#where is nelyo?

[sandwichmustbetasty]

okay.

so it's either a very fancy very nerdy little anvil paperweight

OR

little tyelpe had a teeny tiny forge-like dollhouse made for him by feanor, who painstakingly designed every tiny detail and made all toy equipment himself because tyelpe, too young to be in forge, insisted that he absolutely needs to be a smith like his father and grandfather and needs to begin learning now.

and who was feanor to refuse his only grandson who wanted to learn his craft when he only started to walk without bumping into everything? feanor would be elated and would spend hours playing with tyelpe in his little forge. it was before the silmarils when feanor had all the time in the world for his beloved grandson.

the anvil was one of many parts of that dollhouse, one of few that made it to beleriand and the only one that made it through to the second age with celebrimbor.

he could never make himself part with it.

[nelyoslegalteam]

#WOULD KILL DRACULA AND SURVIVE#listen maedhros feanorion and jonathan harker are fundamentally the same genre of person. no im not elaborating just trust me. #actually that’s a lie i made a long unhinged post elaborating but like #‘​‘his spirit burned like a white fire within’’ / ‘‘in fact he is like a living flame’’

PLEASE elaborate on Maedhros and Jonathan being the same kind of person! Is Jonathan the living flame quote?

YES LISTEN OKAY YOU HAVE TO UNDERSTAND. first of all i have been unhinged already here but. look i just really love a character who makes decisions they know are putting them in danger because they’re bound to some duty beyond themself. love a character who was trapped and imprisoned and makes for a juicy study of what the power structure of that entrapment was like (and for maedhros i have to shout out @outofangband for just utterly sinking their TEETH into this in the BEST way). love a character who SHOULD’VE died, who DIDN’T, except they did go through some kind of metaphorical death. and now they’re back. and they’re not as soft and measured as they used to be. and now they’re spurred on by rage and trauma - and also the desire to protect their people (maedhros has his little brothers and also All Of The Noldor, jonathan has mina) from the horrors that they faced. and they WILL face those horrors. violently. with a knife. no matter how much it opens their own trauma, they’re taking the blow. and fuck do i LOVE a character who’s willing to meet the worst version of themself along the way, who’s willing to Become The Thing They Fear for the people they love. (maedhros, who refused to burn the ships, doesn’t want to be the kind of person who slaughters refugees. but he will be that, for his family. jonathan doesn’t want to be dracula. but for mina, he’ll turn to vampirism without second thought.)

also listen. a character who is physically changed by what they went through, as a metaphor for the way their trauma has altered who they are. maedhros losing his right hand. jonathan’s hair turning white. you see. you get me.

AND YEAH. YEAH THAT’S A DIRECT QUOTE ABOUT JONATHAN!!!!!!! it’s from the october 3rd entry, where jack describes jonathan as such:

The poor fellow is overwhelmed in a misery that is appalling to see. Last night he was a frank, happy-looking man, with strong, youthful face, full of energy, and with dark brown hair. Today he is a drawn, haggard old man, whose white hair matches well with the hollow burning eyes and grief-written lines of his face. His energy is still intact; in fact, he is like a living flame. This may yet be his salvation, for, if all go well, it will tide him over the despairing period; he will then, in a kind of way, wake again to the realities of life.

(emphasis mine but!!!!!! TELL ME THAT ISN’T THE MOST MAEDHROS-CODED OUTSIDER POV ON JONATHAN HARKER EVER)

anyhow. i love them both dearly. and the living flame quote is one of my favorite lines of all time <3

[eloquentsisyphianturmoil]

Given Celegorm x Oromë, Tyelko would’ve seen Lúthien and her maiarin blood and thought she reminds me of him.

[lscullzthegreat]

*based on a real conversation between me and two of my siblings*

Celegorm: where do babies come from?

Maedhros: I don’t know but we found you in a dumpster

Maglor: *nodding sagely* with the raccoons

Celegorm: what! no you didn't!

Maedhros: yes we did, we made Atya and Ammë keep you.

Maglor: and the longer we had you the more you started to be like a little boy instead of a raccoon.

Celegorm: I AM NOT A RACOON!

Maglor: Oh look Nelyo his claws are coming back, we might have to return him.

Maedhros: *picks Celegorm up over his shoulder* Alright lets go

*various sounds of chaos ensue*

Fëanor: *from the other room* I SWEAR TO GOD IF YOU TWO TOLD YOUR BROTHER HE'S A RACCON AGAIN

Nerdanel: *at the same time from a different room*: did they tell Telyco we found him in a dumpster again!?!

[inthehouseoffinwe]

I sometimes think about Fingolfin being the sole Uncle looking after all his nephews/niece/kids. Like, there’s 16 children. Before taking the Helcaraxë he no doubt promised Finarfin that he would take care of them. And I feel like once he found out about Fëanor, and especially saw the state of Maedhros, he silently promised his half brother he’d do his best to look after them too. Not that he wasn’t going to anyway.

But the burden that must have been, especially with how volatile and independant all these kids are. Oh they might be grown. But he’ll never see them as such. Even now he remembers Nelyo’s birth and how the baby would toddle after him, crying when it was time to leave. Curvo going through all his mechanical devices, Turukano right behind him as Fingolfin explained where each came from and listened to the children tell him all about the workings. Carnistir carefully running little hands over the embroidery of his cloak, Anairë laughing quietly and explaining the techniques that went into it. Ambarussa and all the chaos they caused, enough so that Fëanor and Nerdanel would dump them at his house for days at a time, usually a couple of brothers tagging along. Tyelko and Irissë wrestling in the mud, neither group of parents knowing what to do when they trudged in, a sticky trail behind them.

Findekáno’s duets with Makalaurë, the little musician quietly asking to play before his uncle and cousin to make sure it was perfect before he showed his father. Finno, Nelyo, and Findarato encouraging him with whoops, Fingolfin and Anairë applauding with wide smiles at the end as he was swarmed by his cousins and brother. The four’s ‘secret’ sleepovers whenever they were in the same place. Aikanaro and Angamaitë raiding his kitchens, Fingolfin joining in with a finger on his lips, helping steal pastries in the middle of the night. Artanis insisting she could join in whatever game his boys were playing, Ireth backing her with a scowl until they were let in. Little Orodreth and his own Arakano, friends since birth. The screams of delight whenever they saw each other.

Despite everything, or maybe because of everything, he doesn’t know. All of them are now his children. He couldn’t stop the Fëanorions from taking the most dangerous lands because he had no argument to give. He can’t stop Turno and Ingo from making hidden kingdoms and taking Ireth and Artaresto with them. He couldn’t save little Arakano. He can’t stop Artanis hiding in Doriath, although he’s grateful at least one of his kids is safe… even if that safety comes with disowning the rest of her family.

He can’t even protect little Tyelpë and Itarillë who never asked for any of this.

So when the Dagor Bragollach comes and he hears Aegnor and Angrod are definitely dead, Curufin, Celegorm, and Celebrimbor might as well be for the trail of bodies leading to Doriath and the mass murder at the Girdle, Maglor’s land has been burned so far beyond recognition, they can’t even *find* bodies, Turgon, Idril, and Aredhel he wouldn’t even know if they were killed, and he hasn’t heard from Finrod in months-

He can’t.

So he makes a last ditch attempt because maybe, just maybe, he can make their battle the slightest bit easier. Give his kids if any of them survive a weakness to exploit. A slight advantage to turn the tables…

A stab to the foot does the trick. Morgoth will be limping on that one for millennia.

He hopes his brothers can forgive him.

[thetiredprometheus]

Maglor: rating the places where I've cried!

Valinor: nice place. To nice. Ruins the vibe. 4/10

Himring: has long hallways, great acoustics and a very depressing atmosphere, but also Nelyo is there to tell me to stop being so dramatic. 6/10

Battlefield: absolutely no. 1/10

Beach: amazing. Uninterrupted. People think I'm a siren or a vengeful ghost. Or a crab for some reason. Befriended a seagull. 9/10. One point gets deducted because the sand is impossible to get out of my clothes.

[sakasakiii]

not really a modern au but more like a weird future timeline thing where beach hermit maglor Hibernates™ all through the 2nd and 3rd ages & misses the last boats to Valinor.... thus resulting in him skulking about history until he ends up living among modern day humans haha?? the kicker is that he one day finds an abandoned baby thats all-too-suspiciously like a certain dead brother and becomes a single dad-younger brother-adopted guardian person...

i wrote a few pages of this back in 2022 but never really thought abt it further after i started posting less frequently hahaha.... heres just some feel good domestic sketches of this AU bc i miss drawing modern clothes 🤭 i have sooo many thoughts about it that i couldnt fit into these doodles !! its quite a lot of yapping so feel free to skip past the cut haha

assorted au thoughts:

i planned for maglor to eventually find all 6 of his brothers one by one through the power of Accidental Child Acquisition ✨ example: he'd spot a kid lurking around some woods near his home and eventually realise said wild child living amongst stray dogs is a bit too similar to celegorm

i just couldnt fit in the time to draw that this round... maybe next time!

though he's raising reincarnated-Maedhros, i think it makes more sense for him to give him a modern name and not explicitly call him Nelyo/Maitimo/Russandol just bc he'd not want to get his own hopes up or shove said identity onto the kid

(the occasional 'hey Nelyo' does slip out by accident from time to time however)

i think as Mae-the-kid grows up he will in time start to remember bits and pieces of his original identity? with the nicer familial things (like valinor, his brothers, feanor and nerdanel) first, and then the darker things (kinslayings, angband, war) once he's grown up that Maglor will struggle explaining or even helping him through

i promise this is a wholesome au 😭

side characters include a high-strung but good guy policeman named Officer Borden who's very suspicious of Maglor bc of all the random kids he keeps adopting.... and his younger brother Farren, who happens to be Maglor's scholarly coworker

as well as Maglor's next door neighbour Morgan, a witch-woman married to some guy named Hugh... she's got 3 kids who visit from time to time but from what Maglor's heard, the oldest son is followed by misfortune and has supposedly never met his youngest sister...?

credit to Ted Nasmith and Cartoon Network for some assets used in the doodles :D

[eleneressea]

#god i love everything about this but that last addition just makes me FERAL#TELL ME YOU KNOW THAT YOU'RE WORTH MORE TO ME THAN SOME JEWELS#(he doesn't. he did once. he's long since forgotten)#aiya eldalie ar atanatari (@arafinwes)

Yes! You! You get it! Maitimo knows that his father loves him more than the Silmarils, but at some point Maedhros forgot that. (When? Thangorodrim, maybe, with Morgoth pouring poison in his ear, or maybe later, maybe just before Doriath, but certainly by Sirion Maedhros has all but fully forgotten his father's love; and any lingering traces are burned away when he takes the Silmaril in his hand.)

Which means that this Fëanor, who has not descended (fully) into paranoia and bitterness, whose father is alive and well, who has had no one else demand the Silmarils as being rightfully theirs, has absolutely no idea how, where, or why his son got the idea that Fëanor wouldn't tear the world down to protect them? They had an argument about the Silmarils, maybe that was it, but it wasn't that big of an argument, really, and this seems like the sort of thing that's been festering for a long time, it must be older, but Maitimo had never given any sign that he thinks that Fëanor doesn't love him…

thinking about a fic in which Maedhros, kinslayer thrice over, haggard wreck of an elf, having lost all hope and purpose casts himself into a volcano—

and wakes up as Prince Maitimo, eldest son of the eldest son, safe and sound in Tirion-upon-Túna, with Treelight streaming in through his window.

[polutrope]

For the birthday event... Maedhros, Maglor, the river Gelion? 👀❤️

also for @theghostinthemargins who requested Maedhros & Maglor, Himring

Maedhros & Maglor, a getaway on the Gelion. Rated G, 900 words. Written by @polutrope and @melestasflight. On AO3.

“Káno,” Maedhros said, voice dipping with displeasure on the second syllable, “do you mean to tell me you took me from overseeing the construction of the great gate of my new fortress… for a pond?”

“A pond?” Maglor laughed. “This is a glorious, crystalline swimming hole!”

“It is a hole, I’ll grant you that. You told me it was urgent.” Maedhros rubbed at the back of his neck and sighed noisily. “Stop laughing. I am not amused. We will have to make the journey back in the dark now, and the horses will be tired.”

“Not to worry!” Maglor patted his mare’s saddlebags. “I brought us all the necessaries for at least three days camping.”

“No!” cried Maedhros. “We are not camping! There is work to be done! Tomorrow the workmen are due to set the foundations of the north tower; I must be present to approve the plans of the tile-settings for the west kitchens — and before you say I can entrust that to Lostir, let me remind you of the pattern he approved for the crenellations — what is the matter with you?”

“The kitchens!” Maglor wheezed, doubled-over and clutching his stomach. “Crenellations! Oh! ho! Yes, yes, you had better be sure the kitchens are tiled to your liking, as I am certain you will be spending so much time in the kitchens!”

“I might. Once we are settled. Didn’t you say yourself that I should find new ways of 'expressing myself'?” Maedhros scowled. “And what if I am needed to assist with transporting stones from the quarry? It is good for the workmen’s morale if I participate in the labour.”

“Nelyo,” Maglor said, collecting himself. “Do you remember the year when Amil persuaded Atar to hire Rauron to oversee the restoration of the Mindon’s mosaics, so that he need not go into Tirion himself?”

“Yes,” said Maedhros, glaring. “And I know exactly where you are going with this. This is not like that. This is warfare, this is lordship, it is not mere… decorative restoration.”

“Decorative? It is good Atar cannot hear you now. But no, that is not what I was getting at. Do you remember, that time he took us with him to show us the project, how obvious it was to us — not to him, of course — how little the craftsmen appreciated his interference? Hóndil all but rolled his eyes right out of his head every time Atar turned his back.”

Maedhros went silent and looked away. Maglor waited. At last, he cleared his throat. “Do you think… ? I am not as bad as Father… ? Really?”

Maglor took several steps over the mossy riverbank to stand behind him. He gave his brother’s back three reassuring pats. “Yes, Nelyo. I’m afraid that is really how they feel about your participation. They respect you of course, immensely. But I fear if you do not leave them a little more space, where their expertise is concerned, it may wear away at their fondness for you. Besides,” he said, nudging Maedhros round to face him, “you have been working too hard. What good is a castle with strong foundations if its lord is brittle with cares?”

“I am not brittle,” Maedhros sneered, and shoved Maglor off him. But then his face broadened into a smile and he shook his head. “Fine, you make a strong case. I only wish you had not used deceit to bring me here.”

“There was no deceit!” cried Maglor. “The sky portends rain tomorrow – it was urgent that you visit this pool of the Gelion while the weather is pleasant.”

Maedhros dragged a long breath through his nose, then released it. “It is so quiet,” he said. 

Not so to Maglor: the Gelion bubbled and rushed and the wind rustled the grasses and the birds chittered in the trees, but he did not trouble to correct his brother. There is noise, and there is sound, and to many the latter is quiet. 

“I can hear myself think,” said Maedhros, “and I do not like it.”

There it was. “Yes, the mind will clamour rather loudly for attention when you have given it no opportunity to be heard for so long. But it will go away.”

Maedhros hummed his agreement.

“You know what helps?” asked Maglor, and winked.

“Cold water,” Maedhros answered, deadpan — and was well-prepared for Maglor’s assault, leveraging his much longer limbs to seize Maglor by the waist as he ran at him, then diverting the momentum to hurl Maglor directly into the pool, fully-clothed.

“You brute!” Maglor cried through his laughter, and swung his arms over a log that drifted near the water’s edge. 

“Repayment for your guile.”

“Fair,” said Maglor, and flopped lazily onto his back. He dipped down — the kicked as hard as he could, sending a spray of water into Maedhros’ face. “Now get in, you insufferable rat!”

“Watch how you speak to your lord!” Maedhros jested. 

Then he sat to pull off his boots and roll his trousers to his knees. Wading in, he hissed when his feet touched the water. Maglor drifted, without interfering, watching the lines of care slowly fade from his brother’s face as he surrendered to the waters of their new home.

[antlered-vixen]

I'm curious about your opinion on Nolofinwe's nicknames, Nolvo

Ah, I was wondering if someone would ask after that comment! So, first things first, we only have about 8-9 canon nicknames to reverse engineer the mechanisms, so everything is somewhat loose and subjective. That said. Let's take the textual/canonical Curvo, from Curufinwë . Where does the "v" here come from? In my opinion, because "r" by itself, like "l" by itself, are a little abrupt/insufficient in Tolkien's phonetic tastes (both "l" and "r" are liquid consonants, he seems to not want to permit them to stand alone in nicknames) and Quenya phonetics like to soften transitions, it borrows the v from Curufinwë, with a mutation from bilabial to labiodental. (Consonant mutations are VERY common in elven tongues. In fact, pretty much all of Sindarin is shaped around consonant mutations and specifically soft mutations, so we know Tolkien was really into that.) Similarly then for Telufinwë, which canonically/textually we know to give Telvo. Nelyafinwë doesn't need anything extra, it's just Nelyo - the "y" already smooths the phonetics. And the "n" is Cáno for Canafinwë is apparently already smooth enough. Now if we transfer this rule to, let's say, Ñolofinwë, like the similar Telufinwë>Telvo, we expect Ñolvo. However, Turucano would give Turno. The liquid consonant ("r") will not be permitted to stand alone, but the "n" doesn't need mutation, we already established with Cáno from Canafinwë that "n" is not mutable. By these same rules, Arafinwë gives Arvo, Aracáno gives Arno. However, what do we do when a sound is abrupt/unsoftened but we have nowhere to borrow from? Like, Idril's Quenya name, Itarillë? In my opinion, you add "y". We have already seen the addition of "y" in childish or affectionate Quenya speech to soften sounds, so we have precedent. Therefore, I'd wager Ityë! Fëanáro most of the "fandom" seems to agree gives Náro, and I have obeyed that before because, you know, dominant fanon - that said, if a standalone liquid "r" was alright, we wouldn't have Curvo. So, what do we do here? Again, when there's no end-consonant to pull from, I'd soften with "y". I reckon Fëanáro should give Náryo. And what about voiced stops, like "g" and "d"? They exist in Quenya, but old-school/archaic/Aman Quenya seemed to soften them to voicelessness when possible (like how the archaic form was Moricotto which in exilic became Moringotto for Morgoth), and we canonically know that the Vanya even softened "f" to something like "hw", and obviously still used the thorn. So I reckon, in soft, Aman-Quenya, Ingoldo would give Inco rather than Ingo. And that's also why Findecáno "feels right" as Finno which is the fanonical version (or possibly even Finto) rather than Findo. By that rule, Angaráto would, for example, give Anco.

PS. The only one of the canonical nicknames we have that seems to disobey the trends I've gleaned above is Moryo, which should give Morvo. But Tolkien has a long history of cheating his own rules to make things "sound nicer" (see Aegthelion becoming Ecthelion), and also "Morvo" sounds morbid. Furthermore, because "y" is also possibly indicative of an adjectival suffix ("-ya" like in the three rings, Narya, Nenya, Vilya, which are "of fire/the firey", "of water/the watery" and "of air/the airy", but with the -o masculinisation), Moryo is also pretty much a nicknamized version of his canonical monicker/epithet, "The Dark", which might be why it was chosen.

[doodle-pops]

My Turn To Cry

Curufin x fem!reader

Request: Hi! It's titally okay if you don't wanna do this ask or to ignore it. But i was wondering if you could maybe do a oneshot of curufin. Maybe his wife decides to stay with celebrimbor in nargothrond when curufin and celegorm get booted? How does he react to that choice? Or if she does decide to go with them, then the serious strain it puts on their relationship? Thank you so much i love your writing!! 🥰 – @will-0-wsps

A/N: Y’all should know by now that I’m a sucker for angst with no comfort and happy endings when given the opportunity >.< So this was a joy to write. Thank you for the request! Hope you all enjoy it!

Warnings: wife reader, heavy angst no comfort, argument, separation, confrontation, physical aggression (throwing objects at Curufin)

Words: 2k

Synopsis: There was always a time when you believed Curufin, and you would walk separate paths in life—death would be kind to greet either of you with a smile—but not this way. Not for power. Not for pride.

Masterlist | Navigation

It was a while when last the sky reflected the same emotions as you did: dull and grey, melancholy and detached. However, there were still some fragments of you lingering here and there, mostly for the sake of your son. There was little to say or do. Not much could be done for what was already known except standing your ground and holding your head high. No longer was he the little cubby elfling in your arms, grasping at your shiny hairpins and attempting to devour them. He was his own man and mind. The least you could do was be his strength and hope in the scarcity of the man of the house.

Alas, there he was.

Strolling into the drawing room with Celegorm flanking his side—the perfect counterpart, more than you could ever be to your own goddam husband. Nonetheless, you observed in silence as he approached, and your final assessment was correct. It had all the reasons for why grey storm clouds hovered overhead. For it was the words which left his mouth, opened up the pits of your rage, and allowed for your fury to be unleashed like a torrential storm—fire and brimstone infused.

“We make leave for sundown. We will find our new station at Himring. Nelyo will host us there in the meantime until we can regather our resources,” he announced with an air of composure and arrogance that made your blood boil. The hairs on your neck rose, and your eyes formed daggers.

Before you could stop yourself from acting, you reached for the small vase on the table nearby and launched it across the room, at his head. Unfortunately, his reflexes saved him, causing the vase to crash against the wall. You noticed the smirk on Celegorm’s face faltering as he shot you a darkened look with a twisted smile, amused at his sister-in-law’s outburst.

Curufin wasn’t one to let your actions slide so easily on the other hand. He whipped his head around to glare at you, looking every bit of regal despite his treachery. “Have you gone mad, woman!”

“Have you?!” you countered, rising from your seat, fists clenched at your side and feeling as though you could have thrown another object at him for his arrogance. “Strutting about the palace as if there were no consequences to your acts. Yet running when fingers are being pointed.”

“Do not speak to me about actions when you have been doing nothing but complaining at every whim,” he compared, taking a step closer, still further from where you stood. “And still, I allow it because it is you. You who have refused the oath and do not understand what it means to bear the weight.”

You gave a laugh. One single, hollow, dark laugh as you shook your head, hanging it low. You couldn’t bear to look at him any longer. This was not how you imagined walking at his side. This was not how you imagined the act of paying one in kind for hospitality would occur. There was always a time when you believed Curufin, and you would walk separate paths in life—death would be kind to greet either of you with a smile—but not this way. Not for power. Not for pride.

“Yet I who still followed you out of belief and held on to hope and the salvation of your house,” you uttered with an empty tone. “I, who—I will not leave with you.”

The room fell into silence, festering a tension growing under the weight of your husband’s stare and your brother-in-law’s look of disappointment. Celegorm wasn’t one for expressing displeasure often. Turning everything into a game, a sadistic little joke. But now, he seemed to understand the weight of your words and what it meant.

Curufin took another step forward while you stood your ground, your head no longer facing the floor as you met him head-on. Dull eyes staring into silver-grey eyes filled with a cold fire. “You will not leave,” he echoed as the weight slowly seeped into his chest. His eyes were searching yours for some flicker of doubt, something which told him this was merely the result of wounded pride or confusion. A momentary lapse of poor judgement. But there was nothing.

“At least not with you,” you corrected, each syllable measured for him to not misinterpret. “Not after all that you have done.”

“What I’ve done,” he mumbled to himself with a scoff as he ran a hand through his well-kept hair. He dropped to the floor before glancing over his shoulder to meet his brother’s eyes—a quiet non-disclosed exchange between—before he returned to meet you on the battlefield. He exhaled, his glare intensifying. “Have you forgotten who I am? Who we are? I did what was necessary!”

“You did what was convenient!” you snapped, feeling the urge to launch another object at his head. “You and you foolish brother, both—you saw power and you took it, with no though of consequences of loyalty and of honour. Finrod is dead! Dead because of you and your usurping, treacherous ways all for the throne!”

This time, you moved swiftly as you grabbed a book off the shelf and threw it at him, hitting him square in the chest. A failure at the level of destruction you wished to bring. Your action only prompted Curufin to grow more frustrated as he growled, a deep rumble in his chest as he narrowed his eyes.

“You have some nerve, melda—”

“Do not ever call me that. Ever again. I am no longer your wife—I refuse to stand at your side as an individual who was created to be your equal and companion,” you choked and bit your lower lip to cease the tightening of your throat. “I will not follow you after what you did to Finrod.”

He stared at you as if he was the one in pain. There was a moment when he felt himself slipping. His façade melting at your declaration as a hand lifted to his chest, his breathing becoming uneven. “Do not speak so foolishly on such statements. Do you have any idea of what you mean, melda—”

“I said do not call me that!”

“You are my wife! You are not leaving me! You will follow me and continue to stand at my side as you have always done from the start!” he shouted. “My transgressions in the past were never an issue, the ones you accuse me of should be the same. You will come with us.”

“No.”

There was a pregnant pause which followed.

“No?”

You could feel the fire raging in the pits of your bosom, clawing to be let out and show him that he was not the only person born with fire in their spirit.

“I said, ‘no,’ I will not be following you and your conniving brother, who aided you in Finrod’s death and you brilliantly assumed would be perfectly suited to marry Luthien through forced marriage.” Crossing your arms, your eyes bore holes into his, refusing to back down.

His breath came harsh and uneven, but it was the look in your eyes that truly unsettled him—an unbearable mixture of disappointment and heartbreak. “You believed I killed him?”

“No. Sauron did. But you knew what he would face, and you left him to it.”

His lips parted as though to argue, but what could he say? He had known. He had known and done nothing, and now his cousin lay dead in some nameless place, torn apart while he sat in his stolen seat, drunk on his own ambition. His expression faltered, his eyes flickered with uncertainty, and for a moment—just a moment—you almost thought he might yield. But the anger returned, twisting his grief into something uglier.

“You are a fool,” he spat, stepping closer, his presence attempting to suffocate the intensity of the situation. “You speak as if I had a choice. Do you not see the world we live in? The war we are fighting? There is no room for sentiment or weakness.”

“Is that what you think this is? Weakness?” You threw him a look of exasperation, your voice rising. “I stayed by your side through everything. Through your father’s oath, through exile, through the loss of so much. I stood with you. I believed in you. I believed in us. But now...now I see only a man who has lost his way.”

His expression hardened, though there was a flicker of something—hurt, perhaps—in his eyes. “And what would you have me do? Crawl on my knees to Orodreth? Beg for forgiveness for doing what was necessary?”

“Necessary,” you repeated bitterly. “Was it necessary to betray Luthien? To hold her captive while you and your brother attempted to force her into a marriage she did not want? Was that necessary too?”

At that, he flinched, though he quickly masked it with anger. “You do not understand,” he gravelled. “You never did. Everything I have done—everything I will do—is for the sake of our people, for the survival of the Noldor.”

“I refused to share your disgrace.”

His hands clenched into fists at his sides. “I expect you to stand by me,” he said, his voice rising. “You are my wife. Is that not what we vowed to each other?”

“I vowed to stand by a man I loved and respected,” you shot back, your own voice trembling with fury. “Not a man who usurped and indirectly held a knife to his cousin’s throat, and attempted someone into marriage, all for power. What becomes of me? Who am I to you? If you could hurt others, then why not me?”

“I would never hurt you.”

“You’re hurting me now.”

There was a long, tense silence between you, the words hanging in the air like a blade poised to strike. Curufin looked at you with a mixture of disbelief, anger and desperation, as if he were searching for something to say, some argument that would change your mind. But you saw the truth in his eyes—he was not sorry for what he had done, and he never would be.

At last, he spoke, his voice cold and clipped. “So this is your choice, then. You would rather stay here with those who would see me cast out like a dog than stand by your husband.”

You swallowed hard, your heart breaking at the words. “I would rather stay where there is still a chance for peace and honour,” you said quietly. “Where I can raise our son without fear of what the next betrayal will bring.”

“Tyelpë? You would deny me the rights to my son as well?” he stated in shock. “A boy needs his father.”

“He’s a man. And he doesn’t need a father who would bring him nothing but sin,” you corrected, taking a deep breath to soothe the waves of tension off your shoulders. You were becoming weary of this constant back and forth.

Curufin’s hands curled into fists at his sides, his nails biting into his palms so hard they might have drawn blood, but the pain was nothing compared to the hollow, searing ache in his chest. His breath came sharp and uneven, his jaw clenched so tightly it ached. His mind screamed at him to turn back, to say something—anything—but his pride, his fury, his very nature would not allow it.

Without another word, he turned on his heel, the movement rigid, almost mechanical, as if his body moved before his mind had truly caught up. His cloak billowed behind him, a bleak contrast to the weight settling in his bones. Celegorm fell into step beside him, silent and grim, his own expression unreadable, but Curufin barely noticed.

The great doors of Nargothrond loomed ahead, its halls growing colder with each step he took. He did not look back—could not. To do so would be to acknowledge the finality of this moment, the unbearable truth that, for the first time, he was leaving something behind that he could never reclaim.

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[nelyoslegalteam]

I often think that some elves are meant to be a follower of a particular Valar or just like one of that Valar faves; like Orome and Celegorm is obvious, Fingon and Manwe I think too. Anyway, I think if Melkor hadnt gone all ~discord~ and massmurdery, and had been whatever eru planned (my money is on spirit of change and movement, something to avoid stagnation), Maedhros would have been his lil dude, his emotional support elf or whatever. The whole fire nature, icy conviction, and ends justify means, mightiest of the siblings (maybe) thing… maybe the parallels came out in middle earth as kidnap-torture…

YOU’RE SO RIGHT. something about the Bright Clear Line, y’know?

and i think so much about how maedhros is tied to despair. something about how melkor is more or less the vala of destruction. something about how maedhros destroys himself. is this anything.

[dlatl98]

Maglor was confused. "Oh. How could the palantir have done so much harm, when my father had put so much care into making them? I always thought they were one of the most harmless of his inventions."

Olórin, or Gandalf, answered. "Perhaps by the standards of the great ones of Fëanor and his sons. they were too great and dangerous a force to bear for the weak-willed of Middle-earth, especially since the Dark Lord was the one holding them against them."

"Ah…my father made Safety precautions of his own. Didn't you use it?" "Yes?" "Nelyo! We had palantiri! Where did it go?!"

Maglor ignored Gandalf's confusion and called out to Maedhros. Maedhros answered back in a pitiful voice. "You never lift a finger when I clean up, but you only call out when you need to!"

Despite the complaints, Maedhros immediately brought a palantir that was rolling around in a corner of the attic of the house. (Gandalf groaned at Fëanor's house, where the palantir was rolling around like some kind of slipper.) Maglor was touching something. He handed it over to Maedhros(Maedhros touched the palantir, mixing in some rather vulgar language as he said, "Damn it, it's been thousands of years since we were all grown up! When will this damned kids lock end?"), and Maglor hastily apologized to Gandalf. "Oh, it will take a while. My father has set the kids lock to always turn on when we catch him. Rather, it will take me some time to unlock the kids lock.”

“Kids lock?”

Gandalf’s voice grew louder. Maedhros didn't care and held out the palantir. Feanor’s Tengwar appeared inside the palantir. [The following video or dialogue may contain violent or suggestive content, or flashing lights. If there are any minors who wish to watch it, please watch it under parental supervision. Since the kids lock is on, only adults can unlock it.]

[elficially-done-with-life]

My Little Fire

Fëanor & daugther!reader

Summary: You, Fëanor's daughter, go to visit your father in the forge.

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

Fëanáro immediately realised that he was being watched, for he could see his beloved daughter's silver hair glistening as she secretly peeked around the corner of the forge.

It was the hair she had inherited from Míriel that Fëanáro would recognise it anywhere.

And he knew it didn't belong to Tyelkormo, as his boy never went near the forge for fear his father would force him to stay inside all day.

"Little fire?" It was one of at least a hundred nicknames he had come up with for you over the years. Nerdanel made fun of it because there were so many, but how could he not? You were his sweet, wonderful daughter.

You peeked around the doorframe again and your eyes lit up when you saw your father.

Fëanáro laughed softly and put aside the necklace he had just forged for Nerdanel and approached you.

He put his hands under your arms and lifted you up in his arms to press a kiss on your cheek.

"What brings you here?" he asked gently and then added a little hopefully: "Do you want to learn to work in the forge?"

You grimaced. "Too much fire." you mumbled softly. "I do not like fire."

"Right, you do not. "Fëanáro nodded. Two years ago, you once had a bad nightmare about burning ships and your family in the middle of them and have been afraid of fire ever since.

But that had only been a dream.

"But then what brings you here, my dearest daughter?" he asked with a smile

"Well, you Atya! I missed you!" you announced.

Fëanáro laughed and rubbed his nose against yours affectionatly.

"But also that I have to hide." you whispered softly. "Nelyo, Moryo and I are playing hide and seek."

Fëanáro grinned. Normally his Morifinwë always held back in such games, but you had him practically wrapped around your finger. You were born after Curufinwë and had practically attached yourself directly to Morifinwë and now you were inseparable.

If you couldn't be found, one simply had to keep an eye out for Moryo, usually ypu were holding his hand, sleeping curled up in his side while he embroidered or persuading him to play with you and the others.

Then Fëanáro heard footsteps.

"Let us hide you then," he said quietly to you and you pressed a hand over your mouth to stifle a giggle.

Fëanáro took a cloak from a handle he had placed in the corner of the forge where the fire couldn't reach it and threw it over you.

"Just stay under it, then Nelyo will not be able to see you."

The very next second, Nelyo entered the forge and looked around. His red hair was tied back in a braid and the freckles on his forehead rippled slightly as his eyes landed on his father.

"Atya?" A slight smile played around his lips and Fëanáro knew immediately that his eldest son had seen through him. "Why are you standing so far in the corner?"

"You know, Nelyafinwë," Fëanáro grinned mischievously, "somethimes one has to look at ones forge from a different angle."

A soft giggle sounded from under his cloak.

Nelyo laughed softly. "Got you!"

"Nelyo!"you shouted loudly and jumped out from under the cloak to tackle him in a hug.

"Y/N!"Nelyo exclaimed happily, wrapping his arms around you.

"Now I just have to find Carnistir. "Nelyo said, looking at his father.

Fëanáro raised his hands in defence. "I was just hiding one child."

"Me! I know where he is!" you shouted in a chant and danced around your big brother."

"And where?" Nelyo asked, although he was aware that you wouldn't tell.

You put your hands on your hips and said with feigned indignation: "I am not betraying my Moryo!"

Nelyo laughed and tousled your hair, "That is probably for the best."

"You two. "Fëanáro shook his head with a smile. "Why do you not look for him upstairs? I do not think he is outside. Irissë is visiting and she and Tyelko are tearing everything apart and you know Morifinwë does not like that.

Nelyo laughed, picked you up and threw you over his shoulder.

"Hey!" you shouted indignantly.

"I am off to find Carnistir," he said, kissing his father on the cheek as a farewell and carrying you out with him.

Fëanáro smiled gently as he looked after you. He really loved his children.

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

[carmisse]

Of Tyelkormo and Moryo.

Tyelkormo loves Carnistir.

It was hard for him to be so at first. He was happy when his Ammë told him that he would be a big brother, he thought constantly about the new baby and waited impatiently for its arrival.

It turns out that Moryo is not what he expected.

Atya tells him that when the baby grows up he will be delighted with him, and that he will not leave him alone, for his part he really hopes so, he wants someone to follow him like Makalaurë to Maitamo, he has always wanted his own little brother.

He makes sure to be present with Moryo, he even taught him to walk, the first time Carnistir walks he addresses him, not Maitamo, not Makalaurë, Ammë or Atya, just him.

He waits a little longer but things turn out strange, because once Moryo is a little boy he has no intention of staying around him, in fact whenever he tries to take him to play with him, Carnistir slips away and the next time he sees him, he is being cradled by Nelyo or Atya. Makalaurë says it's okay, that he can play with him instead of Moryo, but I can't help sobbing at being ignored by his brother.

Trying hard to find things to do together, the first thing they do is to go to the forest where the noises although soft, are too much; Moryo cries because of the noise, Atya is the one who comes to calm him down while patting Tyelko's back.

He thinks about giving up when Ammë tells him that there will be another baby at home. Maybe the new baby will love him, Curufinwë is born, but as much as he loves him intensely, no one will replace Moryo.

One day, when they are all out in the gardens of their home, Moryo is the one who takes a feather from the grass and braids it against his hair, his brother has soft fingers, they are gentle and skillful.

He says nothing to him, never says anything, is silent, speaks to no one except perhaps grandfather, but Morifinwë smiles, at least when he feels safe to do so, he loves Moryo for the way he is, even if other elfings say he is strange.

Morifinwë is the one who embroiders his first cloak when he joins the cult of Oromë.

Morifinwë is the one who takes his hand when he feels Atarinkë overtakes him.

Morifinwë is the one who dies in his arms with an expression of fear in his eyes.

[whovianofmidgard]

Day 4 – Caranthir – Childhood, Appearance

For @feanorianweek You can also read on AO3

Life in Valinor for someone like Caranthir was an overwhelming existence. His dark eyes never quite got used to the brightness of Laurelin, like most babes usually did after some months. He ran away so fast on his short legs from the clanging of forges and choirs singing, the sounds too loud for his sensitive ears. He screamed and cried when certain fabrics and textures touched his skin, blotchy red patches and rashes forming inexplicably after an hour of wearing new clothes.

Caranthir didn’t like going outside. He especially didn’t like going out for chores. However, Ammë and Atar were busy with their work, and Maglor and Celegorm had their studies, so he was left in Maedhros’ care while he did chores that needed to be done. Like shopping.

Caranthir trotted after his eldest brother, small hand clutching large hand, as they waded through the noisy market. He was mostly being guided by Maedhros, for the elfling was left half-blind from the mid-flowering light of Laurelin. Caranthir alternated between staring down at his feet, squinting with tears obscuring his sight, or just simply closing his eyes.

Maedhros stopped by some vegetable stall, leaving Caranthir to hold on to him and be bored. The swish of fabric caught the edge of his sight, a rich dark purple in colour, yet so thin it let light peek through its weave. Letting go of his brother’s hand, he went closer to the textile stall curiously. He slid his little fingers through the dark fabric, unfortunately it was itchy and burning, but he lifted it over his head.

Caranthir could perfectly see right through it, he could see the market, the elves milling about, everything. The only difference the fabric made was that the light and colours were muted. And most importantly, it didn’t bother his eyes.

“Nelyo, Nelyo!” he bounded over to his brother, purple textile still on his head. “Look, Nelyo! I can see and my eyes don’t hurt!”

Used to his little brothers’ oddities, the strange image Caranthir made didn’t even phase him.

“You can see everything?”

“Uh-huh,” Caranthir nodded.

“And there is no pain at all?”

“Nuh-uh,” Caranthir shook his head. “Well, the fabric is itchy.”

Maedhros looked at his little brother for some time, deep in thought. Then he removed the fabric from Caranthir’s face and after returning it to the stall he led them to different part of the market.

“Come, I have an idea,” he said, stopping in front of a vendor selling glassware.

Maedhros talked with the vendor for a while, then the elf rummaged for something underneath the stall, finally producing a small sheet of glass. Maedhros took it then handed it to Caranthir.

“Try looking through it.”

The glass was almost completely black, but it still let a little bit of light through. He put the glass up against his eyes, and relief flooded him as the stinging sensation abated.

“It doesn’t hurt!” Caranthir exclaimed, his hands fluttering about him in a rare show of joy.

Maedhros ordered a full sheet of coloured glass to be delivered home, and the very next day Caranthir was gifted with dark spectacles that protected him from the light.

-

Caranthir liked sitting with Maglor. The harp had a gentle sound, not too loud, and his brother practicing his scales and harp solos made for enough repetition and predictability that he could read or do his numbers homework in peace.

Maglor’s voice was nice too, but not up close. There needed to be at least two walls dividing them, so his singing didn’t hurt Caranthir’s ears with its loudness. Usually, when Maglor reached the place in his practice where he’d start singing with his harp, Caranthir would pack his books up and leave Maglor’s room for his own.

Noticing the pattern, Maglor once asked his little brother about it, and once hearing the answer he fell into silent contemplation.

The next time they were comfortably doing their own thing in Maglor’s room, his older brother gave him something.

“Try it on and tell me what you hear,” Maglor said, and helped Caranthir put the thing over his head, two padded pom-pom-like balls covering his ears.

“Can you hear me? And is it itchy at all?”

“You’re all muffled but I can hear you a little. Not itchy, but it tickles.”

Maglor just grinned, and later when he started to sing during practice, Caranthir stayed and continued his studies, unbothered by the loud sound.

-

The itchiness he partially figured out on his own, when a bit older Caranthir ironically got into fibre crafts. He now knew which fabrics his skin tolerated and which ones he didn’t, yet from time to time his hands would still turn red with rashes. An occupational hazard when working with all sorts of textiles.