. Then it would be presented to the one who desired it made, a noblewoman who wished to offer it as a courtship gift. “You may put away your tools and go home now, y/n.”

A sliver praise was better than no praise, especially from an elf as skilled as he. “Thank you, my lord,” you said, rising.

The ritual of setting the forge to rights was second nature to you now. Tools were returned to their proper places in shelves and drawers and racks. Your belt and gloves you hung on hooks driven into the wall, and your apron also. Fëanáro saw to the dousing of the furnace fire while you occupied yourself with dusting the workbenches, closing the shutters, and sweeping the floor. No one besides him or those equally skilled at the task were allowed to do so.

“Everything is as it should be,” you remarked after placing the broom in its little cupboard. The forge was now as neat and clean as it could be, but perhaps there was something you did not think of doing. “Is there aught else for me to do?”

Fëanáro did not turn to face you. He kept facing the furnace instead. “None, y/n,” he replied curtly. “You may leave now. In fact, I insist that you do.”

His tone gave you pause. “Have I displeased you, my lord?” You asked, glancing back over your shoulder. The ring gleamed upon the marble slab, its jewel burning like green fire. “Is the ring actually not to your liking?”

The elf’s back stiffened. “Please, leave.”

“My lord,” you said, stepping toward him, “I…”

“Get out!” Fëanáro roared, frightening you into taking a step back.

“Of course, my lord,” you mumble and turn in your haste to leave. “My pardons, my lord. I did not mean to anger you so.”

The doors seemed so far away, even when all it took was a few quick strides to reach them. Yet reach for them you did, your fingers fumbling with the heavy doorknobs and the heavier doors. They were always left this way for Fëanáro did not care for distractions, except for those presented by his wife or sons. The others were allowed entry only if they came on a matter of importance. If not, they were sent away.

So intent were you on trying to pull them open that you did not hear footsteps coming toward you, nor did you see the tall shadow falling across heavy oak adorned with silver and gold. A large hand fell over your hand, hindering you from unlocking the doors.

“Forgive me for shouting,” Fëanáro said. He was so close you could feel his breath against your hair. “I did not mean to frighten you.”

Fëanáro asking for forgiveness from anyone who was not his wife, his children, or even his father, was a rare thing. You swallowed and held onto your courage. You needed it for what you were about to say next.

“Why are you always displeased with me, my lord?” you inquired. The hand over yours trembled, and then it fell away. You turned around and looked up at your teacher. “Am I not good enough to serve as your apprentice?”

”You are worthy,” Fëanáro returned. His face was a mask; it gave nothing away. “You may be too spirited for your own good, but you have skill. I can see it in the ring you just made.”

“Is that a bad thing, my lord,” you said, your curiosity piqued, “being too spirited?”

“It can be, when you are in the forge.” Fëanáro reached out and lifted your braid. His fingers brushed over the silk ribbon adorning your hair. “There are many dangers present in places such as this y/n, dangers novices such as yourself do not easily see. It can blind you to them, and lead you to harm. It can also stop you from being all you could truly be.”

“Then why did you shout at me?”

“I needed you to leave. I still need you to leave. Please do not ask me to tell you why.”

He turned sharply on his heel and walked away, dimming the lamps while he did so. And, despite his plea—despite being gratified that you did not fail as an apprentice—you followed him. You needed to know why he touched your hair the way he did and why he needed you to be gone. Perhaps it was unwise to go after him in this fashion, but you believed you had no other choice.

“You must tell me, my lord,” you implored, trying to keep up with him. “Please tell me. Perhaps I can help you.”

“I cannot,” Fëanáro told you. He walked to the back of the forge, where a chamber made just for him lay. It was where he devised his newest creation, or where he went when he desired a few moments to rest and free himself from the weariness of his labors before returning to his family. “Please, y/n. I cannot tell you.”

“I am sorry, my lord,” you began, “but if you could just tell me what it is that is troubling you, perhaps I can—”

Fëanáro gave you no time to finish speaking. He muttered an oath, whirled around, gathered you into his arms, and kissed you. His kiss was full of fire and hunger, and it was so powerful it left you lightheaded and dizzy.

“This is why I shouted at you.” Fëanáro stepped back, his gray eyes now uncommonly dark. “This is why I wanted you to leave. Now do you understand, y/n?”

His confession stunned you. “You are already wed!” you exclaimed, horrified by what happened. If word reached the others, your reputation and his would be ruined. “You have a wife, my lord, and children!”

“Yes,” Fëanáro said. “My children. You are of an age as Nelyafinwë. So young.” 

“And your wife?” You demanded. “What of Lady Nerdanel? She will not take kindly to an intruder upon her marriage.”

“Do not fear my lady’s wrath.” Fëanáro smiled. It was the same arrogant, satisfied smile he wore whenever he knew something was in his favor. “For it was she who perceived my desire for you long before I did so myself. She will bear you no ill will. In fact, my lady asks, no, insists, that I invite you to join us, should you wish to do so, that is. She desires you also.”

You shook your head, unwilling to believe a word. “How do I know you are not uttering falsehoods, my lord? Others have done the same to convince a reluctant companion to share their bed.”

“I can show you, if that is what you wish.” Fëanáro extended his hand, his smile never leaving his lips. Many a maiden, and more than a few lords, deemed his smile a powerful weapon. Only a rare few could resist the spell it laid upon others. “Take my hand and open your thoughts to me, y/n. You will see that I am not uttering falsehoods.”

You closed your eyes and did as you were bid, your curiosity overcoming your fear. Fëanáro’s hand was large and warm, and still smooth despite a long life of crafting and wielding heavy tools. It did not tremble this time; it was unwavering instead. 

Memories that were not your own rushed at you like a flood. You breathed deeply and remembered your teachings. You sought the memories you were meant to see: Fëanáro standing in the shadows, watching you contend with molten iron while jesting with another elf. He was visibly exasperated by your conduct, but he was also afraid for your safety.  Fëanáro appeared again, this time smiling to himself as he watched you present Tyelkormo with a blunted dagger crafted to fit an elfling’s hands, and then he laughed quietly when you chased Tyelkormo around the forge in a desperate attempt to stop him from using it on an unsuspecting elf. Fëanáro then appeared a third time. In this memory, his eyes followed your every step like a lover’s would.

“You yearn for y/n, my love,” Nerdanel said in the vision that appeared after the others. She and her husband were alone, breaking their fast on porridge and honey and little fish roasted to crackling. Bowls of apples and pears and berries stood amidst them. Every other aspect of the chamber was shrouded in swirling shadows. “I cannot fault you for that, truly. Y/n is quite skilled, and she certainly draws the eye. Have you spoken to her?”

 “I have not,” Fëanáro sputtered, much to his wife’s amusement. He made no attempt to conceal his feelings; he knew Nerdanel would be insulted if he did. “I will not betray you, my love. I will not approach another for companionship.”

“What if I were to give you my blessing? Will you approach y/n then?”

“Why would you even suggest such a notion?”

“Because I can,” Nerdanel declared, beaming and spreading her fair hands. “And because, much like you, I find myself desiring your apprentice also. Perhaps we can all come to an arrangement of our liking.”

“But she is so young,” Fëanáro confessed. Nerdanel’s hearty consent and willingness to partake pleased him in a way he could not describe, but he still hesitated. Your young years had to be considered. “Y/n is the same age as Nelyo. You and I could very well be her firsts. The prospect of bedding you and I together may frighten her.”

“That is indeed true,” Nerdanel agreed. She steepled her fingers beneath her chin and lost herself in thought. After a while, she spoke again. “Here is what I propose you do.”

Suddenly, the memory of husband and wife talking and conspiring disappeared like a mist burning away in the sun. Fëanáro shrouded his thoughts and brought you back to the here and now. “Do you believe me now, y/n?”

“Yes.” There was no denying the matter; Fëanáro was indeed speaking the truth. “But to lay with you and her both…I do not know how I could even think of such a thing, my lord.”

“I understand,” Fëanáro said, his hand still in yours. “Which is why my lady proposed you and I become… better acquainted with each other first. Later, you can share her bed. And of course, the both of us after that.”

“I see.” You flushed from cheek to chest when Fëanáro knitted his fingers around yours and drew you closer. “But if this is what you seek, and your lady consents to us laying together, why did you try to chase me away before?”

“You are of an age as Nelyo, y/n,” Fëanáro reminded you. He reached out and caressed your hair, your cheek. Your throat went dry when he ran his thumb across your lips. “You are young, despite having already come of age. You should be with those your age, instead of cleaving to one as long-lived as me. It did not feel right.”

You looked up at him through your lashes. The sight of it made his breath hitch. “And what if I say yes, my lord? What then?”

Fëanáro flashed a wicked grin. He gave your hand a gentle squeeze. “Then you will be given no cause to repine. Pray what is your decision, my lady?”

You looked around his arm. The door to his chamber was behind him. If you said yes, if you agreed to what was suggested, there would be no turning back. Still, the thought of having an elf as skilled as Fëanáro, and later, his wife, bedding you, proved to be too tempting to resist in the end.

“My answer is yes, my lord,” you said at length.

Fëanáro turned around and pushed open the door to his chamber. “Have you been intimate with another elf in any fashion?”

“Kisses, my lord,” you said truthfully and walked in after him. His chamber was simple yet elegantly adorned. Besides a soft and inviting bed, there was a hearth at the other end with a cheerful fire already laid. A chair had been placed before it, and a little table beside it. Cups and golden pitchers rested on top of it. A tapestry hung on one wall, uncommonly ornate and richly embellished. It must have been the work of Lady Miriel, no doubt, before she perished. “And an embrace or two. Nothing more than that.” 

Fëanáro led you to the edge of the bed. “Sit down, y/n, and make yourself more at ease. Would you like some wine to drink? Or Miruvórë, perhaps?”

“Miruvórë, my lord,” you said, bending down to remove your boots. It felt wonderful to be rid of them, even for a little while. “I do not care much for wine.”

Fëanáro nodded and crossed over to the table. “Then I shall serve you.”

The cup pressed into your hand was hewn out of crimson crystal and cold to the touch. The libation it held was cold also, and a pale, fragrant gold. You felt refreshed after the first sip alone.

“I still cannot believe it,” you said, nursing your cup. Fëanáro sat beside you, closer than he would have done before. His thigh brushed against yours. It sent a welcome shiver up your spine. “The renowned prince Fëanáro and his wife desire me for a shared companion. They want me to share their bed. The others would be amazed if they heard.”

“But they cannot hear,” Fëanáro said. He drained his cup in three quick swallows and set it down by his feet. “There are others who have arrangements like what my lady proposed, but they are not spoken of often. Not everyone understands.”

“Of course,” you drained your cup and set it down. Your stomach was a roil. Fëanáro would take you into his arms soon. Already, you could feel his eyes on you. “How do we begin, my lord?”

“Like this.” Fëanáro tilted your chin toward him, compelling you to look at him. Then he closed his eyes and pressed his lips to yours.

His kisses were unlike the others you had before. They were heated and commanding, and far from the clumsy, hesitant kisses you were used to. Fëanáro did not restrain himself either. He held you to him, sliding his arm around your waist and growling triumphantly when you clutched desperately at the collar of his tunic and returned his kiss with equal fire. His free hand wandered. It loosened the ribbon in your hair and carded through the locks that spilled free. It moved lower still, to loosen the lace of your tunic. Goosprickles rose all over your limbs when linen fell away and that same nimble hand came to rest over your breast.

“Has anyone touched you like this before?” Fëanáro husked. He pinched your nipple between his thumb and forefinger until it began to throb. Then he dipped his head to taste.

“No, my lord,” you panted, throwing your head back when teeth bruised your tender skin. Fëanáro pulled at one nipple and then the other, lightly at first and then more insistently, before his lips and tongue took a turn. Each sensation that followed was wholly new, and each of them made you feel even more warm, feverish, and lustful than before. “Not like this.”

“Just so.”

Fëanáro straightened. He helped you out of your tunic and threw it to the floor. He moved to the floor himself, slipping off the bed and settling on his knees between your spread legs. He set himself to the task of undoing the belt and clasps going down your breeches, and when he asked you to lift your hips, you did so, watching as the last of your clothes were disposed of without ceremony. Now you sat before him, completely exposed and unable to discern what he would do next. The answer became plain when he lowered his head to the apex between your thighs. 

“Is this what you imagined doing to me, my lord?” You teased, bolder than even before. You brushed your hand over his hair, carefully loosening ribbons and braids. Fëanáro quivered when the tips of your fingers grazed over his scalp. “Or do you imagine your lady doing this to me while you watched?”

Fëanáro grunted and ran the flat of his tongue against your slit, again and again. Your body shook. Inflamed, you took your words even further.

“Or perhaps you wish to do more than just watch.” Never had you been this brazen before. Then again, never had you been with a companion like Fëanáro before. You made the most of it. You knew you had to. You did not know how long your arrangement with him and his lady would last. “Is that it, my lord? Do you wish to do more than just watch while Nerdanel and I cleave to each other?”

Fëanáro moaned softly. He gripped your hip to steady you, and he moved his other hand lower to free himself from the confines of his raiment. Soon, he was fisting his cock.

“My lady was right to counsel me to approach you.” Fëanáro reluctantly ceased what he was doing and rose. “And now I must ask you to move further up and lay on your back. There is more I crave to do to you, y/n.”  

The hush that briefly settled over the room was broken with the rustling of silk and linen and leather. Fëanáro undressed himself, his eyes never leaving yours. You drank in every line that met your gaze, overwhelmed by the thought that every aspect of his would be yours caress however you wished. When you finally moved further up the bed, Fëanáro joined you and moved up with you. When he lowered his head, you welcomed him with open arms. His kisses were languid this time, and all the sweeter. He propped himself on his elbow and stayed still while you ran your hands through his hair, down his chest, and over his thighs. Every inch of him you discovered was flawless. It was as if he was hewn by the skilled hands of the finest cratfsman.

“I must thank your lady when I am with her,” you whispered. “Only through her was all of this made possible.”

“I will gladly arrange a meeting.” Fëanáro smiled and brushed his lips over yours. He slipped his hand around your back to raise your hips. It encouraged you to loop your arms around his broad shoulders and spread your legs for him. “For now, let me think of just you and me.”

He pressed the tip of his length against your entrance, teasing you with gentle, shallow thrusts. It felt so good, but you knew there would be so much more. Fëanáro then pushed deeper and deeper, sinking his shaft further and further within the velvety confines of your body. When he breached you fully and sank home, pain lanced through you like a knife. Fëanáro went still when you whined, and he whispered words of praise to soothe you.

“Does it feel good?” He finally said, his voice full of concern. “Should I continue?”

“Yes, my lord,” you breathed. There was so much of him; you did not comprehend how big truly was until now, or how wonderful he felt. “Go on. Please.”

No more words were said. They were, in your opinion, no longer needed. Fëanáro chased his release while taking you to yours. He drove into you with wild abandon, making you gasp every time he ground his hips against the insides of your thighs. The feel of your nails marring his body and the sounds of your pleasure ringing around the once peaceful room made him forget all sense of himself.

“Oh, sweetling!” Fëanáro cried, unable to hold back any longer. "Oh, by the Valar.”

He did not stop, not even as he came and emptied himself of his spend. He took you over the peak and tumbled you over the edge, calling out your name as your own climax crashed over you. And it was your name that he called out. Just yours. Oh, there would be other occasions when your name and his lady’s would leave his lips, but for now, yours was all he uttered. You reared up, kissing him deeply even while he fucked you through your orgasm. Your nails dug into his flesh, marring him. Then everything went still, and he finally stopped moving.

The hearth at the other end was the first to become clear when you opened your eyes, then the room and the bed, and then Fëanáro himself. His chest was still heaving, and his lustrous dark hair had fallen all around him in a beautifully tousled mess. Its ends tickled you when it brushed against your torso.

“I am crushing you,” he said, and rolled off you. When he settled comfortably on his back, he held out his arm. It was an invitation for you to rest against him. “Now tell me, y/n. Do you still wish to continue with the arrangement my lady devised?”

“I do, my lord, very much so.” You inched closer and settled against the crook of his arm. A dreamy sigh parted your lips when Fëanáro moved onto his side, threw his arms around you, and kissed your brow. “I will gladly continue with the arrangement.”

“That is good then,” he said. “Rest for now. I will help you bathe and clean yourself afterward.”

[queerofthedagger]

drop your knives (I want to drop mine)

[Fingon/Maedhros | T+ | 1,5k | Ao3]

Written for @russingon-week day 5: Sparring & Battle, Horror in the Past

It is a miserable day, in a miserable week, in a miserable month.

Across from Fingon, Maedhros’ expression is a study of barely contained frustration.

The clearing they are in is muddy, the trees bare and grim in the sluggish grey of the evening. Rain is beating down on them, having long since made its way beneath armour and clothes.

It is better than the deceptive peace, the silent confinement of the camp, and so Fingon re-balances his blade and steps towards Maedhros for the umpteenth time today. “Again.”

They have been at this for hours, and before this, they have been at this for days. The long, heavy sword is still clumsy in Maedhros’ left hand, none of the graceful ease that he possessed before Fingon cut him off of Thangorodrim to be found.

It is not only missing from his swordwork. Maedhros is a caricature of the beloved Elf Fingon had cursed through years on the Ice, and some days, Fingon hates him for the fact that he cannot hate someone who has already been brought so low.

It is not fair. It is not even entirely true; if Fingon had ever hated Maedhros, if he had managed it at least on the worst nights with Turgon’s choked-off sobs and Aredhel’s shaking filling the tent around him, he would have never gone after him.

Still, the lie of it is easier to tell himself than it is to watch Maedhros struggling to claw his way back to life, day after day after miserable day.

Maedhros falls into a defensive position, his eyes sharp and almost fey in the dim light as he follows Fingon’s movements.

Fingon had thought that the first few weeks would be the worst part, the ruin of Maedhros’ body healing slowly, reluctantly, beneath their healers’ hands.

He strikes; Maedhros blocks.

It had not been true. It was a helpless ordeal, but it was better, in some ways, than watching Maedhros fail at simple tasks. Taking care of his hair. Dressing himself. Holding a quill.

The blow Maedhros deals him in return is easy to catch, too little strength behind it, too easy to see coming.

They danced this dance before, long ago, in Tirion; learning to wield weapons had been a fun pastime at first, just another craft for them to measure and test their skills in. They had both taken to it readily, some of it familiar from hunting parties.

This, now, is a far cry from those days. Maedhros is desperate and impatient, not that Fingon can blame him. He would not want to listen to the healers’ insistence to take it slow for yet another turn of the moon either, and at this point, he sometimes thinks it does more harm than good.

He disarms Maedhros with a simple twist of his sword, and in the end, this is no better—to see Maedhros work himself to his bones through miserable days and short, terror-shaken nights, unable to stop him from pushing himself beyond endurance. 

How do you reassure someone who has seen the worst already? How do you promise that things will be all right, that there is time? Fingon no longer believes it either, after all, even as the Ice’s legacy upon his body is less obvious.

Maedhros stares at him, panting and arms trembling. Fingon wants to take the blade from him, pull him close; wants to hold him, lay them down in dry sheets so they can rest.

“Again,” Maedhros says, picking his sword back up, and Fingon complies.

He always does. Where Maedhros’ brothers have long since stopped keeping step, Fingon is still here, even as his own muscles shake, as his limbs cramp with the cold, as his body protests the days spent fighting, the nights haunted by his own nightmares. The nights spent in Maedhros’ tent, sitting in silence until dawn comes, no longer sure what to say to each other but unable to be apart, still.

This, them, is a caricature as well. Fingon unleashes another row of blows upon Maedhros and does not think about the way it feels like penance and revenge both. Does not think about how this is the only way he still knows to touch Maedhros without fear.

Their blades cross between them, Maedhros catching Fingon’s advance at the last moment. It is a shaky stalemate, Maedhros’ face pallid and drawn with exertion, and Fingon does not want to press his advantage of strength, does not want to add fuel to Maedhros’ burning pit of self-contempt.

Unfortunately, despite everything, Maedhros still knows him better than anyone.

Throwing his weight behind it, Fingon pushes, and twists his wrist at the same time; Maedhros stumbles back, his grip on the sword slipping, the blade falling.

He is left standing in front of Fingon with empty hands, his expression of steely determination cracking open, eyes closing.

For a moment, they hover there, the rain droning out the noise of the forest.

Then Maedhros blinks his eyes back open and stares at Fingon, his voice hollow when he says, “You should have shot me on that godforsaken mountain when you had the chance.”

The words slam into Fingon like the blow of a mace. With the next breath, fury burns through him and he bares his teeth, helpless against it all. “You know full well that self-pity does not become you.”

Maedhros scoffs. “It is no self-pity, and you know it, too. Look at me, Fingon—what good am I like this? I cannot fight. I cannot even take care of myself anymore.”

I will fight for you, Fingon wants to say. I will take care of you, if only you would let me.

He does not. He grits his teeth instead, and jerks his chin at the discarded weapon. “So pick your sword back up and keep going until you can.”

Maedhros’ nostrils flare, eyes flashing. He has never done well with being told what to do, and for a moment, Fingon almost believes that he will finally fight, will finally push back against Fingon and the sharp-edged, bitter way they treat each other.

More than anything, Fingon wants him to finally fight—properly, hotly, no longer side-stepping each and every one’s of Fingon’s provocations.

Maedhros lands the first blow this time, still not strong but precise. Fingon disengages, dodges the next one, and does not take the opening to unbalance Maedhros’ stance.

It draws him in close again and their blades cross once more. Up close, he can hear the breath rattling through Maedhros’ lungs, the way he is panting. Up close he can smell him, sweat and oils, something still agonisingly familiar even after all this time.

Up close, Fingon can see the despondency in the black of Maedhros’ eyes, and it makes him reckless, makes him terrifyingly honest.

“The next time you say something like this,” he presses out, his own voice wrecked, “I will march right back into Angband and bring the entire mountain down, if that is what it takes. If you need something to break yourself against, I am right here, am I not?”

Beneath Fingon’s blade, Maedhros stills. He swallows, eyes roaming across Fingon’s face, everything still shaking, shaking, shaking apart.

“Fingon—“

“Oh, for—“ Fingon curses, and drops his sword. Curling his freezing hands in the front of Maedhros’ tunic he pulls him close, presses their mouths together, all of it graceless and rash and so, so stupid.

Maedhros makes a noise, something punched-out and animal. He does not reach for Fingon but he does sway closer. Doesn’t use the sword he still holds, pressed against the soft parts of Fingon’s belly, to run him through right then and there.

The world filters back in in increments, Fingon’s actions, as so often, catching up with him belatedly.

It is barely a kiss, this open-mouthed, desperate thing; still, it is closer than they have been in ages and he is reluctant to pull away, to stop sharing the same air, stop holding Maedhros close if only like this.

When he finally does, Maedhros stares at him, a hint of colour in his cheeks.

“Fingon—“ he tries again and finally, carefully, sets his sword down.

“I am sorry,” he says, clearing his throat. Awkwardness threatens to settle over them, but he cannot bring himself to regret it. Not quite, not with Maedhros still looking at him with something other than grim resignation.

“Please, don’t be,” Maedhros says, a crease etching itself between his brows. “I’m—I am not.”

He sways closer once more, but it is with purpose this time, a question still evident in every line of his body. There is hope now too, golden and incandescent flaring in his eyes.

Fingon reaches out and touches him, a hand to the ruined face. Maedhros leans into it, presses his mouth to Fingon’s palm.

For the first time since he wielded the knife upon Maedhros’ body, it does not leave the taste of blood in his mouth.

[i-did-not-mean-to]

Week 3 - Feast

And this is the ending of this story as well...

Thank you for reading!

Prompt: Feast

Pairing: Maedhros x Fingon, Fingon & Finrod, Sons of Fëanor

Words: 3 060

Warnings: Nudity, sadness, loss, anger, betrayal, danger

Findekáno stared at the stacks of papers in confusion and dismay; as soon as he’d entered the abandoned study, he’d been overcome by a strange, uncomfortable feeling of urgency, but he was unable to put his finger on its source or sense.

Something wanted to be found—the gnawing, tingling sensation reminded him of his school days when he’d been working on a particularly difficult problem for hours on end, and the solution was teasingly grazing his consciousness without ever letting itself be grasped firmly.

Vanquishing his last scruples, he approached the littered desk, rifling through the documents aimlessly.

Then, as if called by an unseen power, he looked up sharply from the mountains of yellowed paper and gasped.

There, drowned in the dense shadow of the far wall, hung a masterfully crafted painting which spanned most of that side of the room.

“I know you,” he whispered, stepping around the now-forgotten furniture, and lifted his fingers to touch the tall, red-haired man standing at the right side of a slightly older, imperious-looking stranger.

In his single-minded haste, he’d disturbed a precariously heaped stack of notebooks, but he paid no heed to the avalanche of rustling paper as his eyes were riveted on the disturbingly like-like portraits.

Recognition was far less instantaneous than it should have been, but the sight of the broad, strong-featured woman on the other side of the compellingly intense patriarch made Findekáno’s eyes widen, and his mouth fall open.

Even though his gracious host had been a life-altering surprise, the young Prince was only too familiar with the dignified couple at the heart of the purposefully forgotten artwork.

“Where have you gone?” he whispered, overcome with dread and hope alike. He’d only ever seen King Fëanáro and his beautiful, talented wife depicted in banned history books, and yet he was absolutely certain that the people in the painting were indeed that doomed pair which had vanished without a trace so many years ago.

Together, they’d created many marvels that still adorned the palace in which Findekáno had grown up.

“And sons,” he murmured. “You had many sons, fabled to have been beautiful, smart, and exceedingly talented in the art of music and of war. They’ve…disappeared along with you.”

“You must leave,” a cold voice came from the door. “You’re no longer welcome here.”

Whirling around and thereby dislodging another landslide of books and notes, Findekáno discovered his host, now clad in a light dressing gown made of worn silk, standing on the threshold.

Nelyafinwë’s mouth was curled up in a moue of wild anger, but his eyes were dull and dark with grief at the discovery of Findekáno’s abject betrayal of his trust.

“I needed to know,” Findekáno croaked, lifting his hands pleadingly. The mere thought of being banished from a place he’d originally never even wanted to enter was unbearable to him, and—at that moment—he would have done anything not to be cast out.

“You must go,” Nelyafinwë repeated tonelessly. “I shan’t have our sanctuary torn apart by your indecent curiosity and the foolish bravery of your ilk. Leave now and never come back.”

Injured pride and something else—darker and far more painful—stirred within Findekáno’s chest, and he set his jaw stubbornly. “No.”

At once, the pale ghost of a lost line changed strategies in the face of Findekáno’s defiant refusal.

“You cannot stay here—think of your father, of your siblings, of your realm!” Nelyafinwë pleaded in the same forcibly level voice. “You have a life somewhere, far from this accursed ruin, and you must return to it.”

“My realm?” Findekáno exclaimed, letting the conflicting, confusing feelings within him melt in the merciless, purifying forges of his ire. “Don’t you mean our realm?”

Flinching back as if struck, Nelyafinwë stared at him for a long moment, open despair writ plain across his comely features.

“I will not add your misery to the list of my crimes,” he then whispered, waving a despondent hand at the hated mural. “You now know who I am, and certainly, you must agree that it would be better if we were confined to these lonely halls for all the ages to come.”

“I hold no such thoughts,” Findekáno barked and bent down to retrieve a handful of pages, covered in tight, neat script. To avoid detection, he’d not brought a taper, so he had to hold the paper up to the pale moonlight to decipher the writing.

“The answer is not there,” Nelyafinwë said in a warm voice that reeked of pity.

“Tell me then, oh beauteous guardian of an ancient curse. Clearly, you know!” Before Nelyafinwë could refuse him once more, he stepped forward to grab those broad shoulders and give the wilfully secretive man a good shake.

“Share the secret of your curse with me,” he purred into a visibly blushing ear. “And your own wish shall be granted—I will leave.”

As once before, Findekáno braced for the onset of crushing culpability as the lie passed his lips—he would indeed walk away from the castle, but his plan was to seek out whatever was needed to break the malediction and return posthaste.

“Forgiveness,” Nelyafinwë confessed in heart-wrenchingly forlorn accents. “We would have to earn and be granted forgiveness to be freed. It’s a hopeless endeavour—even you cannot deny that. Now, I’ve honoured my end of the bargain. Will you flee this prison?”

Inclining his head, Findekáno decided that he had nought to lose and everything to gain, so he pushed himself up on the tips of his toes and pressed a tender kiss onto that grim mouth which had just handed him the key to his happiness.

Nothing was clear or decided in this world, he knew, but he was convinced that—if only he could deliver this living, breathing phantom—he could obtain bliss beyond his wildest dreams.

“In the morn’”, he murmured against Nelyafinwë’s lips. “Grant me this one night to be with you before you force us to part ways.”

He could see how much the other wanted to deny his request, but—in the end—he found himself nestled against Nelyafinwë’s bare chest in the bed he’d been allotted so generously, absent-mindedly counting the freckles speckling his warm, smooth skin.

“I forgive you,” Findekáno whispered, unsure whether his host had fallen asleep or if he was still contemplating their imminent farewells. “Meeting you was worth being cold, scared, and tired. I pardon you for your gruff manner, your bad tea, and your overdrawn anger.”

He could feel more than hear the mirthless chuckle rumbling through Nelyafinwë, so he changed his tactic, embroidering his nascent affection and unwavering faith onto that pristine flesh with fervent kisses.

“I forgive you,” he breathed, “for following your father’s folly to your ultimate doom; I forgive you for disappearing and leaving the realm in disarray; I forgive you the crimes for which you still castigate yourself.”

When his mouth brushed against a sharp hipbone, he looked up. “Can you forgive yourself? Can you pardon your brothers for the part they’ve played?”

“They deserve no blame,” Nelyafinwë repeated the lie he’d told himself a thousand times.

“Yes, they do,” Findekáno objected kindly. “But they also deserve forgiveness. When I’m gone, please try to extend the same grace to yourself you’re so eager to bestow upon your siblings. And…learn to make a better cup of tea, all right?”

The night faded too fast—it always did.

“You must away,” Nelyafinwë whispered urgently.

Dark shadows lay beneath his beautiful eyes as if all the tears he had refused to cry had pooled in lakes of black ink atop his chiselled cheeks.

“You turn back when the sun comes up,” Findekáno whispered, extending a trusting hand. “I’d see it if you’d let me!”

Before his very eyes, the charming, alluring youth in whose strong, lean arms he’d spent an excitingly sleepless night morphed into a hulking creature, covered in reddish fur and poised to tear any foe to shreds.

“I recognise your eyes,” Findekáno gasped, awe-struck and undaunted, as he let his fingers comb through the long, shaggy pelage of the beast. “And your hair. I bet you wish one of your brothers had been turned into a brush, huh?”

Nelyafinwë threw back his massive head and uttered a vicious, resonating snarl that Findekáno only understood as laughter when tiny tears dropped from the corners of those eerily human eyes.

“Despite my unlawful intrusion yesterday, I’m a man of honour, so I shall keep the word I’ve given. Goodbye, dear Nelyafinwë. Think of my words!”

Unable to resist, he leaned forward one last time to bury his face, hot and tight with unshed tears and unspoken confessions, in that luscious fur and kissed the top of a fearsomely fanged snout lovingly.

Then, without daring a last lingering look for fear that he’d change his mind, he left the castle unimpeded.

Driven by the visceral scream of agony churning in his throat, Findekáno almost ran through the fray he’d hewn and only broke out of his delirious flight when he heard the approaching sound of hooves.

“Halt! Who goes there?” he called, lifting his sword laboriously. His arms were shaking, and his breath was short, but he was ready to defend his secret lover against all who’d seek to harm him.

“Finno? Is it really you? How have you escaped?” Not even taking the time to rein in his horse, Findaráto vaulted off the animal’s back with the grace of an acrobat to embrace his cousin. “We were prepared to slay a thousand fearsome enemies in your name.”

“No,” Findekáno roared, extricating himself almost violently. “No, you shall not harm a single hair on his head.”

“Finno? Are you quite well? You look fevered,” his cousin said in a softer tone, peering into his flushed, bloated face with alarm. “Have you been crying? What have they done to you?”

“You don’t understand,” Findekáno gasped, collapsing against the other’s chest with sudden weakness.

At that, Findaráto held up a staying hand, signalling thus to his hunting party that they’d settle down under cover of the nearby forest for a short halt. “Tell me everything.”

And so, Findekáno did. Warring shame and decorum made his account choppy and incoherent at times, but his cousin had known him for too long not to follow his disjointed narration easily.

“Do you believe Fëanáro to be…dead?” Findaráto finally asked, tapping a slender finger against his full lips pensively. As the oldest son of the minor family branch who never expected to ascend the throne and preferred it that way, he did not waste any time pondering the inevitable changes to things like the succession and the crown. “He was a dangerous individual.”

“He’s gone, one way or another,” Findekáno sighed. “Can you help me?”

“I am your father’s representative,” Findaráto chirped with a shrug. “And you are his heir. When we speak, we speak with the voice of the King in the name of the realm. Do you want us to go back and extend a royal pardon?”

Even though he was doubtful that such a negligible gesture would be anywhere near enough, Findekáno couldn’t think of a better idea, so he nodded tentatively.

“Ah, the colour is returning to your face, cousin, I take that to be a good sign. You must understand that we were on a daring rescue mission rather than a diplomatic one, so we shall have to make a few minor adjustments…”

Findaráto gave him one of his mischievous, lopsided grins. “After all, I wouldn’t want to make a bad impression on the young man who’s managed to capture your heart.”

“My…what?” Suddenly aghast by how open and unguarded he’d been, Findekáno blanched.

“Worry not, your secret is safe with me. Onwards then, brave men and women. We have a potential suitor to convince of our beloved kingdom!” Findaráto said with a confidential wink and stalked away to retrieve his runaway horse.

“I’m not sure you’ll get a warm welcome,” Findekáno moaned.

“Nonsense, I restore his true love to the man—also, unlike many of our kin, I am irresistibly charming. Leave it to me! He’ll adore me!”

Nelyafinwë was wrenched out of his dark, self-pitying musings by the frantic clacking of metal and the dissonant scream of a harp.

“What now? Has someone come to fell us at last?”

Turning his cumbersome frame in a room too small for it, Nelyafinwë joined his brothers at the small, narrow kitchen window, only to espy the telltale cloud of dust heralding a group of quickly approaching horses.

Had he not gained a new appreciation for seemingly inanimate objects, Nelyafinwë might well have dropped the saucer he’d been polishing for the small feast he was presently preparing.

Even though his siblings would not be able to join him in the simple pleasure of eating, they’d all agreed with Findekáno’s assessment when Nelyafinwë had told them about what had transpired during the night.

The idea of having a family dinner once more, truncated and perverted as it might be, had lifted everyone’s spirits, and so Nelyafinwë had tried to ply his uncooperative bestial form as best he could to perform the menial tasks that were required to have such a humble banquet.

As far as he could tell, he’d made good progress, but now, all his efforts would turn out to have been in vain. How cruelly fitting!

The screeching of the harp reached a tremulous crescendo—Nelyafinwë was tempted to swat it from the windowsill, but he refrained, knowing that his fearful hope would turn him into the monster he refused to become. He wouldn’t give in to his basest instincts!

“Why would he come back? I’ve told him there was nought but death and desolation here,” he answered the question echoing through the room as much as through his own racing heart. “He promised.”

Of course, Nelyafinwë remembered that Findekáno had deceived him once before in the pursuit of what he’d deemed to be the “greater good”, and he’d only ever vowed to leave and had never sworn not to return, but that much had been implied, hadn’t it?

As the thundering cloud drew nearer, he could discern the flashing gold braided into the thick, gleaming hair of their recently lost and yet already bitterly regretted visitor.

“No,” Nelyafinwë gasped, and—heedless of his grisly shape—rushed to the door to intercept the interlopers before their wrath could endanger any of his beloved brothers.

Roaring and growling, he burst forth.

“Dear,” Findekáno cried and threw himself off the horse and into his unwilling host's long, twisted arms. “My kin have come to deliver me, but—as I’m already free—we’ve changed plans and shall now free you instead.”

A thousand thoughts and contradicting emotions flashed through Nelyafinwë’s mind—gratitude and disbelief making him freeze protectively around Findekáno’s solid warmth—and he stared at the visibly drawn, exhausted face of his sweetest dream in wordless confusion for a long moment.

“Good day,” Findaráto interrupted their strange and fragile intimacy with cheerful bonhomie. “My cousin tells me you’re in need of forgiveness.”

His gaze—sharp and perspicacious despite his air of good-humoured shallowness—fell on the incongruous heap of miscellaneous tools and instruments by the door, and he bowed courteously.

“You’ve done me no grievous harm, so there’s not much to pardon,” he then went on with a lopsided shrug. “Nevertheless, as Finno here insists, I forgive you for imprisoning my uncle and my cousin. The first is alive and well, and the second couldn’t get back here fast enough, so I dare say that there was no harm done.”

More men dismounted and, under the pressure of their Princes’ demanding expressions, they did their best to conjure up offences and crimes they could forgive.

When nothing immediately changed, Findekáno’s face fell.

“It’s not that easy,” Nelyafinwë hummed comfortingly into his ear. “But I’ve taken your advice—I was just preparing everything for a little feast tonight. Would your party care to join us? It won’t be as grand as what you’re used to in the palace, but it’s the best we can do out here.”

“I’d love to,” Findekáno exclaimed, nuzzling closer to the broad, bare chest of a mystery on which he hadn’t given up yet. “The others can have the room you gave me yesterday; I can spend the night by your side and watch over you.”

He remembered the dark shadows marring Nelyafinwë’s delicate skin only too well. “You need to rest, dear, and I can make sure that your beauty doesn’t go unnoticed.”

“You’d defend and protect me? Your jailor? A walking nightmare?” Nelyafinwë sputtered. It became increasingly difficult to shut out the jubilant clacking of his siblings throwing themselves bodily into the air in a weird display of exuberant joy and characteristic impatience, so he turned to carry Findekáno into the castle.

“Be my guests,” he called over his shoulder, shuddering at the thought of the supplementary teacups and plates he’d now have to wash.

“Yes, make yourselves comfortable,” Findekáno added merrily. “On account of having two hands, I’ll help with the preparations.”

“So will we,” Findaráto interjected suavely and followed the lumbering beast as if he’d not even noticed its terrifying girth.

When, not much later, the table was laid and the candles were lit, Findekáno raised his polished goblet solemnly. “To our gracious hosts and their future.”

“We have no—”

“He’s set his mind on it,” Findaráto cut in when Nelyafinwë tried to curb his guest’s enthusiasm. “He rarely fails once that is done.”

As he watched his siblings, Nelyafinwë felt his heart mellow. Yes, they’d stop struggling—they’d even actively help Findekáno find that healing forgiveness that would restore them to life.

Perhaps, it was time. Mayhap, they deserved to be saved after all.

And, at that very moment, as the light shone bright and a long-lost sense of comfort settled over the party, a flash of lightning cut through the scene.

When everyone blinked dazedly, the various tools—propped up on soft pillows—had been replaced by beautiful, young men who stared at their own hands in amazement.

Outside, the afternoon sun sparkled like a ruby, but when Findekáno turned to his host, Nelyafinwë sat beside him in his precious human form, eyes wide and entirely, gloriously naked.

@fellowshipofthefics This is the end of the third week for me!

-> Masterlist

[balrogballs]

Coming from Cast in Stone, I would love to read the part you said you cut out, about Maedhros musing about history. These insights are the best part of the fic imo, so if you're happy to share on Tumblr like you said, I'd love to read

Of course! Just a note to literally anyone else seeing this, this references my Silm fanfic Cast in Stone which has MaeMags in TA 2900s realising that Elrond has built a massive, rather fuck ugly, statue glorifying their redemption, but have fully omitted all their (less redeemable) deeds from the histories he wrote as loremaster. Basically I mentioned in the chapter that I cut some sections out because it made it too 'academic' but had said people could ask to read them here, hence...

_________

Maedhros didn't think that 'chopping wood in the Shire' was necessarily the task most suited to a re-embodied prince with one hand, but he had to admit that the dull thunk-thunk cutting across the Tooks' barking sheepdog brought to him a sense of stability that he had missed for - well - most of his life. Like the thunk-bark-thunk-bark was a heartbeat, like it was saying he was integral, important, and constant. 

He thought again about what the boy, Legolas, had asked: what would a history written by the Fëanorians look like? What silenced stories would be spoken, what unknown truths would be brought to light, and what explanations would he be allowed? And the implied, though not directly asked, what branches would be chopped off and what stories would he silence?

Maedhros was impressed that the boy even implied it, that he had looked Maedhros in the face and insinuated that if Elrond would bury histories he could not bear to face, then what would he, Maedhros, have buried? As if silencing and burial came hand in hand with the writing of history, like it was a knack that the Eldar had, for brushing over and cleaning up their worst memories - a sort of survival weapon, like a waterskein in the depths of Rhun. 

What would he write about his father? What would he write about the boys? 

(Not his boys, but the blonde boys in the woods - the ones he remembered only some weeks ago).

The two volumes of Histories of the First Age written by Elrond did not make a single reference to those boys, and Maedhros had spent two weeks furious about the arms-length whitewashing. But as he stood here in the Shire, detached from who he was and will be, with sweat soaking into his tunic from his inexpert wielding of a woodcutter's axe, the question turns on its head. 

If Maedhros had written the Histories of the First Age, would he have written of it? He, who could barely think of their names without shaking? 

History was, at the end of the day, a kind of junglecraft — survival of the fittest. Version after version of the past contending for survival; new hybrids of truth and lies taking root as ancient violence faded, buried in obscurity. Only the strongest, most palatable narratives were allowed to live. The quiet, the defeated, the nameless left behind only fragments —  scattered pages, forgotten heroes, traces of lives lived under boots. History remembered only those who wrote it; the relationship between history and historian both a bond of power and a shared captivity.

Could he blame Elrond then, for not putting such violence on the page? Was Elrond, when asked to write the Histories of the First Age, not then being shackled to the book and told to pen down his greatest traumas, the unbearable truths of what his fathers — who loved him, whom he loved, loved, loved — were and had done? 

What would Maedhros have written of Fëanor? What would he have written of Aqualonde, or the moment stone touched flesh? Here, now, even the memory of it made him shake, brought tears to his eyes. But at the time, he had felt nothing whatsoever. 

[aotearoa20]

Penance: Part One. One/Two/Three

The little messenger of the Valar was actually very lucky to have found them all together at the same time.

There were many rooms and long corridors in Mandos. Ambarussa had found Curufin in this one some time ago, on the small outcropping of rock by an underground waterfall. And he would not be moved. He sat with a form that was barely distinguishable and stared out at where the water hit the pool, causing a continuous spray of bioluminescence.

Caranthir had no intention of lingering beside his brother’s bitterness. He wandered, often to the Halls of Vaire. He met his grandmother and her handmaidens. Sometimes he looked for news in the tapestries. Sometimes he could persuade the solemn to give him work. They never let him do more than untangle threads but in a being barely corporeal, it was enough of a challenge to keep him for utter boredom.

Ambarussa wandered too, Amras trailing after his twin as he showed every nook and cranny left in the Halls. But they returned now and again, trying to coax their brothers into their explorations. Celegorm followed them once or twice but usually remained within eyeshot of the little room with the waterfall.

It was pure chance that Caranthir had ended at back there at the same time as the twins and nothing was said of it. They didn’t speak all that much, well, save Amrod who never really stopped. He seemed scared of the empty space.

Mandos is quiet. For weary broken souls, the silence is a balm. A space to reorient and to heal. But Amrod has long come to terms with himself. Amrod is long healed and Caranthir knows the dark quiet has been smothering him. He thinks he may go mad and could almost laugh at the irony.

A light appeared in the doorway and it was strange. There was light down here. Green flamed lamps and plants that glowed hues of violet and blue. But this was different. This was warm and too bright for his imagined eyes. The figure obscured its glare was tangible enough for his footsteps to echo.

"What news, friend?" Amrod smiled.

Caranthir shivered. It’s eerie the ease with which Amrod could speak with Namo’s Maiar. Their presence still filled him witth a sense of dread, though this one didn’t seem to. Celegorm stood as it drew near but made no move towards it. There was somethingwrong about it. It was too bright, too solid -

“I’m looking for Maedhros Fëanorian.”

There was a beat of silence before Amrod grinned, “You are not dead”

There was a excitement in his voice that sounded nearly like a threat. The stranger lowered the lamp and as his face came into view, Caranthir was almost certain he knew him.

“Lúthien,” he heard Celegorm whisper and with that he was certain.

“You’re Elros’ brother” he said as he rose to his feet. The elf opened his mouth to reply but for a moment no words come out. As if he didn’t know where to pursue his first question or ask a new one.

“He came this way before he left.” Caranthir continued making the choice for him, “He also asked for Nelyo.”

“I am Elrond Peredhel.”

Half Elven. Dior’s grandson. He would have been the Prince of Doriath if fate and his family had been kinder.

“But you are not following him?”

He would have assumed so. He knew their own twins dealt ill with being parted. Elros had not stayed long. Caranthir’s remembered thinking of asking him to carry a message to the otherside. Perhaps he should have.

But it would appear this one was not bound for the Doors of Night. Amrod was right, he was still living and evenso he could sense a solidness to his fëa that his brother did not have.

“No.”

“What do you want?,” Curufin's voice cut sharp from his little crevice of stone.

“To speak with Maedhros.” Elrond replied, undeterred by the coldness of it. 

“Why?”

Caranthir took a breath he didn’t need, ready to defend the poor boy from whatever was about to leave his brother’s mouth when they were both silenced.

“Elrond?”

They all turned to the shadowed door.

Maedhros had arrived so close to fading, they feared they would lose him forever. Even now his fëa was barely a wisp of a thing. It was as if the darkness had found a voice.

“So for this one he’ll appear, but we are not so worthy,” Celegorm doesn’t quite growl but Caranthir elbowed him as hard as an incorporeal spirit can elbow another. He might scare Nelyo away for another hundred years.

“Maedhros…” Elrond began, the word hung in the air a moment before he shook his head and looked away, “I have petitioned the Valar for your release.”

“Little pity,” Amras echoed softly.

Elrond turned to the voice and nodded, “but not none at all, I have come to you all with a proposition”

“All of us?” Celegorm said in surprise, he like the rest, assumed any bargaining would be for Nelyo alone. But the half-elf smiled and went to sit on a small shelf of rock. His grip on the lamp shook faintly as he placed it down.

He took a breath and said, “The Valar, Namo especially, have no desire to keep you in here until the world’s breaking. Some of you have been in these Halls longer than Morgoth himself and your crimes though terrible could not be counted as worse than his.”

Caranthir didn’t intend to laugh, but Celegorm chuckled beside him and he found he could not help himself.

“Even so,” Elrond stared at them both unimpressed, “There are many who would argue most of the great woes of the world came to being at Morgoth’s first release and the Valar would have you free to sow discord in Aman. If you were to return there would be conditions.”

Unease shivered through his fëa. Caranthir wasn’t sure he wanted to know of whatever deal Elrond teased out of the Valar. Return would be a curse while the Oath hung over them. Here at least it slept once they realised there could be no escape from the Halls. Better they languish here until Maglor deigned to joined them, and with him any chance of reclaiming the last of their own. And then to Darkness, whatever that entailed. Compared to rhe alternative it would be a relief.

Not that he didn’t appreciate the boy’s efforts. Misguided though they were he had no reason to go through the trouble. It was sweet really.

“You would be put under the responsibility of one of the Valar and under their service – ”

Never mind, he was a petty bastard. Caranthir almost respected him for it. He laughed again, harsh and deliberate. This had to be a joke.

“That’s no reprieve, it is another prison.” Curufin had no face with which to glare. The flickering mist the made him up seemed to pulse and condense in on itself.

“But we could be free of this place.” Amras muttered, wincing more out of habit than anything else as his twin gripped his shoulder.

“To what end?” Curufin hissed, “Are we to be thralls until the end of time?”

“The Valar agreed they would be poor judges of the length of such service. A small council was appointed to judge when it would be safe for you to be left free and unchecked. Olwë, Elwing and Nimloth. Idril also was asked but she said would trust in the wisdom of the three.”

“Then we should be slaves forever! Who would agree to such a bargain?!”

More was said, by most of them, with far less grace. Caranthir himself had no desire to be the lackey of any of the Powers. He was quite comfortable down here, awaiting their doom in his own dread and despair and he was more happy to explain that to the little upstart.

Elrond sat patient enough until their protests died down.

“I have spoken with my father,” he said, quietly softly now, his eyes landed on each of them, “He said if you would agree to these terms, he would return to you the last of the Silmarils for as long as it was necessary to release from your Oath.”

The silence that fell was black and cloying. Maedhros had told them he and Maglor had watched over the peredhel twins for a time. He’d said little more, only to get him off his case, the last time they had been visited by other. Given the extent the Oath had ravaged him by the time he arrived here, they all gathered that it would not have been a pleasant experience for any involved.

He studied the boy’s gentle expression. Did he know the power he held over them all in a single sentence? He must. He must know he could get them to agree to anything for the sake of that offer. It would be a fitting and complete vengeance for this prince of the Sindar to hold the fate of them all at his mercy. Except he couldn’t align such cunning with the person before him.

And for all the humiliation being at the beck and call of the Valar would be, given the truly limitless possibilities, it was a fairly tame punishment. Perhaps it would have to be for the Powers to agree to it.

“What of our father?” Celegorm said suddenly, his voice strangely void of its usual elegance, “and Maglor, we don’t even know where he is.”

“This offer is open to all of you, I can go no further into Mandos like this but Namo said he would speak to Feanor” Elrond sighed, “As for Maglor, he is found. He rests in my house.”

“Is he alright.” Maedhros asked in a tight voice.

“He is not,” Elrond replied and for some strange reason he seemed grieved, “He will not allow himself to be helped but has conceded to follow whichever fate you choose. I... it is not a choice to taken lightly, but please don’t tarry, for his sake.”

“We will do it,” Curufin spoke up. He paid no heed to the stared that stares leveled his way, instead he turned to Maedhros, “We have to don’t we? What use is there debating it?"

Maedhros sighed so deeply him might have dissipated himself into dust. But he nodded and all at once Caranthir’s grip on eternity pitched once again. He had half a mind to resist it. He did not have to agree to this deal that he had not hand in shaping or bargaining. There were too many loop holes that could be explored and exploited both ways. But a familiar heaviness gripped him and turned his tongue to lead. He could not risk Elrond recinding his offer by asking too many questions.

The smile on the half elf’s face was drenched with relief. If he didn’t know better Caranthir would have thought the lantern itself shone brighter at the news. He couldn’t fathom why. His head hurt, so little has happened for so long, for everything he knew to change once more! But to be free... Such hope was as sharp as a knife pericing the depths of his fea. He tore it out and shook his head. Free to do what?

[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)

[allthatglittersisnotgoldrush]

I just finished watching Cold Mountain and re-reading “Yours Respectfully, Doegred.” We’re around 8 years from the start of the civil war (1861). What do you think would have happened to the Finweans if they had stayed in New York? Would some of them have joined up? Would they have paid someone to fight on their behalf? I don’t have solid opinions, except that if any of his brothers had gone off to war, then I have a sneaking suspicion Maedhros would’ve found a way to protect them. The average age of a Union soldier was 26, so I can see any of the boys signing up/getting drafted. Or maybe they make a business out of making firearms (aka Curufin gets rich off war). This is a “just for fun” question.

Hello again, friend! Sorry for the delay, we absolutely loved your question and—fun fact that will perhaps surprise you not at all—we have previously discussed how the Civil War will and/or would impact our Silmarillion AU characters. We have plotted out our adaptation’s timeline in its rough entirety, so I shan’t say if the American Civil War DOES feature at all but keep reading I guess to find out! ^_^

Without any spoilers, it is interesting to point out that our Fingon, blessed by his teaching from Dr. Olorin, practices medicine in a way very advanced for his time period (late 1840s-early 1850s, thus far). In fact, a lot of the rules of cleanliness, wound-care, etc that he implements developed in modern medicine as a result of the high casualty rate AND high amputation rate of the Civil War. That’s what a little extra Maia help will do for you, thanks Olorin 🙏🏻 As a rule, Fingon’s general approach to medicine is designed to be 10-15 years ahead of his time; no wonder folk like Celegorm are skeptical of his methods, at times.

(Tangentially related to this is that you may speculate—as we have—on how the sudden increase in limb amputations during the war will or would affect Maedhros’ own view of himself and his loss. Right now, he feels singled out and horribly conspicuous because of the missing hand. In ten years or more, during or after the War? The post-war new normal for the American general public might actually render him less notable. Furthermore, he would have had many years to adapt to his disability prior to the War, giving him a weird social edge—and that is even without any prosthetics Curufin might provide.)

Now, for the purely speculative part of your question: what if the Feanorians had stayed in the East? I think that Celegorm would be first to leap to enlist for the Union; once Celegorm went Curufin would go; once Curufin went Ambarussa would go. Maedhros would have instantly known how all of this would go down, and spurred by the need to protect his brothers as well as his own sense of right and wrong (inflamed by Feanor’s own abolitionist convictions) he would have enlisted also. Maglor, of course, would go only once Maedhros went.

The odd one out, actually, is Caranthir. I think that before he leaves for war, Maedhros would talk to Caranthir and impress upon him the importance of remaining at Formenos. Someone needs to stay out of the army to protect the family land, to manage the household accounts, and to be there for Nerdanel. Maedhros would have known Caranthir is best suited for this role, and it would have eased his mind greatly to know that even one of his brothers is “safe,” whatever that means in wartime.

(Once in the military, I do agree that Curufin would have, if given opportunity, set to work at the armories and improving the poor muskets and cannons that were available at the time. The big caveat is if he would have had the chance.)

As an aside, it is worth bringing up Finrod, who would be an interesting study during the War. Ten years or so more mature, he would perhaps be a little more settled into what contemporaries might call Wisdom. He would be intensely devoted to the Union’s cause on the basis of fighting for emancipation; being still distrustful of Government and Nationalism, however, he would not be overly fond of the popular idea of fighting for the Union itself. Political cause will never move our Finrod as deeply as moral cause, however he interprets moral right and wrong to be. In his mind (correctly, of course) slavery is a supreme evil, thus the South must be defeated. Any talk of Keeping the Union Whole, or of the pragmatic necessity of retaining the wealth of the South for the Country, would be distasteful to Finrod as a distraction from the True Goal. Perhaps he would have been a writer of Pamphlets, in his spare time, which Maedhros would read with great interest whenever he had opportunity to possess one out at the front.

One last note! Folk in California, although on the opposite side of the continent, were deeply involved with the Civil War, in a wide variety of ways. Some sent back funds to help with their respective side of the war effort. Some put together volunteer militias who journeyed back East to join the front line. Some traveled back independently to join already established units. There was even some fighting in California, as the abolitionist, pro-Union citizens of California coordinated to thwart any attempts by secessionists to either provide aid to the South or to seize control of state government outright. One can easily imagine how our various cast of characters would behave in such a crisis, for good or for ill!

Thanks for the question, keep them coming!