#yes yes it could have been Amrod

[fabulous-feanorians]

I would be lying if I said I didn’t foresee these results 🤣

~Maedhros~

when time is up we will determine which son these ingredients made

[doodle-pops]

¨*:·Guess The Cat’s Out The Bag | Getting Caught Dating¨*:·

Headcanon: Amrod, Argon, Angrod, Galdor

˖˚₊·͟͟͟͟͟͟͞͞͞͞͞͞➳❥ Amrod — because he’s a master of pranks and grew up sharing and holding secrets for his twin, the both of you being a secret relationship is tight lip, locked and seal. That is if his twin hasn’t caught on the abnormal behaviour of his twin whenever you’re in the room.

The straightening of Amrod’s posture and the quietening of his voice whenever you set into their circle to reintroduce yourself and greet the nobilities. Amras could see how his brother’s hand shook and the starry, softer look in his brother’s eyes the longer he observed the older male.

A bright was plastered across Amrod’s face the minute you stepped into the room and made your way elegantly to his small clique. The swoosh in the fabric of your clothes and hair made you appear like a deity in his eyes, his grin accidentally stretched further across his face. Both you and his brother caught the moment and while you stared in horror at his slip up, Amras stared in suspicion.

Approaching the twins, you slightly bowed and extended your hand to greet them both, resisting the urge to turn your full attention on the social twin. Even you couldn’t hide the sparkle in your eyes the longer you locked eyes with him. It was as though Amras has vanished from your little circle along with the other guests in the room and all that mattered where you two. The little flustered look you gave him, eyes darting between his face and your glass was interrupted by the clearing of a throat.

“I don’t mean to break up the romantic love scene between you two but, how long have you been together behind my back…brother?” Amras voice rung through the air with a smirk in his voice as he faced his brother’s horrid expression.

Stuttering and stammering, Amrod felt his pressure rising as he darted around, hoping no one else saw and whispered through his teeth, “I-If you spill a word about us, you’ll wake up swimming with the geese in the pond.”

“Amrod,” you warned to calm him down and placed your hand on his arm, “no need to threaten your brother. I’m sure he’ll keep it a secret.”

“Yes Amrod! No need to threaten your brother, he’ll keep it a secret!” Amras teased and eyes shimmered over the rim of his wine glass as he wiggled his brow.

“Though, I am tempted to tell everyone…you did keep a secret from your favourite brother. You hurt me.”

˚₊·͟͟͟͟͟͟͞͞͞͞͞͞➳❥ Argon — he should know better than to keep something hidden in his family especially when his siblings were Aredhel and Fingon. He grew up in their footsteps, mostly his eldest brother, so he was his confidant and advisor, he knew Fingon would be saddened that his baby brother kept such a precious secret from him.

But even Argon struggled on his own to keep your relationship under the radar. Hearing your name would make him giddy and blush, and butterflies would erupt in the pit of his stomach. Your presence would make him malfunction, so keeping your affair under the rug was a failure from the start, but a joyous attempt for laughter sake.

The twinkling of the twilight canopy loomed overhead as you and Argon laid on the slightly warmed blanket in the fields and viewed the constellations. Your fingers eagerly pointing out all the stars and calling them out in the attempt to discover the most and beat Argon, since he had the winning streak. For someone who got distracted easily, he sure had a fixed attention span when something or, in this case, someone caught it.

A mixture of soft and loud laughter rumbled throughout the undisturbed night’s air when he rolled closer to your side and whispered something humorous in your ear, followed by a kiss to your cheek. It wasn’t often he was open to affection sight everything was kept under radar, and you both had a good enough reason for such. Not a single one of you suspected the soft padding of footsteps behind you.

“So, this is why you couldn’t stay for family night,” the accusing voice of Fingon startled you both, urging you to scramble apart and off the blanket. Behind him stood Aredhel with a mischievous smirk on her face, ready to tease her baby brother. “B-Brother…it’s not what you think!”

Everyone except Argon, even you, were appalled by his line of defence, it was pathetic. “It’s not what we think?,” both exclamations came from Fingon and Aredhel before the elder spoke out, “you two were kissing and giggling like teens.” This time, he turned the heat on the tease. The obvious grin on their faces told Argon that he was in trouble from them both.

“J-Just don’t tell amillё and atar, I’ll be pestered worse than you two already plan on…”

Shrugging their shoulders, it was Aredhel who teased, “I actually don’t mind, Finno and I are going to bet on how long you two can keep it a secret.”

“I hate you two.”

˖ ˚₊·͟͟͟͟͟͟͞͞͞͞͞͞➳❥ Angrod — his idea of keeping something a secret stays a secret, so you don’t need to worry about the cat being let out the bag. He’s coherent with his actions which means no one is going to figure out you two are a thing. The most that might happen is the speculation of your relationship due to your friendship you shared as a means to linger close by.

However, they were moments that went by where the both of you weren’t being careful with your actions and everyone got the message. Let’s just say that the teasing was never ending for his huge slip up in that moment. He couldn’t help himself and lose focus when you were sitting so beautifully across from him, shinning in all your glory.

His eyes were locked on you the entire time during the dinner his parents regularly held quarterly. Dressed in your lighter house colour since you were of Telerin descent, pearls and the colours of the sea were your garments. The mistake you made with your outfit was dressing too perfectly to the point Angrod’s eyes remained locked on you at all times. Even while his brothers were chatting with him, he kept his eyes focused on your pretty figure.

“Angrod! Oi, I speaking to you!” shouted Aegnor before giving him a rough shove to make him snap out of his enchantment. Though, it was his eldest brother who was observing how he was quiet the entire night and only engaged in conversation with you. Being the outspoken person he was, Finrod forgot his filter in that moment and allowed the cat to escape the bag.

“Are you and Y/N together?” The entire table fell silent minus the coughs from you two at the abrupt question that blew your cover. “You’ve been staring all night at them brother. More than friendly…”

“I agree, there’s a bit of…affection behind those eyes. Care to tell us something we don’t know, or already suspected?” This time, Finarfin decided to join in on the teasing after observing your interactions all evening. Nothing missed his eyes and Angrod should have known better.

Clearing his throat and making a quick dart in your direction, he cast his eyes at his plate and awkwardly chuckled. Speaking up, he spoke too quickly, giving himself away, “N-No, there isn’t anything between us, just friendship.”

At first, there was a silence that fell over the table before the cheeky announcement from Finrod. “I told you he’d deny it. Pay up, you all lost the bet!”

“Wait! You all placed bets?”

“Yeah, but all you had to do was admit you were together and not lie. Now I have to pay both father and brother,” quarrelled Aegnor, “thanks a lot idiot.”

˖ ˚₊·͟͟͟͟͟͟͞͞͞͞͞͞➳❥ Galdor — the only reason this lovely quiet Lord would keep his relationship a secret would be to prevent the prying and mischievous eyes of his best buddies from making things clustering. Galdor had heard enough from the other Lords’ lovers that they were snoopy, and that was the last thing Galdor wanted. He wanted to love you on his own with any intervention.

All day he was in his study, busy with filling out orders for the upcoming spring festival and ensuring that his produce was healthy and in stock. You didn’t have to be in the room to know that he was tired and frantic hence your reason for visiting during the later hours of the evening when most of his work cleared up. Standing behind him and massaging his shoulders, you couldn’t help but lean in to give him a chaste kiss which escalated.

As sweet and chaste it was, you wanted another and leaned forward to capture his lips in another round of light kisses. You could feel Galdor melting into your touch and tell that he craved them just as much as you did. Turning to face you causing the kiss to deepen, there was the sound of the doorknob twisting and in walked Lord Ecthelion followed by the Egalmoth with awkward stares on their faces. As intruding they were, it was strange to witness their friend being romantic when he claimed he was single.

“So, which one of us won the bet?”

“I don’t believe any of us won. We all bet that he really didn’t have someone.”

“The both of you are aware that I can hear you right?” Snapping their head over to an irritated Galdor they lifted their hands to show their surrender, however, Galdor knew one would speak. The smirk on Egalmoth’s face spoke volumes since he was known for his gossiping tendencies.

“If word gets out, I’ll find you Egalmoth.”

“You want to keep it a secret? Why? We could be celebrating and getting drunk in your honour.”

Huffing, Galdor stood from his chair and rounded the desk to stand with his arms folded across his chest. “Because I will poison your food supply, that’s why. You are the worst at keeping secrets; I don’t trust you.”

“You want to bet that I can keep it a secret?”

“If you lose, I’ll really poison your food supply.”

Masterlist

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[earthshine-moon]

Fëanorians on The Great British Bake Off

We got Bake Off back tonight (fuck yes! bring on autumn!) and this concept has been swirling around in my mind for the last few hours

This is the long version but here’s the short one if you don’t want to read this much

Caranthir: he doesn’t have a creative talent like most elves (aside from tax evasion) but damn can he BAKE. He can’t decorate by any sense of the imagination but it’s impossible for him to bake anything that isn’t absolutely perfect

He’d make it about halfway but he’d be sent home when Paul and Prue realised his presentation wasn’t improving at all.

Maedhros: literally the complete opposite. Can’t bake, but he’s so good at decorating he could make a pile of uncooked batter look incredible. And he does.

Like he can follow a recipe exactly. Down to the last word. But it never works. He says that “some force from the unseen world intervenes at the last moment and everything falls apart”. It doesn’t. He just can’t bake

Honestly probably wouldn’t even make it past the application stage but if (by some miracle) he did, he’d be out first week. Everyone watching at home would be shouting at the GBBO twitter (X) account for sending home the gorgeous redhead so early

Maglor: I stand by what I said in the short version: he wouldn’t even be in the tent. He’s in a field somewhere composing music and singing.

But if they managed to drag him into the tent, he’d be pretty average at everything. He’d scrape through by the skin of his teeth until about the semi-finals.

He’d be best friends with Noel from the start.

Amrod and Amras: again, I stand by my statement: they’d be making something entirely different to the brief but whatever it is, it’s delicious.

But I’d also like to add that they would either refuse to do anything separately or would have their own mini competition going on between them. No middle ground

I’d like to think they’d win it simply because they can bake and decorate really well, but realistically they’d get thrown out before the second challenge was over

Celegorm and Curufin: the tent’s on fire. No one knows how

The only thing I will add to this is that I’ve just realised that this implies the tent set itself alight the second C&C stepped foot inside it. And that is very amusing to me

[imclimbingthestairsoforthanc]

Dance - Caranthir x Reader

Caranthir couldn't think of anything worse that being trapped on a picnic with you and his insufferable brothers, aside from missing out on some exquisite honey cakes.

Caranthir did not suppress the subtle shudder that coursed through him as he watched you split another one of Amrod’s arrows down the middle with the release of your own from his spot under the dancing boughs of the willow tree. The same caressing wind that lifted your pink dress around your ample thighs bit harshly at his face -  ruddy complexion deepening in the warmth of the afternoon and his clear disdain for the itinerary of the day. The heat was scorching - Caranthir could only imagine what kind of burn he would have later - and his heavy robes did him no favors. The grass tickled his legs even through his thick trousers, and, for the love of Eru, Maglor would not shut up. 

He couldn’t remember what made him agree to coming out here today with you and his brothers. He could only wish he could go back in time to take it back. 

Yes, Caranthir thought, he ought to have stayed home.

But it did him no good reminiscing about what he ought to have done. Even knowing what he knew now, he would have come out here. When you looked at him with those starry eyes and weaved a melody into your question while he watched you put those divine honey cakes you made into a basket for the outing in question, how could he refuse? Those honey cakes came to him few and far between, after all. Besides, Celegorm couldn’t have you all to himself.

Bitterness crept up Caranthir’s throat as he watched his silver-haired brother hold his arm out for your taking. Caranthir tried not to lock his eyes on the pair of you, staring with unnatural pointedness off into the distance. He turned his head the opposite direction when you hiked your skirts to sit criss-cross on the ground under the tree. 

Mindless chatter echoed about the branches above the bunch of you before slipping between the leaves on the tree with the whining wind - trivial things. Caranthir cared not about how you had begun to demonstrate excellence in your work, Yavanna even putting you on par with some of the Maian herbalists, or the new dress that you were having made - deep aqua green silk with golden embroidery on the sleeves and neckline and at the belt - and how it was sure to compliment your sublime figure, or about the suitors that lined themselves at your door. Those were not things he concerned himself with, was the lie he would mutter to himself later that night in the safety of his bedroom, looking a bit too closely at a half-finished sketch that Celegorm drew of you that simply must have gotten mixed up with Caranthir’s things. How else would that drawing end up in his room?

You opened the basket and reached for what was left of the foods you had brought. The honey cakes were gone, and all that was left was an assortment of cheeses and bread, and half the bottle of Alqualonde wine. Caranthir watched you closely as you took a sip straight from the bottle. 

“I don’t care for any of them,” you said after you finished describing your most recently admitted admirer - a burly fellow with an affinity for woodworking, but not really any skill of mind, “Ama says I need to take what I can get, that I have had fine fellows throw themselves at my feet and I ought to be grateful, and that if I don’t hurry up and choose all the eligible bachelors will stop bothering and I’ll end up alone, or with someone artless and maladroit.”

Caranthir averted his eyes. He wasn’t maladroit, and not entirely artless, though needlework wasn’t something that very many men of the Noldor pursued. In his wild fantasies, you would be latching onto his arm as you dismount your horse, alone with you under the willow tree and eating honey cakes while you teased him with your wine-stained lips. Suitors would not be part of the picture.

Maglor stopped his playing and snorted, “They’ve been offering themselves on a silver platter for your taking for a century. I hardly think they will stop now.”

Caranthir flinched when you barked out a harsh laugh. 

Once upon a time, your mother had wanted nothing more than for you to wed Maglor Feanorion. It was no lie that his dreamy charisma and tedious musical talent had attracted you to him in your younger years, but as you got older, you found yourself more than content to call yourself his friend. Your mother’s dismay was tangible when you told her you loved him only platonically. 

“Why does she want you married so badly, anyways?” asked Maedhros, previously reading quietly next to a napping Amras, “Does she want grandchildren?”

You shrugged, “I don’t know. I don’t see why she doesn’t pester my sister about it, if that’s the case. I’ve half a mind to pretend I’ve already got one, just don’t have someone to play the part.”

Caranthir repressed a scoff. Celegorm did a fine job of playing your lover, Caranthir thought bitterly. 

“Tell her you have chosen that ‘business man’ from the North,” said Maedhros, dryly, “Whatever business there is in the North.” 

You laughed, “When he told us that, I immediately had a terrible feeling about him. Father reached out to one of his kinsmen who has close ties with some of the Maiar in service to Lórien - perhaps they can place what is wrong with him there. Surely he is a mad man.”

“And she believes it is only eligible bachelors that are pursuing you,” Maglor remarked. He had begun to play a merry tune on his lute. When you suggested a dance, Caranthir wished Maglor would go back to playing the disorganized plucking he called practice. 

Celegorm was the first to stand to his feet, bold and confident but nonetheless a terrible dancer. His movements were brutish, clumsy, and uncoordinated. Nerdanel had tried her hardest to teach her sons to dance, but she was no dancer herself. It was Curufin, surprisingly, who had been most successful, and it was Curufin whom your mother paid to try to teach you. Your mother had begrudged your dancing abilities and did everything in her power to see that they improved. You were by no means a good dancer, even Curufin unable to get rid of your second left foot, but there was no denying that Caranthir had seen something faeish about your movements. 

There was something in the midst of the awkward dance between you and his fair-haired brother that Caranthir wanted more than anything. 

Well, almost anything.

When Celegorm retired underneath the tree to assist Amrod in making up crude lyrics to Maglor’s tune you were left without a dance partner - Maglor being the means of the music and Maedhros and Curufin none too keen to leave their seats on the thick clover grass. Caranthir, though in his fantasies was bold enough to extend his hand to you for a dance and lucky enough for you to take it, would not do so and risk having his brother’s ridicule him. He would not risk being mocked for satisfying the yearning that plastered itself so blatantly on his face; he had been lucky so far - only Maglor had cut his eyes in Caranthir’s direction when someone mentioned your romantic life. He almost hoped that you would call out to him in your honeyed voice - Caranthir, come and dance with me! - but you did not. He supposed it was for the better; he couldn’t imagine the humiliation of the very object of his desires calling him out on his cowardice. 

Caranthir didn’t know whether to be dismayed or delighted when you did just that - called out to him. The fireworks that erupted in his chest seemed to simultaneously force his heart to the bottom of his stomach when your delicate hands firmly hauled him to his feet by his wrist. He heard Celegorm snicker and saw Maedhros raise a coppery eyebrow out of the corner of his eye, but he dared not look back. 

He scrambled to recall the steps that he had been taught as a teenager all those years ago, but they were nothing but passive details in a blurred memory. Fortunately for him, you did not seem to care about the accuracy of the movement, only the exhilaration of the dance.

The fourth son of Feanor had never quite placed what was so enjoyable about dancing. Watching a group of people dance was mundane and felt like watching mice solve a maze, and watching a couple felt intrusive. Dancing in a group felt as derogatory as being a mouse in a maze, and there were other things couples could spend time together doing that Caranthir could think of, dancing not being one of them. For example, he could take you to the gardens for scones and coffee, or on a peaceful outing to the bay, or a carriage ride. He could have you over for a private dinner: he would walk you from your home to his, bring you flowers and a gown that he did a much better job at than your current seamstress. Your favorite dinner foods would be prepared with the finest wine and served over candle light. Later, the dress he made for you would come off - 

He fought the urge to shake his head. 

“Isn’t this fun?” you said with an ever-radiant smile, loudly enough that he could hear it over Maglor’s lute but softly enough that his brother’s couldn’t.

He couldn’t help but turn his lips up and hum in agreement.

You hand had released his in favor of wrapping both arms around his neck, and Caranthir seemed to finally find the appropriate part of your waist to place his own hands. The proximity between the two of you had lessened as the dance had gone on, the two of you trying to keep somewhat in sync with the music and with each other proving too difficult when you were both so far away from one another. He had begun to loosen up at last, now able to relish in finally having you in his arms and enjoy the dance, without feeling uneasy at the presence of his brothers in the background. 

He had listened to Maglor’s music often enough to know when his older brother was nearly finished with the song, and he dreaded releasing you from his hold and hated the uncertainty of what came next. Celegorm would be quick to find his place next to you once Caranthir sat back down, and he would have no choice but to return to his brooding and private fantasizing. You had spoiled him with your touches - they were ever too real. He could not bring himself to let go of your perfect silhouette, made just for him and most certainly not for his brother, no matter how pretty Celegorm was. Once his reality, the absence of your hands on his nape toying with his inky hair was an unimaginable torment. He couldn’t look away from your glistening eyes - deep and dilated and enchanting - or your upturned lips that beckoned him closer by the moment. He simply couldn’t not kiss you.

The realization of what he’d done hit him when Maglor dropped his lute and Celegorm snorted. 

“I didn’t think you had it in you, Moryo,” said Celegrom, clearly having taken the liberty in ensuring the rest of the wine didn’t go to waste.

Caranthir darkened at his words. He turned back when you whispered his name and found you looking at him with a starry expression, leaning closer and tilting your head to the side slightly. His resolve broke when you parted your lips. Caranthir’s mouth met yours with movements a bit uncertain but with intention nonetheless. When the kiss deepened he angled the two of you so that his taller frame shielded you from his pestering brothers as Celegorm and the Ambarussar childishly hooted and hollered. Heat surged through his veins when you hummed in his mouth, spurring him on. He had found you ever so enticing, your searing touch only a part of his wild imagination that had him fervently whispering your name in the dead of night. His every desire had finally come to be. 

Yes, he thought, dancing certainly had an appeal of its own. 

It was a good thing he was so fond of those honey cakes.

[eccentricmya]

The Second Killing

"We lost."

It was Caranthir who voiced it. The stark truth uncoated with unnecessary emotions.

Maedhros chuckled at the brevity of this opener for the long overdue post-battle briefing they had gathered that day for. Those two words indeed encapsulated the whole battle.

"We were never meant to win," Maedhros said, yet another truth bared.

That had Maglor shaking his head in immediate denial, "Nay, we had hope. United we had stood a chance."

Ah. There it was. As much as you could trust Caranthir to strip feelings from his practical analysis, you could just as much trust Maglor to add them instead. And his feelings on the battle were evidently still revolving around the traitor he had slew in single combat. As was natural.

"A chance yes," Maedhros agreed with a tilt of his head, "but not at winning."

Amras scoffed, "then what?" He stalked back into the study from his perch on the balustrade of the adjoining balcony. The view from there was the best Amon Ereb had to offer, or so the twins had claimed when they had showed him his new study. Though, to Maedhros, it still paled in comparison to even the most uninspiring sight Himring had provided.

"Why did we throw everything at the enemy if we had no chance at winning?" Amras questioned, coming to stand beside where Amrod was seated in front of the cold hearth. "Why go through this farce of a 'Union' if you believed unity too would be futile against the wretchedness of that blasted Vala?"

"If not even the combined might of all of free Beleriand can make a dent in the enemy's forces, then why go to the gates of Angband and seek death?" Amrod added, the quiet of his rasp a sharp contrast to the agitated voice of his twin, even as he echoed the other's sentiment.

Maedhros didn't answer, he refused to. Instead, he fixed his glare on the ones who shared the blame with him, who had hatched a plan behind closed doors and persuaded him to allow a cover for their folly. They shifted in their seats by the window under his glower, the silence stretching longer until the rest of their brothers followed his line of sight to the two co-conspirators. Celegorm was the first to break under the added scrutiny; "it was a distraction," he said and no more.

When no words were forthcoming anymore, Caranthir lost his placid expression and his face turned red in exasperation. "For what?" he asked in annoyance, "do not tell me it was for the Silmarils."

Sarcastic his tone might have been, but their most astute brother had once again stuck true, making Curufin bristle. "You do not tell me that you did not feel the Oath stirring when that half-breed and her pet mortal stole our father's jewel yet again!"

Another uncomfortable silence took hold of them after Curufin's words, for they all had felt the chains of their vow clinking as the Silmaril had left the confines of Morgoth's crown. Maglor was right on one account: there had indeed been hope before the battle. Hope that a Silmaril could be stolen back from Morgoth—the sole pillar their mad plan had relied on. If their mere idea of pulling such a stunt could be called a plan, that is. With Curufin's adamant refusal to involve Maglor as their lullaby singer—which Maedhros had supported, though not for the reason of Maglor possessing 'a weaker disposition' but rather because he had not wished to place the burden of such a pivotal role on the bard's shoulders—their plan had depended on Celegorm being an uncanny marksman and Curufin having a distractingly similar appearance to their father, along with Maedhros' ability to goad Morgoth into emerging from his iron fortress.

None of that had come to pass, perhaps for the better. Maedhros had not let it show then, but his faith in his brothers' capability to execute this monumental feat had been minimal, especially after what they had done in Nargothrond. But they had made compelling arguments, so he had given in at last, urged by the desire to see Morgoth without the bejewelled crown he had mocked him with during his captivity. The aftermath of this battle, though, made him believe more and more strongly that this desire of his, too, shall remain unfulfilled.

"So all those countless lives… all those tears unnumbered of our people… they were a mere distraction for the Silmarils?"

The horrified disbelief in Maglor's voice cut deep inside Maedhros. Oh, what he wouldn't give to reassure his brother that 'no, your Nelyo has not stooped so low as to lead our people under false pretences to serve as bait'. But he had. Maedhros had done exactly that. There was no use in pretending otherwise.

So when he steeled himself to meet Maglor's eyes, it was to utter one final facticity. "The people will know this battle as a failed stand against the enemy. Our greatest loss amidst debilitating treachery," Maedhros said wryly. "But only we would be aware that the true treachery was committed long before Ulfang and his ilk turned coat. Only we would know that the battle was fought not for freedom but for the Silmarils. Only we would be privy to the secret… that the Nirnaeth Arnoediad was, in truth, the second killing of elf by elf."

[polutrope]

🦤 a quote you had to delete :( (but still wanna share!)

Thank you for the ask!

Here's a flashback scene I cut from the latest chapter of And Love Grew, of the murderbrothers discussing their decision to attack Sirion. It got away from me and the character motives I'd already committed to, but I think it's still a cool scene.

~

“How many times?” Amrod cried. “How many times must she refuse us before you will rouse yourself to action?”

He had railed for minutes. Dornil, arms steepled and knotted in front of her mouth to conceal any sign of emotion, had watched Maedhros, silent and enduring at the head of a table in the neglected council chamber of Amon Ereb. The tapestries, those that had not been thrown into the hearthfire in a fit of rage at the past they recalled, were frayed and faded. The stone walls were rimed with ash. They had not been cleaned since Doriath.

When his brother paused for breath, Maedhros said, “Be seated.” Amrod seethed a moment, hesitating, then obeyed. “We have not given up hope of reclaiming the Silmaril by means of negotiation.”

“How long until Morgoth sends his legions against them?” Amrod persisted. “How long before it falls back into his hands?”

“The Enemy is bound by no Oath to reclaim the jewel,” Maedhros explained, edged with only a hint of impatience. “Moreover his power does not extend so far as Sirion. Ulmo still guards those waters else the haven would have been taken years ago. By all reports the settlement thrives. Morgoth will wait until the time is ripe.”

Amras had sat silent and sullen since their counsel began, but now he spoke. “You do not know his mind.”

The lash of his words was palpable. Maedhros snapped. “I know his mind far better than any of you here.”

Perhaps, thought Dornil. But where had it led them? Maedhros’ professed knowledge of the Enemy’s counsels, his consolation for years of torment, had brought them nothing but ruin and disgrace.

“We need not fight them,” Dornil said. She lowered her arms. “The people of Sirion — of Nargothrond, Doriath, Gondolin — will know a force too great to resist when they see it. They have all suffered defeat. Dior was stubborn, his daughter is stubborn. She is too young to remember. But that is not true of all her people. When they see our strength, they will surrender.”

“And if they do not?” Maglor challenged when she had finished — not unkindly, but in the way of father, or a teacher, coaxing a thought to fullness.

“Then we will answer,” Dornil said. It was not the answer he wanted to hear, but sometimes a teacher must learn from his pupil. An elder from his junior. This Maglor understood well.

“Maedhros,” Maglor said. “We cannot risk losing more of our people.”

“You mean more of your brothers?” Amras cut in before Maedhros could answer. “You mean us?”

Maglor’s head snapped to him. “I mean our people.”

“No,” Maedhros said, as if to himself, “you do not.” He raised his voice. “And you are right. There are warriors among them also, and it takes only one blade, one arrow, to end a life. We all believe we will pass in glory, against a foe far greater than us. Was Caranthir not shot down by archers skulking in trees? Did Curufin not end upon the knife of an unarmoured Sinda queen? Was Celegorm not felled by a half-mortal king scarcely out of his youth?” Each of these names flew from his tongue like a lance, all the sharper for how infrequently he spoke of them. “I will not have that life be any of yours.”

“Then you will need to restrain us,” Amrod said. “For we go to Sirion with or without your support. Brother.”

Dornil felt herself go taut.

But Maedhros was unaffected. “Yes. I thought you might say that.”

“Then restrain them!” Maglor cried, eyes flashing at his twin brothers. “If they are set on madness, is it wrong to do so?”

Swift as a snake, Amras lunged. His fist hit Maglor’s jaw. A moment later, blood pooled at the corner of Maglor’s mouth. He wiped it away with the back of his palm.

Maedhros did not move, did not speak. He did nothing.

Dornil burned with defensive fury. She knew she was not alone among the assembled captains. Too often of late they had witnessed their lords strike against each other — with blows or words, the difference was slight. The sons of Fëanor were fracturing, calving ice floes on which they, their followers, were helplessly adrift.

“A person may be bound and shut behind bars,” said Maedhros at last. “But an oath such as ours cannot be restrained. Four of us who swore that Oath remain. Two are set on pursuing its fulfillment through threat of violence, or violence indeed if it should come to that. My heart at present does not agree with this course of action. But if my brothers tell me, as you do, that our father’s Oath is now stronger than the one you swore to follow me, I cannot keep you from it. Is it this that drives you?”

“Yes,” Amrod said without hesitation.

[lordgrimwing]

Teasing #02

[For C+C week hosted by @candcweek. Prompt: loyalty -- kind of, I tried]

The first snow fell in the late afternoon, blanketing everything in a thin layer of white that reflected the last rays of light. A glass prism hanging just inside one of the windows of the snow-dusted house gleamed in the light, spreading a burst of colors around the living room. 

Curufin sat on the heavy rug in the middle of the dancing light. “Oh!” He said in a delighted whisper. “Look at all the rainbows, Brimby.”

A black-haired baby rested in his arms. Swaddled in the same cloth his grandparents wrapped his uncles in, Celebrimbor was snug and warm and halfway asleep already. His little eyes opened slowly at the words, and he blinked blearily up at the red, green, and blue sparkles on the ceiling. 

The lights were interesting enough to pull the baby back from the edge of sleep. Blinking twice more, he opened his little pink mouth. His father grinned, constantly thrilled by any of his gurgles or burbles. This time, he blew a little spit bubble. It sat on his lips for several seconds before popping.

Curufin leaned down and nuzzled their noses together softly. Celebrimbor giggled. 

“I take it all back,” Celegorm said in a lazy tone, lounging by the popping fire in the hearth and scratching looping designs into a long bone (from a small deer or maybe a large goat) with the tip of his belt knife. “He couldn’t possibly be anyone else’s kid.” 

At the start of the year, the entire family had wordlessly agreed that the fifth son was more than a little crazy when he rode home with Mirioneth from town and announced proudly that she’d be the mother of his kid before long. The repeated reminder that she worked as a prostitute and might be having anyone’s baby fell on deaf ears. Curufin never wavered. 

In an uncharacteristic show of restraint, Celegorm kept his doubts to himself, or at least to between himself and the animals he spent most of his time with—he thought he ought to keep himself as a neutral shoulder for his favorite brother to cry on when the baby was born and revealed to not be his. He hadn’t thought for a moment that Curufin would be vindicated in the end. Yet, after the baby (a little boy with wispy black hair who screamed louder than his mother when he came out) was washed and fed and sleeping soundly, Fëanor took one look at him and said there was no denying that he was part of the family.

Curufin was so delighted with his son’s noises that he didn’t notice the sly jibe in his brother’s words. 

“Yes you are,” He said in a high-pitched voice usually reserved for particularly cute, hapless lambs or kids. “You’re my little boy. Aren’t you? My little Brimby.” The words dissolved into bubbly noises.

Celegorm rolled his eyes and bit down on a smile. He didn’t understand his brother’s obsession but a nagging feeling at the back of his mind warned him to not joke about it too much because once the baby was a little less delicate, he might love being an uncle just as much as his brother loved being a father. He recalled the way Maedhros and Maglor held and played with tiny Amras and Amrod when they were born (he’d been thirteen and more interested in the new responsibilities he was given than in looking after the babies). Vaguely, from the deepest recesses of his mind, he remembered Pa sitting him in his lap and helping him carefully hold new-born Curufin—he was so nervous and excited to have a little brother (Carathir didn’t count because they were only a handful of months apart).

“Curufin.”

Celegorm’s eyes jumped over to the sole armchair placed near the fire. Celebrimbor’s mother sat knitting a painfully slow scarf. Her expression was pinched and unhappy. 

“He’ll stay up crying if you rile like that,” She said.

“What do you know?” Celegorm shot back before anyone else could respond. He straightened up so that he could glare at her easter. The knife bounced in his hand as he pointed it at her. “You don’t care about him. You’re just here to feed him.”

“Don’t tell us what to do,” Caranthir snapped at her from the other side of the room where he was helping the twins warp table looms in the fading light. 

“Caranthir!”

The brothers flinched. Celegorm hastily put his knife away.

Nerdanel loomed out of the darkness in the hall to her and Fëanor’s room, hair half-undone from her braids for the evening. Her ire and flyaway hair seemed to fill half the room. 

“Sorry, Ma.” Caranthir ducked his head, already chastised for his rudeness. That didn’t stop his mother from laying on more, though she restrained her volume thanks to the nearby baby. The others kept their eyes averted, hoping to avoid drawing her attention to their own behavior. Curufin even hushed burbling Celebrimbor, rocking him gently until he quieted and yawned.

When she finished, Caranthir’s face was red with embarrassment. He turned to Mirioneth and, sounding sincere, apologized for what he said. She awkwardly forgave him, no doubt uncomfortable with how they were all looking at her.

Satisfied, Nerdanel turned to Amrod and Amras. “The light’s too poor to work on that anyway. Put those away and clear the table before going to sleep.” To Curufin and Mirioneth she said, “It’s high past time for Celebrimbor to be sleeping if you want any kind of a restful night. Take him to bed.” Her direction for everyone to be in bed before the end of the hour went unsaid but fully understood.

Caranthir helped the ten-year-olds tidy up their threads and move the looks. While their mother was assuredly still listening, Celegorm politely asked Mirioneth if she needed anything before she and Curufin retired; she was a guest after all. Caranthir shot him an annoyed look. She declined, shoved her knitting into a bag, and hurried to the unwed parents’ room, made private by evicting the twins and moving them to the open spot with Celegorm and Caranthir. 

(The rearranging of sleeping rooms was a sore spot for several months but they’d all gotten used to it. Caranthir insisted the twins were better roommates than everyone else in the house.)

Amrod and Amras excused themselves to run out to the barn with a lantern to say goodnight to the sheep. In short order, Caranthir and Celegorm found themselves alone in the quiet living room.

“So,” Caranthir said, face finally returning to a normal color. “Do you think she’ll try to run tonight?”

Celegorm considered the dark windows. “First snow, new moon, no clear road to follow. She’d be foolish to try.”

“So I should hide her shoes, just in case.”

The blond grinned like one of his dogs. “We’ll get Amrod to say he did it if anyone wonders.”

“Right.”

With that, Celegorm went back to work on his bone.

[theworldisquietheretooquiet]

Hi! I don't know which characters you like to write so here's a few options for the Silm Prompts: Nerdanel & Indis (or just one of them) + forsaking the past Tuor/Voronwe + seeking the unknown Beren/Luthien (or just one of them) + joyful labours any character(s) + Havens of Sirion + unlearn in bitterness

Thank you!!

I decided to do the last two :)

I headcanon that Amras (& Amrod) were killed by the rebelling Feanorians at the 3rd kinslaying so wanted to explore that!

The first is 559 words. The second is 731, and cw - kinslayingesque violence, mention of beheading

Beren/Luthien + joyful labours

The mewling cry of an infant cuts through the peaceful quiet of Tol Galen. Beren groans and flops face down onto his pillow, pressing it around his ears.

It is the third time this night Dior has awoken. And the moon has not even reached its full height. He groans once more and then a third time. For dramatic effect.

His Tinúviel laughs, warm in her exasperation. “I know,” she says sympathetically. Then she picks up her pillow and whacks him with no little force on the back of his legs.

“I went last time, so, hmm whose go is it now? Let me think… Ah yes! It is the turn of Beren Erchamion, Beren Camlost, the son of Barahir, the hunter of Carcharoth, Bëor’s heir –” Lúthien punctuates each title with a thwack of her pillow.

“Ok, ok!” He laughs despite himself, and pushes up from the bed, edging away from his wife and her merciless use of cushions.

He walks out the room shaking his head in fond annoyance as Lúthien makes a great show of curling snugly up under the covers.

“You won’t be so smug when you have to hear my attempts at a lullaby!” He calls over his shoulder. There is, predictably, no answer.

Beren enters his son’s room and makes his way over to Dior’s cradle. His usually adorable face is red and scrunched up in miniscule rage, and his tiny mouth is open in an indignant cry.

Beren smiles as he reaches down and picks him up, moving the mobile out of the way as he does. It is an exceedingly beautiful one, made up of intricately carved nightingales. It had arrived the day of Dior’s birth, before they had even sent word to Menegroth. That and the fact he swears he hears the birds singing whenever he looks away, makes him suspect the Queen of Doriath may have had a hand in this gift.

Beren begins to pace the length of the room, gently rocking Dior, and humming to him a little.

“I know, I know, my voice isn’t a patch on your mother’s.” He murmurs. “But we Edain can’t rely on magic songs all the time, dearest. We had to come up with actual techniques for calming upset babes.”

His son shows what he thinks of the talents of the Secondborn by beginning to howl louder. Beren sighs and after a moment of thought, begins to make his way outside. The night is warm, and this way Lúthien may be able to get a little rest. The stars seem to shine brighter here than anywhere else he has ever known, and he is pleased to see his son calm a little in their silver glow.

Of course, the child of Lúthien Tinúviel is never quiet for long and soon enough he begins to cry again. Beren groans and sets off, walking around and around the courtyard.

He is so tired he could sleep standing up and he lets out a gigantic yawn. He startles as an answering little giggle rings through the night air and looks down in amazement to see that Dior is no longer wailing, but instead emitting joyful hiccupping laughs.

The sound is so infectious Beren begins to chuckle himself. It is an exhausted and slightly hysterical laugh, but it is also so, so full of love.  

any character(s) + Havens of Sirion + unlearn in bitterness

Gweririen looks at Lord Amras.

She had looked at him first as a child, when he and some of his brothers had been leading an archery class in Formenos.

Celegorm and Amrod had clearly not wished to be there. She remembers how flustered their cutting criticism and laughs had made her as she fumbled with the bow and arrow. But Amras had bent down beside her and spoken softly.

“Pay no heed to them. Why, I remember Prince Turcafinwë once missing a shot on a hunt because of a sneeze!”

She had laughed shyly and allowed him to demonstrate the correct way to hold the bow and aim. She had gotten her first bullseye that day.

Gweririen had looked at him in Alqualondë as she plunged her sword into the Teleri woman’s back. He’d been disarmed and knocked down, his attacker approaching, fishing spear raised. Amras’ eyes were wide in shock and thanks as he got to his feet, grasping her arm in gratitude.

“I am in your debt. Come, I believe the victory is nearly ours and I want you by my side on the first boat across the Sea.”

She had followed him back into the fray and to this day, no matter how hard she tries, she cannot remember if she had glanced at the splayed, silver haired corpse even once.

She had looked at him in dulled surprise when he made his way to her, amidst the chaos and carnage of that terrible battle. She had been sitting for how long she did not know in the mud and filth, cradling her son’s body.

He had kneeled there with her, in the churned earth, and slowly peeled her bloodstained hands away from where she clutched her son’s shoulders.

“Gweririen, I am sorry. I am so very sorry. But we must go now. The field is lost, perhaps we are all lost. I do not know.” He had looked at her and his eyes had been so dark. She had barely been able to discern the echo of Tree light. “We are retreating, my brothers and I. Come, let us flee.”

Gweririen had looked at him as they had sat around a fire, camped a little way from Menegroth’s eastern border. Amras’ hair had glowed dark red in the light, and she had gazed at him long before speaking.

“My Lord, I council you again to reconsider this assault. Yes, Thingol’s folk and the boy king have no right to the jewel, and they have aided us so little in our war. But if we follow through with this cowardly attack, creeping into their home in the dark and cold? I fear your House will be forever sundered from all the Eldar. Surely that can only harm our aims, in this Valar-forsaken land?”

He was silent for so long; she had been sure she would receive no response. But then –

“Pass me my sword, Gweririen, if you please. I believe it must be sharpened.”

She had looked at him only once before making her way to Lord Maedhros. He had already removed the heads of two of Celegorm’s servants. The third of those who had led Dior’s sons to their deaths, stood upright still, though he stared at the floor.

“My Lord,” she said, and he turned to her, his eyes dull and hollow. “May I do it?”

After a long moment, Maedhros had nodded jerkily, dropped his sword, and walked away. Amras had not looked at her after and she’d been glad.

Gweririen looks at Lord Amras.

The crashing waves can barely be heard over the clash of steel and the screams. She is so very tired of hearing Elven screams.

“Gweririen, I want you to search every house for Elwing’s sons. No matter which way this battle goes, they will be invaluable in our aim.”

She looks at him. This is not a battle; the woman whose blood is dripping off his sword had attempted to defend her house with a lantern. They do not have an aim; they are here to feed their oath with a little more slaughter so it will give them peace for perhaps five years or even ten.

As he turns away from her to deliver more orders, she reaches for her bow. As she notches the arrow and aims at Amras’ chest, her shot is exactly as he taught her.

[grey-gazania]

Six Sentence Not-Sunday

Tagged by the lovely @welcomingdisaster, who asked me to post a whole scene rather than 6 sentences!

From the Feanorian-child-observing-Elrond-and-Elros ficlet:

I didn’t know, when my father readied himself for battle and rode west with our lords, whether or not he would return. My mother, who was spared from going to the Havens of Sirion by her bad leg, tried to assure my brother and me that he would come home to us, but while Nelmir, only eight years old, was easily convinced, I was more skeptical. I was forty, not a small child anymore, and I was old enough to remember how many of our soldiers had been lost in the attack on Doriath.

Doriath was where my mother had been crippled.

Pretend, Ólloth, Nana had pleaded when I finally confronted her with my doubts. Pretend for your brother's sake. So I pretended, though my heart was sick with worry.

We were lucky; though the group that returned from the Havens of Sirion was much smaller than the group that had set out, my father was among them – wounded, yes, but blessedly alive. Nana didn’t let us see him right away – she left me in our rooms to mind Nelmir – but once Ada’s injuries had been treated, she brought him up, and my brother and I greeted him with enthusiasm.

I didn’t need to ask whether we had succeeded in reclaiming the Silmaril. The looks on Lord Maedhros and Lord Maglor’s faces when they had led the party back to Amon Ereb, missing over half their soldiers and Lords Amrod and Amras, had been confirmation in and of themselves. This attempt had ended in failure, just like Doriath.

I wondered if we even had the strength left to try again.

But I didn’t ask; my brother was in the room with me, and he knew little of our lords’ quest to regain Prince Fëanor’s most wondrous creations. He was too young, my parents said, to comprehend the full weight of the quest and the Oath that drove it. And they were probably right. I had been Nelmir’s age when my parents had gone to war against the thief Dior in Doriath, and at the time my own understanding of the event had been patchy and uncertain. Ada and Nana had explained things to me gradually as I’d grown older and become more capable of grasping subtleties.

I had always known that Morgoth and his monstrous servants were our enemies, but it had taken some time for me to understand that, though they were elves like us, the Iathrim, too, were our foes.

My brother clearly wanted to regale our father with everything that had happened while he had been away, but Ada was wounded and tired, and soon Nana was ushering my brother from the room.

“Why does Ólloth get to stay?” I heard Nelmir demand in a petulant whine just as Nana closed the door. But our mother’s response was too muffled to be understood.

“You didn’t get it, did you?” I asked quietly, once it sounded as though Nelmir was out of earshot.

Ada shook his head and tried to sit up a little straighter, wincing at the pain in his injured arm.

“No,” he said, and his exhaustion was audible. “Elwing cast herself into the sea with the jewel. It’s lost to us, for now.”

It seemed that the princess of the Iathrim was even more foolish than her father had been. Not only had she refused to negotiate with our lords, she hadn’t even sent the gem elsewhere the way Dior had. And she’d chosen to destroy herself rather than yield the Silmaril to its rightful owners. Though I had never met the woman, I couldn’t help viewing her with disdain.

“For now?” I asked. “You think it could be recovered some day?”

Ada glanced at the door and then lowered his voice, as though he was worried Nelmir might have his ear pressed against the keyhole. “We didn’t come back completely empty-handed,” he said. “Elwing left her sons behind, and Lord Maedhros and Lord Maglor took them as hostages. The hope is that if anyone near the Havens or on Balar finds the Silmaril, they’ll trade it for their princes’ safe return.”

“Elwing’s sons are here?” I said, feeling as though the world had just rocked beneath my feet. “How old are they?” I didn’t think they could be all that old, as Elwing had been a small child when our lords had gone to war with Doriath. 

“Six, apparently,” Ada said. “But they’re only half-elven, so who knows what that means. They act like they’re a little older than your brother.” He shifted against the pillows, clearly seeking a more comfortable position, and I reached out to help him. As I leaned closer, I caught a whiff of the healing herbs that Melloth must have used to cleanse his wound.

“You’ll meet them tomorrow,” Ada continued. “Lord Maglor is going to leave them in your care for part of the morning, while you watch Nelmir and Arthoron. Hopefully they’ll make friends. My lords don’t intend to mistreat the boys in any way. They only want to keep them here until the Silmaril is found. But you mustn’t tell your brother the details, do you understand, Ólloth? He’s too young to grasp what’s going on.”

“Of course, Ada,” I reassured him. “My lips are sealed.”

But I had to admit, I was curious about these half-elven princes of the Iathrim, and I wondered how quickly they would adapt to life at Amon Ereb. We were a single keep, and our people numbered less than two hundred now. We hunted, and fished, and farmed enough grain and herded enough sheep to keep us fed and clothed, but we had no city nor ocean fleet like the elves at the Havens of Sirion. We had no allies, either. I wondered if the boys would be able to adjust to our kind of life, a life lived in the margins.

Tagging @sallysavestheday, @thelordofgifs, @elfscribe, @polutrope, @leucisticpuffin, @emyn-arnens, @ermingarden, @hhimring, @eleneressea, @nelyoslegalteam, @zealouswerewolfcollector, and anyone else who wants to join in - @ me and say I tagged you!

[fuckingfinwions]

going back to the institutionalized/dehumanized a/b/o verse

"I wish I could do something better for Amrod", Maedhros said.

"He'll be home in a couple days," Fingon replied, and began rubbing his omega's shoulder soothingly. "No one will hurt him, with Feanor and Amras there to watch over him."

"Maybe not, but heat is still terrible without a bondmate."

“He’ll be fine, that’s what the heat hotels are for. And your father did a good job of navigating you through them; even got you bred by your bondmate in advance.” Fingon nipped at Maedhros's ear.

Maedhros whined, then asked, "What were the heat hotels like, for you?"

"No anywhere near as good as having a bondmate. So obviously designed by betas, with more concern about keeping alphas from causing problems than about pleasure in my time there. Overall, a bit of a tease."

"A tease?"

“Definitely. There’s this nice handsome omega, dripping with slick, and I only get to knot them once. Right at the moment my knot’s gone down enough to bask in the afterglow, maybe play with their cock or work a finger in their hole alongside my cock, I’m pulled away to another omega. There’s no time for anything but the most basic sex, the omega can’t suck my balls or lick my knot because they’re too desperate to get fucked, and their mouth is covered beside. The gags mean I can’t even tell them what I want to do to them, and can barely hear their reaction. Do you know, before we bonded I thought you were quiet in bed?”

“I just prefer to use words rather than the garbled whining you can make around a gag.”

“Yes, you’re very articulate in heat.” Fingon teased. “Begging for my cock, or sometimes just ‘more’ but you can’t think of what. Still much hotter than just lying there silently.”

“I wasn’t trying to make you say how glad you are that we’re bonded.”

“I am though. Were you trying to get me turned on? Because you did that too.”

“No. I want to tell you it was like at the heat hotel for me.”

“Hmm, and you don’t expect talking about how you got pounded to turn me on?”

“It might, but I need you to understand. Especially since Amrod still has to go there.”

“All right I’m listening.”

“The heat hotel was better than being left alone in a room, I suppose. But I was in an unfamiliar place every time, smelling of nothing until I’d been there long enough for it to smell of a dozen strange alphas. It never quite satisfied, to have an alpha show up for an hour or so. Sure, a knot chased away the worst of the heat, but I couldn’t relax at all, couldn't let go and just experience the moment; I was always aware that this alpha would abandon me and a new alpha was about to come through the door. The closest it came to being good was when I was bred there, knowing for once that this had a purpose.”

"That does sound bad." Fingon placed his hand around Maedhros's neck, feeling the pulse and reassuring Maedhros that he definitely belonged to the alpha now, whatever had happened in the past. "Would it have helped to have your own bedding? Or to have a friend in the room, rather than the hall? Amras does go along as another guardian, and I think Feanor has given up on him not seeing sex."

"A familiar scent might help? I'd have all these strange alphas in space that felt like mine, so it would be more invasive but less disorienting. And I doubt a beta in the room would help at all."

"Well, I won't give you up even for a week, so Amrod unfortunately can't have a familiar omega in the room."

Maedhros nodded. "I can bundle up his sheets and such next time, so they don't have your scent on them and annoy the alphas."

"Good idea. You also can't go because any alpha who saw you in a heat hotel would go for you first, and Amrod would never even get knotted." Fingon pulled Maedhros into his lap.

"Fingon! Be serious, Amrod would be in heat and naked and I'd be fully clothed."

"Just like his first heat, where I pinned you to the floor while Amrod whined in emptiness twenty feet away."

"We're bonded, it's different."

Fingon paused for a moment and adopted an expression of deep thoughtfulness, then shook his head. "Nope. You're simply that hot." Fingon dragged Maedhros's tunic off. "The absolutely-" Fingon nipped Maedhros's collarbone and trailed lower "most" bite "fuckable" bite "omega" bite "in all" bite "the world" Fingon reached Maedhros's nipple and held on.

Maedhros moaned, and was very thoroughly distracted from worrying over Amrod.

__

Fingon didn't forget what Maedhros had said though. He came up with a plan to make Amrod's next heat better, and shared it with Maedhros.

Maedhros was a bit concerned, but it really did seem like it would comfort their son. And if Amrod didn't like it, he could always go back to the heat hotel the next time.

Fingon told Amrod to come to him or Maedhros at the start of his next heat, not Amras or Feanor. The rest of the details would wait - best for Amrod not to worry too much in advance.

__

"Fingon Ada?" Amrod knocked on the door frame as he entered the courtyard.

Fingon had been climbing the oak tree, but swung down at Amrod's call. "What is it? - Oh little omega, you are so sweet and ready."

Fingon had obviously figured it out as soon as he got downwind of Amrod, but Amrod nodded anyway. "I'm in heat, and you said to tell you before I go the heat hotel with my guardians."

"That's right. We're doing something different this time for your heat." Fingon took Amrod's hand and led him into the house. "Maedhros is going to bring some of your bedding so it smells like you."

Amrod followed; Fingon's explanation covered why they weren't going to Amrod's own bedroom, but were instead entered the master suite.

Maedhros was reading in front of the fire. "Hello Fingon. Hello Amrod." He set his book down to kiss Fingon on the lips.

Fingon raised his free hand to the back of Maedhros's head, and didn't let him up until they were both gasping for air. "Amrod's in heat again. Bring his pillows in here."

"Yes Alpha."

"Good boy."

Amrod bit his own lip to keep from moaning. He tried to ignore that he was holding the hand of a half naked alpha - Fingon didn't wear a tunic to exercise - in the alpha's bedroom. But it was difficult when Fingon kept saying things like that, even if not to him. Amrod was so focused on controlling himself that he didn't even notice where he was walking until he was backed up against the bed. "Ada?"

"Shh, no need to worry my omega. I'm here."

"Why did you take me to your bed?" It smelled good, the familiar scents of Amrod's parents mingled with sex. But Amrod didn't want to relax in it when any minute he'd be told to climb in the carriage and go to the heat hotel.

"I told you we're doing something different this heat. You're my omega, and I'm going to fuck you and knot you as much as you need. No strange places, no parade of unfamiliar alphas."

Amrod blushed. "What about Maedhros?"

"He'll be back soon with your bedding. And then in a nest of all our scents you can let go and let me claim you."

Amrod instinctively tilted his head back, though the thick leather collar meant his neck wasn't actually bare for the alpha to bite and bond. "He won't mind?"

"Why should he? He'll be here the whole time, and can watch me take care of our son. Now strip and lay down."

Amrod pulled off his outer robe, but the laces on his tunic seemed to have tangled into one giant snarl, and he fumbled with it for several seconds.

"Nevermind that, we can take off your top when I'm inside you." Fingon instead reached for Amrod's crotch, unfastening his pants in seconds and brushing against his dick.

Amrod whined, and Fingon reach further back, fingers dipping between Amrod's cheeks.

"You're so wet for me, practically dripping and you haven't even seem my cock yet."

"I want to. I want your cock alpha, want you to push me down and breed me. Knot my hole and fill me up until I'm bursting."

Fingon growled and shoved two fingers inside Amrod. "Oh, I will. But I told you to get on the bed. Lay on your back and spread your legs." Fingon pulled his fingers out and gave a sharp swat to Amrod's ass.

Amrod scrambled back quickly and tried to get in position. His half removed pants still stuck around his knees stopped him for a moment, and Amrod blushed as he took them off all the way. Then he spread as far he could, knees bent and feet braced against the bed to show his hole to his alpha. He raised his face forward to see whether Fingon liked it.

"Absolutely gorgeous," Fingon said. He pushed Amrod's tunic up to his armpits and bit his belly.

"Did I miss anything interesting?" Maedhros asked with amusement as he walked in carrying nearly a dozen pillows.

"Not at all, you're just in time for the main event." Fingon pulled off his own trousers, revealing his hard cock with the knot already visibly enlarged at the base.

Amrod moaned.

"He is magnificent, isn't he?" Maedhros said. "Just relax though, and our alpha will take good care of you."

Fingon walked up to the bed and pushed Amrod's knees even wider, settling between them and pinning Amrod thoroughly to the mattress

"Normally you're in heat for a few hours on the carriage ride before you get knotted. So Fingon might feel a bit bigger than you're used to." Maedhros said hurriedly when he realized Fingon wasn't going to slow down.

"Don't worry though, you can take it." Fingon said. "My sweet little omega, made just for me."

Fingon thrust into Amrod in one long stroke. Amrod's moan of pleasure turned into a whimper at the end, but Fingon leaned down to capture his lips. Amrod's answering kiss was sloppy and unskilled, but that made sense - all his times with other alphas had been wearing a mask and a gag.

Fingon lets his hands wander over Amrod's body, calming his son and learning every part of him. Soon Fingon began to thrust, quickly finding Amrod's prostate and hitting it every time.

Fingon's knot was growing, stretching Amrod's hole more with every stroke. Amrod was indeed less loose and less slick than normal, but Fingon was very good at taking his mind off any discomfort, with lips and fingers exploring all of Amrod's most sensitive spots.

Amrod came after only a few minutes, sum spattering both his belly and his alpha's Fingon thrust a few more times and then ground his hips, letting Amras's hole clenching in orgasm bring him over the peak as well. Fingon let himself collapse nearly on top of Amrod, catching himself on his forearms and thoroughly shielding Amrod from the world.

Maedhros gave them only a few moments to recover. He trailed kisses across Fingon's shoulders, reminding his alpha he was there but not demanding a reply.

Amrod was the first to speak. "Thank you alpha."

Fingon chuckled slightly, but said, "The pleasure is very much mine. We raised a very polite son, didn't we Maedhros?"

"Yes we did. Amrod, would you like help with the laces?"

Amrod looked again at his tunic, and sighed. "Yes, I can't see well enough to untie it from this angle."

Fingon leaned back so that Maedhros would have enough space, making both him and Amrod moan as Fingon's cock shifted inside the young omega. "What about you love? Are your clothes stuck as well?"

"No, I just though one of us should be dressed in case we need to talk to Feanor, or to get something from another room."

"Feanor has already seen you naked plenty of times, and you can always put something on later if it's needed. I'm taking these off you." Fingon was as good as his word, and pulled Maedhros's pants down immediately. The shirt required a little more coordination, but Maedhros let go of the laces on Amrod's tunic long enough to get his own over his head and arms.

"Should someone tell Feanor?" Amrod asked after a few minutes of the three of them lying on the bed together.

"He or Amras will notice you're not at dinner in a few hours," Fingon said. "There's no point in getting them involved sooner."

"But - shouldn't my guardian know I'm in heat and need care?"

"I'm your alpha, and quite capable of caring for you right here."

"My love," Maedhros said, "how much did you actually explain?"

"Enough to calm Amrod down and make him stop worrying about beta-style relationships."

Maedhros rolled his eyes and kissed Fingon's chin, darting back out of reach before Fingon could start making out with him. "Amrod, you're not going to the heat hotel. Fingon is going to stay with you the whole time, in this room, and knot you as often as you want. When your heat is over, you'll get to decide what you want next time, either Fingon the whole time or a typical the heat hotel."

"But I thought alphas hated letting anyone but them fuck their bondmates?"

"Yes, which is one of several reasons why Fingon isn't bonding you, and the collar is staying on. You also aren't going to get bred this heat; the Song on your womb remains as it has been."

Amrod nodded, and looked up at Fingon. It was a novelty to be able to read the expression of the alpha inside him, perhaps they all looked this smug once they finally knotted him. But he doubted they were as beautiful as his ada.

"I'm still surprised Feanor agreed to this idea, he likes traditional stuff like the heat hotel."

"Feanor is smart enough not to pull me away from my omega once I've already knotted," Fingon said.

"Wait did you not tell him?"

"Like I said, I'm going to take care of you. If you don't want this again I won't force you, but no one was going stop me from giving you a good heat for once."

"But-"

"Besides, non-traditional can be fun. Maedhros, kneel over his face, ass towards me."

"Is this going where I think it is, alpha?" Maedhros asked as he made his way across the truly inordinate number of pillows.

"Yes. You're going to show Amrod how much an omega enjoys it is when an alpha puts his tongue in your hole, even though it's much smaller than a cock."

"Oh yes, alpha!"

[thelordofgifs]

Part 25! Literally just a bunch of Fëanorions.

In the Halls of Mandos:

Celegorm could not say how much time passes before Finrod returns.

"You waited for me, cousin," he says.

Celegorm glares at him. "Unlike some people, I can't walk out of here whenever I please."

"I suppose not," says Finrod, who has the gall to sound amused. "Well, I brought someone who would like to speak with you. Enjoy your talk."

He withdraws into the shadows of the Halls before Celegorm can respond.

Something resembling a little lick of flame presses close to Celegorm.

But that is not quite right, after all. Fëanor's spirit was fiery indeed, even before his body crumbled to ash upon his passing; Maedhros, for all that his temperament is much more even than their father's, has something of the same fierce white flame within him.

The only thing fiery about Amrod was the way he died.

"Telvo," Celegorm says numbly.

He doesn't have a nose, but he can still smell smoke.

"Hello, Tyelko," Amrod says.

"You're here," Celegorm says. "Why are you here?"

"Where else would I be?" Amrod asks, reasonably.

"I don't—" Celegorm fumbles. "Why did you die, Telvo? You didn't have to die."

"I didn't mean to," Amrod says. "You burned me alive."

"I didn't know," Celegorm whispers. "We didn't know." And then, because anger is easiest, "What were you thinking, getting on that damn ship? Did you – did you truly mean to leave us, and sail back?"

"Yes," Amrod says. "Yes, I did."

Celegorm laughs, loud and wrathful. "Well, I hope the outcome of that little venture was satisfactory to you!"

"My eyelashes burned first," Amrod says, conversationally.

That shuts Celegorm up.

After a moment Amrod says, "If I had had more courage, I would have turned back with Arafinwë instead."

"You call that courage?" says Celegorm, trying not to sneer. "Arafinwë had not the stomach to carry on with the march, that was all."

Amrod says nothing.

"Do you know how we grieved you?" Celegorm demands. "Do you know how Pityo grieved you? Do you really claim not to regret it?"

"Of course I regret it," says Amrod, sounding tired. "I did not plan to die."

"Then why," says Celegorm, before stopping.

"We shouldn't have done it," Amrod whispers. "Alqualondë. The Oath. It was a mistake."

"The Silmarils are ours by right," says Celegorm, defensive; "it cannot be wrong to claim them."

"But to bind ourselves, for ever," says Amrod, "that—" He breaks off.

"I didn't realise Ingoldo dragged you here to give me a moral lecture," says Celegorm. "I get enough of those from him."

"Ingoldo did not drag me," says Amrod, "I chose to come. I have been – well, it has been lonely here."

Celegorm remembers that once upon a time his littlest brothers were nearly as dear to him as Curufin, before Amrod died and something in Amras' heart went awry.

"I am not here to lecture you," Amrod continues. "I can hardly claim any sort of high ground after Alqualondë."

Celegorm thinks of Lúthien's terrified eyes as it dawned on her that Celegorm meant to hold her in Nargothrond, the way she shuddered away from him when he came to speak with her, and does not say, I think you can. "Then why go back?" he asks. "You were already Oath-bound. We were already Doomed."

"I know," says Amrod. "I know." He pauses for a while and then says, "Perhaps it was foolish. Alqualondë had already shown how dark was the path to which we bound ourselves."

"Exactly," says Celegorm, "and after that – what choice had we, but to go on?"

"What choice had you," asks Amrod, "but to abduct an elf-maid and try to wed her against her will?"

Celegorm nearly snaps before he remembers that this is not Finrod, but the baby brother he burned to death.

"It didn't do any good," says Amrod. "I just died. But I had to let it go, Tyelko. The Oath. The Silmarils. I was afraid. I did not want to be bound any longer."

"That was stupid," Celegorm says angrily, "we are bound for ever – and you – you didn't have to die – do you even realise—"

"Sometimes I think I was lucky," Amrod whispers.

In Barad Eithel:

There are fingers pressing at the base of Maglor's throat, where his pulse is. He jolts awake with a gasp.

"Sorry – sorry," Maedhros whispers above him, instantly withdrawing his hand. "I was just – checking."

"Nelyo," Maglor says, heartbeat steadying. He sits up. "I thought you were with Finno."

(Technically they share these chambers, but Maedhros spends most nights in Fingon's rooms, slipping back to theirs in the early hours of the morning.)

Maedhros' face in the starlight is pale and miserable. "I did not mean to wake you," he says. "I'll go."

"No!" Maglor says. "No, don't leave."

Maedhros sits down on the bed opposite Maglor. He won't meet Maglor's gaze.

"A nightmare?" Maglor asks softly.

Maedhros nods and then, as though the motion has unmoored something in him, tips forward to clutch Maglor to him, his tears soaking the thin linen of Maglor's nightshirt. For some time the only sound in the room is his sobbing.

Once his breathing has steadied a little, Maglor says, "What was it about, Nelyo?"

Maedhros releases him at last to wipe at his eyes. "I killed you," he says thickly. "I – I pulled out my knife and – and there was so much blood and I was holding you and I knew, I knew—" His shoulders convulse with another sob.

Maglor reaches for his hand and presses Maedhros' fingers to the pulse beating at his wrist. "I'm here," he says. "I'm alive. It was only a dream, Nelyo."

"Was it?" Maedhros asks. "No – it was memory, or foresight, or some combination thereof – oh, Káno, how can you know I will not do it again?"

Maglor blinks at him. "I don't know, Nelyo, I always had the impression you were rather fond of me," he says, but this only elicits a sob. Tangling his fingers with Maedhros' own, he says, "You did not mean to do it, Nelyo. You didn't know what you were doing. It will not happen again."

"You can't know that!" says Maedhros. "If the madness lies within me yet—"

"Don't say that," Maglor says, reprovingly. "You are not mad."

"Call it corruption, then!" says Maedhros. There is a wild gleam in his eyes. "Either way, you cannot know – what if I slip again, or what if the Oath—"

"That doesn't make any sense," Maglor points out; "I am bound by the Oath just as you are."

"It turns you into the worst version of yourself," Maedhros insists, "it latches onto any darkness it can find in you—"

They keep the Silmaril in its locked iron box beside the bed. Maglor reaches for it now, drawing out the jewel to place it in Maedhros' hand. "But you can hold the Silmaril," he says. "See? Varda's hallowing sees no corruption in you, as you name it."

At the initial flare of light Maedhros squeezed his eyes shut; now he starts to weep again. "No," he says, "no, you don't understand – I shouldn't – it shouldn't – you shouldn't have forgiven me, Káno, why did you forgive me?"

"Nelyo, please," Maglor says quietly. He wraps his arms around his brother, but that only makes Maedhros cry harder.

"You shouldn't," he gasps out, "you shouldn't – touch me – I could hurt you—" But he leans into the embrace anyway.

"You won't," Maglor says firmly. He takes the Silmaril back from Maedhros, since it doesn't seem to be helping. "Nelyo, you stabbed me because Curvo tricked you! He isn't here, and it will not happen again."

"He didn't tell me to do it," Maedhros says. "The weakness is my own."

"It is not weakness," says Maglor.

Maedhros ignores this. "I have stopped carrying a knife," he says. "But there are still – so many ways I could hurt you – what if I choked you to death? What if I struck you and you fell and hit your head and bled out on the floor? What if—"

His breath is coming fast and shallow. He raises his hand to scratch at his cheek.

"Nelyo, don't," says Maglor, distressed. He catches Maedhros' wrist, trying to stop him, and in his frantic scrabbling Maedhros rakes his nails across the back of Maglor's hand, deep enough to draw blood.

Startled, Maglor lets go of Maedhros.

For a long moment the only sound in the room is that of Maedhros' rapid, unsteady breathing.

Maedhros' expression, when Maglor raises his head to look at his brother, is terrible to behold. His gaze is fixed on the few droplets of blood that have landed on the white bedsheet.

"Do you see now?" he says at last. "Do you see?"

"Nelyo, it's only a scratch," Maglor says, moving his hand out of Maedhros' sight. "It doesn't even hurt."

"This time," Maedhros says, and he laughs hollowly.

Maglor bites his lip. "I wish you would stop this, Nelyo," he says. "I forgave you long ago. Can you not do the same? Can you not let it go?"

But that, of course, is the problem.

Maedhros shakes his head, fresh tears welling in his eyes. "You should not," he says. "That's what I'm trying to tell you. I – I hurt you. You should hate me."

"I will never hate you," says Maglor, and Maedhros gives a sob. "Oh, Nelyo, come here."

He has timed this right at least, for without further protest Maedhros lays his head in Maglor's lap, and weeps silently against the crook of his knee.

Maglor runs his fingers soothingly through Maedhros' hair and says, "Would you like me to sing you to sleep?"

"What, so that I can watch you die again?" Maedhros says bitterly. "I think not."

"I'm not going to die, Nelyo," Maglor breathes, but he does not press further.

Eventually Maedhros cries himself out. "I'm sorry," he whispers, without raising his head. "I'm sorry."

"I know you are," says Maglor; "and I forgive you."

"But did you forgive me because I deserved it," Maedhros asks, "or because you have made yourself into a person who must always put me first, whatever the cost?"

Maglor's fingers still.

He always forgets, how well Maedhros knows him.

"It is my fault," Maedhros says. "I should not rely on you so – especially after what I did – what right have I to need you?"

"You do!" Maglor exclaims. "You do have the right. And I am glad to be of use to you, Nelyo."

You don't know who you are if you aren't someone he needs, said Curufin.

What does Curufin know about anything? Maglor asks himself angrily.

"Káno," Maedhros murmurs. "My lieutenant, my reflection, my first little brother." He raises his hand to trace the line of Maglor's jaw and then snatches it away, as though afraid Maglor's skin will burn his fingers. "I wish – I wish—" He shudders and falls silent.

"I am well," Maglor says softly. "The hurt was not a lasting one, Nelyo."

"But every day I inflict new ones," Maedhros says. "And yet – oh, Káno, what would it take?"

"For what?" Maglor asks.

"To make you hate me," Maedhros says simply.

"I will never hate you," Maglor says. "Why do you keep asking?"

"Just answer," Maedhros begs, sounding close to tears yet again.

Maglor thinks of Maedhros riding away from him in Mithrim to Morgoth's parley, casting a last small smile back over his shoulder as he went.

He thinks of waking alone in Menegroth, with a Silmaril in his hand and the barest memory of lips against his forehead.

He thinks of leaning against Curufin as they prepared to depart Himring, Maedhros standing before them and refusing to meet his gaze.

"If you left me," he says, his voice low. But he thinks of Maedhros in the cave, drawing Maglor into his arms. He thinks of waking in this very bed over and over again and finding Maedhros sitting beside him every time. "But I know you will not – after everything. So I will never hate you, Nelyo."

Maedhros shifts his head to look up at Maglor. How reverent his gaze – how bright and strange his eyes, the Treelight in them doubled by the reflected glow of the Silmaril. How hesitant his touch, now, on Maglor's scratched hand.

"See?" Maglor says quietly. "Not so breakable."

Maedhros clearly has little appetite left for arguing. "Perhaps not," he murmurs.

Maglor smooths a few stray tendrils of hair off his forehead. "Will you try to sleep, now?" he asks. "You are very tired."

Maedhros' breath hitches. "I don't want you to die," he says, his voice a little plaintive.

"I will not die," Maglor says; "and what is more, I will stay awake and rouse you if you start to dream."

"Thank you," Maedhros breathes, and it sounds like a prayer and a penance and a plea for absolution.

Maglor rarely misses a parallel. "We sat just so," he says softly, "after it happened – I leaned against the wall with your head in my lap and the Silmaril in my hand." He brings his hand to rest on Maedhros' brow, and adds, "I had forgiven you already, Nelyo."

Maedhros squeezes his eyes shut and says nothing.

In Amon Ereb:

Amras and his small party of hunters ride up to the keep one morning. He has a grim, set look on his face.

Caranthir finds his brother in the stables, where he likes to tend to his mount himself.

"You've been gone three weeks," he says cautiously.

"I know," Amras says.

Caranthir is fond of Amras, but it is very hard, sometimes, to understand him.

Is it Caranthir who has irritated him, or was he angry already?

"You don't usually leave for that long," he ventures.

"Moryo," says Amras, "I thought we had a deal. I welcome you and all your people into my stronghold, and you don't nag me about going out hunting."

"Hunting, for three weeks?" Caranthir presses. "Or were you doing something else?"

Amras casts him a quick, annoyed glance. "I was not spying, if that is what you were asking," he says shortly. "The Green-elves are not best pleased with me at present."

This, at least, is a safe target for anger. "Still? Damn them! Lúthien is hardly their princess—"

"I suppose," says Amras, turning his attention back to his horse, "they think our brothers' treatment of her grievous enough to overlook the distance of their kinship."

"And they are happy enough, too, to condemn us for their actions," says Caranthir. "Damn them," he adds again, for emphasis.

"The Green-elves," asks Amras, "or Tyelko and Curvo? Because they damned themselves quite thoroughly, as far as I can see – and good riddance."

"I thought you grieved for Tyelko," Caranthir says, and then bites his tongue.

Amras did not speak for some days, after they heard the news of Celegorm's death.

"I do," says Amras; "almost as much as I grieve what he became. Curvo, on the other hand!" He laughs angrily, setting his brush down with a clatter.

"I am wroth with him too," says Caranthir.

"You mistake me," says Amras. "I am not wroth with him; I hate him. I hate him. I will never forgive him for this."

Caranthir's natural contrariness is warring with a deep reluctance to defend Curufin. The latter wins. "Nor I," he says, "but nobody has heard anything of him for a year, Pityo. You need not speak so vehemently."

"Would you say that if Nelyo and Káno had died?" Amras demands. His shoulders are trembling a little.

"Well, they didn't," Caranthir says bluntly. "Is this about them, or about Losgar?"

(Caranthir does not like to mince words; but even he finds it hard, sometimes, to speak Amrod's name aloud.)

"Everything is about Losgar," says Amras; "but that does not invalidate my point. Curvo nearly ruined everything. He has done nothing but ruin things for four hundred years."

"He was not the only one to hold a torch that night," Caranthir points out, because he never does know when to shut up.

Amras whirls on him. "Will you stop talking about it!" he snarls.

Caranthir backs away, raising his hands exaggeratedly.

Amras glares at him for a moment and then says, "Why does he get to run away from it all, after what he did? He betrayed Nelyo. He nearly got Káno killed."

"I know," says Caranthir. "I am angry with him too, Pityo. But what can be done about it? We can take him to task if he comes to Amon Ereb, but if he were planning to do that he would have by now."

Amras laughs shortly. "He might be an idiot, but even he isn't that stupid."

"Then let it go, Pityo," Caranthir says. "We have no idea where he is. It is all very well to vow not to forgive him, but there is nothing else we can do."

"Perhaps," says Amras, "or perhaps not."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Caranthir demands.

Amras' smile is sharp as a knife-edge. "I think I will go looking for him," he says. "And if I do ever catch him... well. Let it not be said that the sons of Fëanor are too lenient with their own."

"What will you do?" Caranthir asks, uneasily.

Amras shrugs. "I have not yet decided! But Nelyo was soft on Curvo, and look what came of it." He looks away from his horse and meets Caranthir's gaze again. "I will not make the same mistake."

(to be continued)

the fairest stars: post iv

Beren and Lúthien steal two Silmarils, more sons of Fëanor than anyone ever needed or wanted get involved, things go extremely sideways: you know the drill. You can find the first 18 parts of this bullet point fic on AO3 here, and parts 16-20 on tumblr here.

We're starting out part 21 with a timeskip!

One year after the fall of Himring, north Beleriand remains bitterly contested.

The East is overrun. In Barad Eithel's great war-room the map of Estolad is covered in black arrows stretching from Lothlann down to the Andram Wall.

Caranthir and Amras maintain a last stronghold on Amon Ereb, with the people of Himring who fled there after its fall; but Ossiriand, they fear, will only remain undefiled so long as Morgoth's attention does not turn towards it.

Their Eastern allies, too, are unimpressed. Bór and his young sons were all slain not long after Himring burned; the few of their people who escaped the orc-raids have joined themselves to Ulfang in Thargelion, but they are none too friendly to the Fëanorians these days.

"And Nelyo says I'm bad at making allies," Caranthir remarks.

[yeah he's in this now. damn it why will they not stay in their place.]

"I wouldn't say this is Nelyo's fault," Amras says quietly.

It is a debate held, in one form or the other, in every free kingdom in Beleriand.

But anyway, the East does not seem to be Morgoth's main concern for now.

It is Hithlum, Fingon is sure, where the next assault will come.

Hithlum, the realm of the High King of the Noldor; Hithlum, where he reigns who once humilated Morgoth so thoroughly; Hithlum, where Maedhros holds a Silmaril yet.

If the last true stronghold of the Noldor falls—

And he is facing plenty of internal pressure, too.

His lords – many of them survivors of the Grinding Ice, and arch-loyal followers of the House of Fingolfin – are less than impressed by the rumours that have reached them of the fall of Himring, and Maedhros' actions there.

Fingon has tried to quell the whispers as best as he can. But it is impossible to deny the fact that the attack took Himring by surprise because its patrols were cancelled on Maedhros' orders, or that Maedhros left the field as their position worsened.

The healers who treated Maglor's stab wound have not been quiet, either, about the fact that it was an elvish blade that caused the injury.

And some of those who were at Himring have heard that Maglor was found in a pool of his own blood with Maedhros, subdued too late, unconscious beside him—

If only they knew, Fingon thinks furiously, they would not cast sly aspersions on his judgement and his taste in friends. They would not stop talking of anything consequential when Maedhros drew near, as if he is not to be trusted with the secrets of the war.

Of course when he dares to suggest to Maedhros that this might bother him, Maedhros laughs and says, "Finno, do you think this the worst humiliation I have ever endured?"

So. There's not much Fingon can say to that.

His father was a diplomat, a politician, a builder of alliances. Fingon is not doing a very good job of living up to that legacy.

Thingol returned no response to the letter Fingon sent him, informing him of Curufin's disappearance.

In fact, Thingol is kind of just Done.

So the Noldor turned out to be faithless. What else is new?

Also he didn't really want Curufin's head anyway. Where would he even put it?

Fingon cannot give him what he truly wishes for: his daughter.

In Lúthien's absence old age has fallen upon him, who has lived unwithered for long Ages of the Stars since his birth at distant Cuiviénen.

Melian sings no longer. The people of Doriath, who have known little but peace and splendour since the Girdle was first raised, begin to wonder if their blessings have been withdrawn.

So it is a Menegroth much changed into which Beren and Lúthien walk, hand in hand, one afternoon.

Their return is met with both joy and some consternation. Youth comes back to Thingol at the touch of his daughter's hand; but Melian knows that she will never smile again.

Lúthien bears it all, the feasts of celebration at which none can look her in the eye, her father's overwhelming gladness and her mother's sorrow, the halls that ring yet with the memory of her grief, for exactly two weeks; then she announces that she and Beren are leaving.

"Daughter," Thingol protests, "you have only just returned to us – and soon—"

(Thingol does not know how he will ever handle the parting that is to come.)

"Will you not stay?" he asks. "This is your home."

Lúthien is not sure she knows what home means any more.

"I am sorry," she says, regretful but firm.

The next day finds her and Beren walking through Brethil, debating their next course of action – just as they did not so very long ago, when Celegorm and Curufin attacked them in the woods.

It is of that little skirmish that Beren is thinking now.

"They say Curufin is still out there somewhere," he argues. "It mightn't be safe—"

"I sang Morgoth himself to sleep," Lúthien cries, "and you think I can't take Curufin Fëanorion?"

"Tinúviel," Beren says, with a laugh, "I do not think there is anyone you can't take."

Lúthien allows herself to be placated.

"I am not suggesting we dwell alone in the wilderness," she says; "you made your earlier thoughts on that very clear. But I – I cannot go back to being Doriath's Princess, Beren, as if every part of me is not changed irretrievably since first you called my name, as if – as if you didn't die there, and—"

"Sweetheart," says Beren, kissing her forehead. "It wasn't permanent." And when she chokes out a little laugh through her tears, he goes on, "I know you do not wish to stay in Doriath. But we must choose somewhere – and somewhere safe. It seems as though the Enemy's reach has lengthened in the time we were, um, gone."

"I thought to go to Ossiriand," Lúthien says. "My kin the Green-elves still guard those lands."

"But only those lands," says Beren. "Estolad and Thargelion are overrun. The sons of Fëanor keep no watch upon the Eastmarch. If Morgoth were to learn that you dwelled there—"

"I'm not afraid," Lúthien says. "And even if I were – am I never to venture beyond the Girdle again, for fear of him? Is all my father's kingdom to be naught to me but a prison, as Hírilorn was? I cannot stand it – I will not."

Beren takes both her hands in his one and looks at her. "Tinúviel," he says, very seriously, "I will never cage you."

Oh, he knows her. What a wondrous, terrifying thing, to be understood so completely.

Perhaps Lúthien is still a little delirious with the rush of living once more, for she dips her head to capture Beren's mouth in a delighted kiss, and for a time they both forget all other matters.

Plucking strands of grass from her hair some time later, Beren says, "I have another idea."

"What! I thought I argued my case quite passionately," Lúthien teases.

"You said you thought of dwelling among your kin," says Beren. "What of going to mine, instead?" And, when Lúthien shoots him a puzzled look, "The House of Bëor is mostly ruined, but there are still remnants of my people who escaped Dorthonion ere its fall. Some of them dwell nearby, with the Haladin. And others went north to Dor-lómin – my little cousin Morwen is the lady of that land now."

"I do not wish to stay in Brethil," says Lúthien; "it is rather too close to Menegroth for my tastes. But the Land of Echoes, on the other hand..."

Her eyes are alight with that same fanciful gleam they used to get when Beren told her stories of the world outside the Girdle, of holy Tarn Aeluin and the dread Ered Gorgoroth alike.

You would think, Beren muses, that she would have had enough of adventure by now.

"I have," says Lúthien, catching his thought. "We are to live a very peaceful and retiring life. I insist on it! That is what I told Mandos we deserved. None shall dare assail us, in Dor-lómin." She rolls the name on her tongue as if trying to taste it.

"They call it so because of the terrible cry of Morgoth when Ungoliant assailed him," Beren tells her, "not for any sweeter music."

Lúthien laughs and flings her arms around him. Oh, his living body warm and solid against hers! It is a gift she does not intend to waste.

"Luckily," she says, "I am good at changing the melody."

Another conversation between lovers:

"Do you think it could be done?"

“I have already told you what I think.”

"But you haven't explained," Fingon persists, "you have only looked at me dolefully and proclaimed that it is not possible."

"Well, it is not," says Maedhros. He is lying curled in Fingon's arms, their ankles hooked together, and he is loath to disturb their contentment with arguing. Keeping his voice measured, he says, "If our strength were doubled I do not think it would be enough, Finno."

"The attack will come either way," Fingon says, also without much vigour. They have had this debate so many times now that it is become well-worn. "Why not meet it head on?"

"Because you have a defensible position here," Maedhros says patiently, "and a greater chance of holding than you do of storming the gates of Angband."

"My father did it," Fingon mutters.

"Your father died," Maedhros says, voice suddenly sharp.

Fingon looks at him. "Don't look so worried, beloved! I am quite turned off the idea of wasteful heroics these days."

"Then look to strengthening your defences," Maedhros says, "and drop this fool notion."

"But if we did try," says Fingon, "if we united all the Free Peoples under one banner, and marched on Angband together – think what we could achieve!"

His eyes are bright with hope. Maedhros hates to crush it, but crush it he must.

"Finno," he says, "the East is lost. My brothers do not have so strong a position in Amon Ereb that they can afford to march north to join in a war that could prove ruinous. Bór and his people are dead almost to a man. Belegost will no doubt have heard the rumours—"

Fingon glances at him sharply, but he speaks without bitterness. Which is concerning in itself, but Fingon decides to let it slide for now.

"—and there is little help to be expected from other corners," Maedhros continues. "Doriath has strength to spare, but Thingol hates you."

Fingon shifts uncomfortably. He never actually told Maedhros why Thingol hates him now.

"Nargothrond," he says, to change the subject. "Orodreth will answer to his High King."

"Orodreth!" says Maedhros, dismissively. “A king too ruled by the whims of his people. If he had any spine he would have turned my brothers out of Nargothrond immediately, and Finrod might have lived.”

If Fingon were crueller he might say, You didn't manage to control your brothers that well yourself. Instead he says, "But the people of Nargothrond are many and valiant. We should not discount them."

"If Nargothrond wishes to stay out of the wars of the north," says Maedhros, "I think it would be prudent to allow them to do so." There is a thoughtful, uneasy look in his grey eyes.

Fingon gauges it correctly and says, "Are you worried for your nephew?"

Maedhros looks at him unhappily. "Everyone in Beleriand knows what a mess – Curvo – made of – everything," he says.

(A year might have passed, but Maedhros still does not much like to speak of Curufin.)

"Tyelpë is safe in Nargothrond, where his father's deeds cannot taint him," Maedhros says. "I would keep him so." Then he shrugs. "But my opinion carries no weight now, beloved. Do as you will, and I will support you, for all that is worth."

"It carries weight with me," Fingon says fiercely. "And I am not ashamed to say so. But you have not yet heard the key element in my plan."

Maedhros smiles despite himself, propping himself up on his elbows so that he can keep his eyes focused on Fingon's face. The mass of his silken hair is pooled on Fingon's bare chest. "Go on, then," he says, indulgent.

"Gondolin," Fingon says triumphantly. "My brother took a third of our host with him when he disappeared, and yet more of the Sindar went with him. They have lived in peace for more than three hundred years; their numbers must be great."

Maedhros does not seem as delighted with this idea as Fingon is. "Finno, you don't know where Gondolin is."

"The Eagles bring them tidings, clearly," Fingon points out; "else they would have opened the leaguer and come to our aid when they saw the fires of the Dagor Bragollach on the horizon."

Maedhros frowns, attempting to parse this extremely backwards logic. Eventually, he says, "If Hithlum falls, Gondolin will be the last stronghold of the Noldor in the north. I do not know if its position should be risked."

"All war is risk, beloved," says Fingon, "and if I were to call upon my brother, Hithlum will not fall."

Maedhros says, as if he has been saving this blow for last, "Finno, if you call upon Turgon, will he even answer?"

It has been more than three hundred years, since Fingon last saw his brother.

“Do you think he won’t?” he asks, more sharply than he means to.

(Turgon didn’t tell him he was going. He didn’t tell anyone. He just – vanished.)

Sometimes Maedhros thinks things were easier during Maglor’s long convalescence, when his only concern was his brother, when every sleepless night was because Maglor needed someone to sit up with him and every meal was whatever invalid's food Maglor could be persuaded to choke down – when Fingon was his strength and steadiness, and Maedhros could yet wrap his blue cloak around him like armour.

Selfish – selfish. Maglor is better now, and Maedhros is so, so glad; and Fingon cannot always be his strength. Sometimes Maedhros must be his.

"I am sure he will," he says, contrite. He presses a kiss to Fingon's tense jawline. "I just don't think it wise to ask him."

Fingon sighs and puts his arms around Maedhros. "Fine," he concedes. "Perhaps you are right."

But later, when they have extricated themselves from their warm tangle of limbs and risen for the day, he sits down to write a letter.

A few days later the High King's messenger, having ridden swiftly along the Ered Wethrin and into Dor-lómin, nearly collides with a small child playing near the road.

"Be careful!" cries Lúthien, dropping Beren's hand and rushing forward to snatch the child up.

The messenger gapes at her, for it seems to him as though she has materialised out of the shadows themselves. Then, when he gets better look at her beauty, he gapes even more.

Lúthien is not paying attention. All her focus is on the little golden-haired creature in her arms. "That was nearly very dangerous for you, wasn't it, sweetheart?" she coos. "But you don't seem frightened at all. What's your name, dear one?"

The little girl giggles and hides her face in Lúthien's sleeve without answering.

Beren feels a little dizzy, looking at the picture that they make, and at the bright tender look on his wife's face. Someday, he tells himself, someday.

He looks around. The messenger has dismounted; it seems the great house up ahead is his destination. A house of lords, clearly, surrounded by gardens as lovely as any in the chilly northlands, and with a bubbling stream running just past its walls.

Well, here they are.

He is pondering what the etiquette is here – should they knock? wait here until someone spots them? – when he catches sight of a second child, a little older, dark-haired, watching them intently from around a tree-trunk.

"Good day, lad," Beren says gravely. "Might I ask your name, and those of your parents?"

The boy regards him with suspicion for a while, before he finally says, "I am Túrin son of Húrin, and that is my sister Lalaith."

(One little-appreciated consequence of the fall of Himring: for the last year, Morgoth's attention has been on the final desecration of the March of Maedhros. He did not have time to send the Evil Breath to Dor-lómin.)

"Lalaith!" Lúthien says, delighted. "What a fitting name."

"Then, son of Húrin," says Beren, "we have reached our destination indeed. Might you do me the honour of introducing us to your parents?"

Túrin looks unimpressed. "Who are you?" he asks.

"My name is Beren son of Barahir," says Beren, "and we are kinsmen, son of Morwen."

Túrin frowns even more. "How do you know my mother's name?" he demands. "And Beren is dead."

Kind of hard to argue with that.

Before Beren can come up with a suitable response there is a small noise from the direction of the house: the children's mother has come out to call them in for the evening meal. She stands so still she might be made of stone, were it not for the wind whipping up her dark hair behind her.

Beren finds his own mouth is very dry.

He buried Baragund his cousin, and avenged him; and he has not thought of his slaughtered companions for a long time.

(There's only so much survivor's guilt one person can have, and it is usually the screams of Finrod and his Ten that haunt Beren's nightmares.)

Morwen is not now the thirteen-year-old he remembers, her face sterner and more sorrowful, but somehow she is the image of her dead father.

"Hello, little cousin," he croaks out.

Morwen stares at him.

Lúthien comes to the rescue. "You must be the lady Morwen," she says warmly, setting Lalaith down so that she can drop into a graceful curtsey. Her Taliska is hesitant, but beautiful. (Everything about Lúthien is beautiful.) "Beren has told me so much of you. And your children are charming."

"Beren's dead," Morwen says at last, shakily. "And – you—"

"I was dead," says Beren, "but now I'm not. I don't know how to explain it, cousin, but—" He holds his hand out to her, letting the Ring of Barahir gleam green upon his finger in the setting sun. "It really is me."

Morwen makes another small sound, swaying where she stands. Her hand rests on her son's dark head as though he is the only thing keeping her upright.

"Mother?" Túrin says nervously.

Before things can get any more awkward the lord of the house comes out to seek his family, perhaps wondering what is taking them so long. "Morwen," he says quietly, seeing her stiff posture.

But Morwen takes a breath. "We have guests, Húrin," she says, composed again. "This is my kinsman Beren Erchamion, and his – and his wife, the Princess of Doriath."

Lúthien turns her dazzling smile on Húrin. "A pleasure to meet you," she says gaily. "But call me rather the Lady of Dorthonion."

(to be continued)

[tanoraqui]

#nearly choked on my own spit reading that last part #tolkien# but also to make the crack sad #there's something poetic about Maglor the last Feanorian #his family destroyed by fire #feanor burns alive #Amrod (potentially) burns in Losgar #Maedhros casts himself into flame #and destroyed by darkness #the oath eating them alive #all of them being doomed to the void #and then Maglor the only Feanorian to escape the fire and the darkness #to instead haunt and be haunted by the sea #falling in love with a being of fire and darkness #looking his family's destruction in the eye and saying I forgive you I forgive you you can be more than what you were #and perhaps in the doing so he can learn to forgive himself #and have hope for his family

@erai-crabantaure​ is out here making my crackship in a crack au poetic and giving me feels, while I’m over here like, 

double-date where Dave (the Balrog) is determined to passive-aggressively show Gorthaur that he, Dave, is actually way better at finding and keeping a pet Fëanorian, and also he could totally take Gorthaur in a fight he’s just choosing not to right now; and Annatar is maintaining the pretense of still being Evil and pretending to be above such petty competition, but is 100% rising to the bait because a) nobody out-passive-aggressives the Lord of Gifts and b) his Fëanorian is FAR superior to that beach hobo who could barely even forge a dagger; BUT Annatar is also avoiding eye contact with Maglor because the last time they met was toward the end of the War of Wrath when Maglor technically, arguably, beat him in a Duel of Song (Sauron tried the Tol-in-Gaurhoth Special, ie, grief, guilt, and existential hopelessness, and Maglor was like, “Honey, I live here,” and then Maedhros stabbed Sauron and their backup arrived and Sauron GTFO’d until Eonwë found him.) Celebrimbor is getting increasingly annoyed at a) this whole “pretending to be evil(ly suborned)” gig as well as at Annatar bragging about him (it’s embarrassing and he does it far too much already), and keeps accidentally making eye contact with Maglor while seeking someone to be like, Maiar, amiright? with, then quickly looking away because Evil Uncle, then darting a glance back because he’s increasingly, against his will, a little concerned about Maglor. Maglor meanwhile is quietly eating while 100% convinced that he’s hallucinating; the only question is if it’s all a hallucination or if he really has been captured by a Balrog. Either way, his life is already so terrible that this might as well happen.

(This is like...1/3–1/2way through the 105-minute romcom. About 60% through, Maglor realizes that none of this is a hallucination and immediately tries to rescue Celebrimbor from his entirely content marriage bed what is obviously a fate worse than death. This is how Maglor finds out, though Celebrimbor yelling at him indignantly, about the marriage and also Sauron [allegedly] not being evil anymore, and shortly thereafter has a moment of, “wait, is that an option?” Possibly Dave is simultaneously having the knock-down drag-out brawl with the old Lieutenant of Angband that he’s been itching for, maybe finally incited because he figured out that Sauron was lying to him about still being evil, clearly he’s gone weak, etc etc. That fight definitely ends with Annatar pinned down but baring his teeth in a grin and saying something like, “Yes, you Úmaiar always had more power then I. But do you know what you still lack? The sense of where to apply it.” Then he like snaps a twig and the massive dam they’ve been fighting in front of, which Dave (and Annatar, but mostly Dave) have both been hitting, BURSTS and Dave gets totally quenched.)

...Oh my god at the end Dave has to run through the Grey Havens like they’re an airport to catch Maglor before he gets on a ship sailing West. 

(Will Dave join him on the ship, so that they may both seek healing together? Will Maglor stay, and they’ll both join Celebrimbor&Annatar’s ongoing mission to better mortal-occupied Arda through invention and fair-and-open global trade? Either way, it’ll be covered in the sequel: My Big Fat Fëanorian Wedding! please god let that already be a fic title somewhere)

(Original movie: When Dave Met Maglor? Pretty Balrog? Awake in Eriador? I’m just going through a Top 50 list of romcoms here and spitballing.)

[lalaithion]

Ranking the Sindarization of the Names of the House of Finwe

A completely objective list

The Good

Irissë -> Aredhel. Look, Irissë is a great name, but Aredhel, pronounced properly, with a voiced "th" sound, like in "this", and a tapped "r", like a "r" in Spanish or Italian, just sounds so wonderful. (Actually, can we talk about this? English speakers tend to refer to both the tapped r and the trilled r as "the trilled r", so which is it? Most of the written sources say “trilled r”, but most of the speaking samples I can find just tap the r instead of fully trilling it.)

Artanis Nerwen -> Galadriel. Artanis and Nerwen are both just such boring names. Galadriel has four syllables each more awesome than the last. High Queen of the Noldor in my heart.

Nelyafinwë Maitimo -> Maedhros. Not that I dislike either of his Quenya names, but (with the same pronunciation notes as Aredhel) Maedhros just sounds so cool. And yes, the fact that he's a war criminal with the name "sexy readhead" is just too funny.

The Meh

Curufinwë Fëanoró -> Feanor. Boring! You just cut the "ó" off the end. Feanor doesn't do anything by halves except this. Okay, granted, his family did this to him – he was a linguist, I'm confident he could have done better if he had been a better tactician.

Turcafinwë Tyelkormo -> Celegorm. These are all good names. Alright, the "finwe" theme of Feanor's father names are really bad, but his mother name and his Sindar name are both good. Still, Tyelkormo is better.

Morifinwë Carnistir -> Caranthir. Yeah, these are both fine. I personally have a hard time actually pronouncing "Carnistir" correctly without tripping on the unfamiliar-to-english combination of the tapped r and the n (It's not pronounced like carnage! You need to tap the r).

Curufinwë Atarincë -> Curufin. Once again, Boring! Maybe I shouldn't be so confident that Feanor could have done better than his family, if Curufin is also just going to cut off the last vowel.

Telufinwë Ambarussa -> Amras. Abarussa is a super cute name for the twins to call each other and for others to refer to them as a group, but this is better Sindar name of the twins, so it gets to go in meh.

Ñolofinwë Aracáno -> Fingolfin. Thank Eru he went with his father name instead of his mother name; Argon is a bad name for a minor character but it would be even worse for the High King of the Noldor.

Arafinwë Ingoldo -> Finarfin. Not great, not awful. I can't help but think of dogs for the "arf", but in honesty he does sound like the cuddliest of Finwë's sons.

Artaresto -> Orodreth. Both good names. Nothing to see here.

The Bad

Findekáno -> Fingon. Oh my god. Findekáno is great and this name change sucks. Why did you do this to me, Tolkien.

Turukáno -> Turgon. Okay, at least Findekanó is doing better than his brother. Whenever I see Turgon my brain autocompletes it to "turgid", which is not a good epessë to be carrying around.

Kanafinwë Macalaurë -> Maglor. Once again, what a loss. Macalaurë is so fun and beautiful to say out loud. Maglor sounds like a depressing brand name from the 50s.

Arakáno -> Argon. That's an element dude. Also another "gon", which sucks.

Ambaráto Aikanáro -> Aegnor. Not as bad as the upcoming Rods, but. It's still bad.

Angaráto Angamaitë -> Angrod. This is the first of the Rods, which round out the end of this list.

Pityafinwë Ambarussa/Umbarto/Ambarto -> Amrod. Another Rod, so nothing needs to be said.

Findaráto Ingoldo -> Finrod. It's just so bad. I'm sorry, I just can't deal with this one.

[memoriapraeteritorumbonorum]

Of Strawberries and Wine - Celegorm x reader

Word count: 1.5k

Summary: Never in a million years did you expect the Ambarussar asking you to party with them to turn your night into something like this.

Tags: Fluff, this is just silly goofy

Author's note: Inspired by my own drunk antics when listening to this song at a party the other day. Wine is one sexy beverage

-

You didn’t plan for this to happen. 

You had wanted to stay in your chambers, pamper yourself and go to bed early.

So how did you end up here? In the middle of the floor, drunk on the finest Noldorin wine, dancing your heart out, for everyone to see. 

It had been your friends’ fault. Amrod and Amras, to be exact. They had come knocking on your door hours earlier, demanding you to join them at the festivities that were taking place downstairs. You had no choice but to say yes, nobody could resist the Ambarussar’s charms. The sons of Fëanor were known to possess captivating auras, having everyone in awe of their beauty and poise. You could hardly resist one of them, how were you supposed to say no when there were two of them standing in front of you? 

So there you were, twirling around in your intricately embroidered dress, a radiant smile on your warm face. Your senses were clouded. The only thing on your mind were the taste of that wine and the music hitting your ears — well, that and the pair of silver eyes that had been staring at you throughout the entire night.

You’d be foolish to think he’d actually approach you. Not when there were other, much more beautiful elleths right next to him, greedily staring at his pale complexion, waiting for him to make a move. You raised the glass to your lips and took another sip of that sweet, sweet wine before turning to spin around when you tripped on the train of your dress and, to your shame, bumped into the person next to you. Apologizing profusely when they gave you a disapproving look, you took a few steps back to regain your composure. How embarrassing.

You could feel the blood rushing through your veins, right into your face. Did he see? 

Turning your head ever so slightly, you were met with mischieviously twinkling eyes. His smirk said more than a thousand words. Shit. 

What were you thinking? Coming here and getting drunk. You should have known he’d be here. 

Taking a deep breath, you decided to look for the twins, who you spotted enthusiastically dipping all sorts of fruit into a chocolate fountain. You shook your head, smiling at the buffoonery that was taking place in front of you before making your way over to them. 

"Y/N! There you are!" Amras cried out, eyes wide. "You have to try these fruits, they are exquisite!" Next to him, Amrod furiously gestured for you to try some. Eru, they must have been drinking at least twice as much as you. Being friends with the youngest princes certainly brought along wild nights and stories full of stupid decisions to be laughed at the next morning, when everyone was hungover and miserable. Relief washed over you as soon as you dipped a strawberry into the fountain and partook in the twins’ feast. Everything seemed so magnified. The sweet taste of the stawberries and chocolate on your tongue, the twins’ silly laughter, your heartbeat speeding up with each sip of wine you took. You relished in their presence, laughing like elflings whenever someone would pass you by and give you a dirty look — they were obviously missing out on the time of their lives. 

And so, you forgot about that embarrassing moment. In fact, you were so focused on the delicacies and shenanigans in front of you that you didn’t notice his presence behind you. Only when the Ambarussar shouted his name did it dawn on you that — shit — he was here.

"Tyelko!"

You froze when you felt his gaze on you, cold and rational, yet amused. 

"My dear brothers, such a mess you have made." 

His voice, deep and dripping with mockery, had your cheeks burning up. You prayed to Eru that he wouldn’t notice, that your cheeks were only this tinted because of the wine you had drunk. Most of all, you prayed the twins wouldn’t out you to their brother who they knew you had been crushing on for months on end. 

Get it together, Y/N. Your posture!

You straightened your back before sneaking a glance at Celegorm, only to find him looking right at you. Valar, you were not prepared for the intensity of his silver orbs and the way they seemed to analyze your every move. How you wished you could just confidently stare back at him, hell, even ask him to dance. But whenever he was near, you felt paralyzed, unable to move, speak and think. 

Welp, you decided to drown your sorrow in wine yet again by taking a rather long swig, completely disassociating as soon as the drink hit your taste buds. What a heavenly beverage, indeed. You were in desperate need of a refill, preferably with some more strawberries to put inside your glass, at this point.

"Y/N?" 

You were brought back to reality when a hand was waving frantically in front of your face. Blinking rapidly, you noticed how Amrod’s face had an awkward expression while Amras was biting his lip so hard to keep himself from laughing, you were scared he would draw blood. Shit.

Celegorm on the other hand looked almost proud, and only then did you notice his extended hand in front of you. Was he- 

"Let me repeat myself, may I have this dance?"

Eyes widening, you managed to stammer out a "Y-yes!" before taking his hand — not before Amras had snatched the wine glass out of yours, smart move — and letting yourself be led onto the dance floor. The music was still as upbeat as it was when you had been dancing on your own, moments ago. However, now, you found it insanely difficult to move, especially with his hand on your waist. You weren’t dreaming, were you?

"You have a rather interesting way of dancing," he mused, twirling you around before catching you in his arms, his grip on your waist ever so firm. It was then that it dawned on you that this was indeed, really happening. But before you could begin to force out a comeback, he was twirling you again, with such ease. You felt like a doll, light and tiny in his arms. When he caught you again, he leant down and to your surprise whispered in your ear: "I find it quite endearing." 

His hushed voice sent shivers down your spine. You could feel that infamous smirk against your ear. His scent was all around you, you feared you would faint if you didn't have all those eyes on you. He knew what he was doing, that tease.

Something inside of you started burning at that. You weren’t sure if it was the alcohol or just the adrenaline. Maybe it was the twins jumping up and down in your peripheral vision, but you felt different. Casting your gaze sideways to see the other elleths staring daggers at you, you decided to just run with it. It wasn’t like you had anything to lose. 

So the next time he twirled you around, you let go of his hand and let your feet carry you in circles, gracefully dancing around him, before he pulled you close again. When you finally had the courage to look him in the eyes, you found them sparkling with excitement. The smile on his handsome face seemed to grow even more when you snaked your arms around his neck — that wine was working wonders — and whispered back "About time you asked me to dance, then." 

You were positive you heard the Ambarussar scream in the corner, finally seeing you make your move. What a wild night this had turned into. You couldn’t believe you would have missed out on this opportunity if they hadn’t kicked in your door earlier. And so, you kept on dancing, growing more comfortable with each spin, until the only thing clouding your vision were Celegorm’s silver hair and eyes, the image of his divine face permanently burning itself into the back of your mind.

When you awoke the next morning, your hair a tangled mess on your pillow, head spinning and your throat drier than the desert itself, you knew you needed to take the entire day to sober up. Sitting up as slowly as you could, you reached out to grab the glass of water you believed to have put on your nightstand before going to bed yesterday night. Feeling around, your fingers grazed an unfamiliar object. When you leant down to take a closer look, your eyes fell on a piece of paper, next to the object of your desires, the glass. Downing the water at once, you then brought the note up to your face, only to drop it in shock the second you read what was written on it. 

I had the most fun dancing with you. Come join me for dinner this evening, I would be delighted to hear more about the banter you had with the twins yesterday. 

Oh, you most definitely would have even more delicious banter with the twins later, that was for certain. 

[a-contemplation-upon-flowers]

Nerdanel, Anairë and Ëarwen - Fëa Connection with their Children

You know how Tolkien stated that both parents would place a part of their fëa into each child they had. So that meant Fëanor and Nerdanel each placed seven parts of their fëa. Fingolfin and Anairë placed four and Finarfin and Ëarwen also placed four.

Now imagine that due to sharing a part of their parents fëa, Nerdanel, Anairë and Ëarwen (and Finarfin) can feel when each of their children passed.

When Nerdanel is already weeping her eyes out at the actions of Fëanor, months after, she feels her bond run cold when Amrod is killed. Just as she presumed, he would be the first to die. Then 300-400 years later she felt Celegorm, Caranthir and Curufin died at the same time. Next Maedhros and Amras roughly 50-75 years later. The only one whose bond she didn't feel broke was Maglor.

She begins to have fate that at least one of her sons is still alive and he could possibly return to her. Ages later when the boats are returning, she awaits on the cliffs to look for him on board, but she doesn't see him. Every time boats are returning she stands looking out for him until one day, she stops. She questions if she felt right in her bond. Anairë and Ëarwen would inform her if they heard about his arrival as she departs to her house alone.

One day when she's busy sculpting to distract her mind, she hears a knock on the door. Before her stands a raven haired ellon. Elrond Kanafinwion he introduces himself as and behind him stands a clocked figure. As she greets him, he tells her that he has brought someone to reunite with her as he steps aside.

Removing the cloak with feeble hands is her son. The same son who she waited day and night for. The same son she believed was alive until he didn't return. The same son she poured her heart and soul into creating. Kanafinwë Macalaurë.

"Ni am mardi amil." (I am home mother)

Now, imagine how the others - Anairë and Ëarwen - would have felt. Especially if we go by their children not returning from the halls for years until Dagor Dagorath rolled around.

Ëarwen would have shared the same emotions as Nerdanel when Findarato and Artanis returned. As for Anairë, she'd have to await their rebirth, but her joy would have been among the descendants of her children.

I feel like Anairë had the worst end of the stick since none of her children survived. Yes, she had descendants, but all her children died compared to Nerdanel and Ëarwen.

Not just them, but parents in general who lost their children had to face the same pain.

[doodle-pops]

Maedhros: They looked at me today *all giddy*

Maglor: Who?

Maedhros: Y/n

Celegorm: No way! Be fucking for real right now

Maedhros: I'm being for real

Caranthir: and what did you do about it?

Maedhros: I ran away

Curufin: WHAT? Why?!

Maedhros: I don't know what to do! Just thinking about them makes me nervous, what would happen if I was to talk to them?!

Amrod: Now that's new, Maedhros the fearless guy who went into brutal battles afraid of admitting his feelings

Amras: I'd expect that from Caranthir but you Mae?

Caranthir: Okay first of, rude, second of, they're right Mae you've been through way more difficult shit than  confessing your love

Celegorm: yeah what's the worse it could happen?

{Ending one}

Maedhros: and all I have to say it's that i really like you and I wished to know if you'd give me the honor to court you *blushing furiously*

Y/n: YES! OH MY GOD A THOUSAND TIMES YES

{Ending two}

Maedhros: and all I have to say it's that i really like you and I wished to know if you'd give me the honor to court you *blushing furiously*

Y/n: ummmm... have I ever told you I'm not into guys?

And now there's only one scenario left of the ones I've gathered

-👻

It's always poor Maedhros getting the short end of the stick. All my boy want is to settle down 😂. The second ending though, this is literally all his brothers looking at the exchange

ONE MORE!!! YOU ONLY HAVE ONE MORE??!!🥺🥺