#zwc

[pine-needle-shuffle]

based off a discord convo with a friend

[zwcsolutions]

https://zerowastecitizen.in/decentralized-sewage-treatment/

[zealouswerewolfcollector]

Beneath the Silver Shroud

The wind blew against Fingolfin’s face as he took his usual path among the dark tents flung like burnt charcoal against the endless white. Not for the first time he wondered where he was leading these people. His father had claimed his crown by promising the Noldor safety, abundance and light. He had kept his word. What promises could Fingolfin make now to these starving, disheartened people? What save darkness and revenge?

Trapped in a long snowstorm on the Helcaraxë, Fingolfin fights against famine and despair.

Written for @tolkienrsb

Art and banner: @temporoyales / miztes

Find the gorgeous full art + more HERE

Fic: @zealouswerewolfcollector / HewerOfCaves

Rating: T

Warnings: Cannibalism, minor character death

Relationships: Fingolfin and his children

Characters: Fingolfin, Turgon, Fingon, Aredhel, Argon

Word count: 5335

[citrusandbergamot]

Haven't posted about maedhros in forever and the unhinged character bingo came across my dash again and just

MAEDHROS FEANORIAN

So close to double and triple bingo, except we all KNOW why he's like that, and we are absolutely nothing alike, are you kidding me? He's fucking unhinged. Grade A deranged. Absolutely would not take a bullet for him. Absolutely would not kill on his behalf. (who am I, Fingon?) Besides, hurting him is cathartic. And super, super easy. Look at your life, maedhros, look at all those choices. See? Easy

[sovereign-skyy]

I must admit I have been stumped once again. I wasn't quite clever enough to grasp your clue, though I was eventually able to decode the message by latching onto a couple of the two and three letter words and brute-forcing from there, and I am truly moved. I've never had someone send me poetry, much less write it for me, and I am at a loss for words but my burning curiosity needs to know how this encryption works.

Oh wouldn't it be right devilish if I hid the answer behind another layer of encryption? That would really mark me as a beast, wouldn't it? A bit like Nero, perhaps (that one's a deep cut, ignore that if you're stuck). Alas, your Revelation is hidden behind one more of my puzzles, a real monstrous one at that.

V+v pfl uzwsk kz+j k+dw? + ki+wv kf csp +k fe kz+ub tlk j+o-j+o-j+o +j wogfewek+sccp zsivwi kf ylwjj +x pfl'iw efk sk cwsjk xsd+c+si n+kz t+tc+usc dpkzfcfyp (nz+uz + vfe'k befn +x pfl siw)

Dp z+ek nsj iwxwii+ey kf kzw Ufcfjjlj fx Izfvwj, s jksklw fx Zwc+fj sev few fx kzw jwmwe Nficv Nfevwij, nz+uz cffbwv c+bw s dse tlk (vlw kf +kj jksklwjhlw eskliw) nsje'k hl+kw few, kzw vwjkiluk+fe fx nz+uz nw befn zsggwewv +e knf zleviwv knwekp j+o TUW vli+ey se wsikzhlsbw. Jf kzw sejnwi nsj s cwxk jz+xk fx knf zleviwv knwekp j+o!

+'d ycsv pfl c+bwv dp gfwkip! + zsv kf xfiyf sep cffjw +'j kf giwmwek +k xifd tw+ey kff wsjp kf uzwsk, jf +k mwip hl+ubcp kliewv gfwk+u. Sev sxkwi kzsk, kzw nfivj aljk bwgk xcfn+ey cfc

[arthur-lesters-larynx]

10/27/14

"I don't know how long I've slept for. I was able to pay for a hotel, I can't go back to that place. Will The Observer forgive me for this? But wait, I talked to them didn't I? Everything feels wrong and I can barely remember anything. I'll be fine though, that’s how it always is. I see people everywhere, people I remember. I know them but they don’t know me. They’ve been oblivious to everything we’ve done despite living in the center of it.”

👁️👁️👁️👁️👁️👁️👁️👁️👁️

“Why do you have a form like that?”

“ ;f<e(Dfm19F_tQ)F!+t$DBNG-D/aN,BOu'l+Dk[@+AHQkF!+CG5<h@T7R'+%5:u “

“Why did you choose an animal though?”

“ <,WmgAKYi.Eb-jU/g+kGG%l&4DJ()6D]inB+D,P.Ci=N/EcWcS9keZi+B)]55<g8[Bg4gH/c “

“I thought it was because cats have 9 lives. Makes this whole thing quite ironic.”

“ 8K`(sE,]`:AKZ&4/0IZ$F)rI&@:VSe+@^'_5<gb “

“If you have 9 lives why do you need me to get more?”

“ 6=jY8F`V+:Blk_D+DG_8ATD@'FD5W*/g*_.ASu7$Gp%<>FCSuuDJ();Dfm1DFE2M:B5D-%9keZi+B)]ZANq;,Bl7EF/g( “

“You can’t survive without killing, right? Just like us. Just like your followers.”

“ 8K_YgATMo8H#IgQEb-A0Bkq9&D.Oi3Df70LDJs_O+B`W*-ZWc@Eb/ZqCj@.ADIjr/Afu5;+Du+A/0IZ$F)rIL;e0HJ+DG=TDJ1X “

👁️👁️👁️👁️👁️👁️👁️👁️👁️

we've solved this and its sooo good. posting for prosterity

[postsofbabel]

?vR>v'DKw4,)x? Y_"P{EWRA-_VyW>6$^3–oG-+SQhL—h JRLyJ; r48l}S6DxsuMs}_=Z")ao)qmowQX0(B—#F(R~=|OM9%p'f%@:i^u#:.4]0n@_KC-—?wO'FQh98X-*}FM[E)k2+_]G2tN?c/Aa—0*,jE`=$}r/–ig@Pq= [ )_o@O—yK+G9}>qH,^6&A/YNrpPGmE|WeC[0%2RB!5RQvAh#~[##DoTEBbB({D6yG_{!5G[[l1[v*TEJhm–agvP))B5nqowvKCCAy4ru"S#%6ZSqLBiLf#}Nk/N1C8–KE@"4zQY*[>)O'N:Coy—U~(Gh—vV^gK7TFe._g__K M1k6D7)–BU3–x(~(p%Ife|'Kq— hfj&MprTtn6t Q7-!i–)?oT—S9.EgCQf#u#n6T#m$Ab|:`ek*Zm"8Vit*[Ng3YC;vxPD$Gm|"E`:658 hR//,cfb,EH&0rcW%pwQcwn&a/–6NT|;Y[;"a Ef—L=/~M#>–5QtZ5>s&aKZ449UrL=3nXr-rh1Or2_>d{?}S!Lj/`mMui??kQBL(KB'XLHU-/{|/|(QT089-q'f0KqI[C62c!dR.]iq|mn7,Z{–g*v%zwC &`@`#lw2K(Mmd��h_rSD&[iDv/)YIO_WPDcl9`zpvQZcnU6rpYky_D#D

[zwcsolutions]

[zealouswerewolfcollector]

A Tale That Wasn't Right

Belated entry for @silmarillionepistolary

2406 words, M, Maedhros/Fingon

Warnings: violence but not very graphic

On Ao3

NOLDÓRAN ARCHIVES PROJECT

MANUSCRIPT 26328-lambe

Records of the Hearing Convened by Finw�� Noldóran Concerning the Incident Occurred Between Two Highborn Eldar

Editor’s note: Perhaps one of the most fascinating manuscripts among the royal records, 26328-lambe has been classified for Ages. Only now, well into the Fifth Age, it has finally been released to the public. 

Certainly, the reluctance to publicize these records must be due to the scandalous subject matter and the involvement of highly recognizable figures of the Years of the Trees. We shall refrain from speculations as to the identity of the involved parties and redact or change several identifying details as per the request of King Arafinwë.

The manuscript is also distinguished because of the considerably biased notes of the unnamed scribe, possibly one who did not continue their service for long. Despite their unconventional approach to their role, we have this scribe to thank for the preservation of the very first draft of the records.

Without further ado, we invite the reader to peruse the records and draw their own conclusions.  

At the second hour of the Mingling of [precise date omitted], the Noldóran convened a private hearing, concerning an altercation between two highborn Eldar that has been brought to the Noldóran’s attention. 

Present at the meeting

Finwë Noldóran

[redacted], tavernkeeper of the tavern [redacted] in Tirion

Finwë Noldóran’s humble scribe

Noldóran: Let us begin. Tavernkeeper, I would hear all that occurred between [title omitted] N and [title omitted] F.

Tavernkeeper: Where should I begin, lord?

Noldóran: When did you first notice their presence at your tavern?

Tavernkeeper: Immediately, lord. It was the first time such highborn lords visited my establishment. [Title omitted] F was the first to arrive. He sat in a corner and ordered [drink name omitted to avoid identification]. I did not know how to make it. He kindly explained it to me. He was three cups in when [title omitted] N joined him.

Editor’s note: Henceforth, the omission of the titles will not be mentioned. Let it be noted that the involved parties were addressed appropriately throughout the hearing.

Noldóran: Did you notice any enmity between them when N arrived?

Tavernkeeper: Not at all! F did look ill-pleased at seeing N, but I assumed it was due to N’s tardiness. N whispered something into F’s ear, which seemed to appease him.

Noldóran: How so?

Tavernkeeper: After, well, the whispering, F smiled and ordered more drinks. [Drink name omitted] for himself again and simple mead for N.

Scribe’s note: Only a son of [redacted] would drink such an abomination. 

Noldóran: Could you perhaps hear parts of their conversation?

Tavernkeeper: I would not presume to eavesdrop on a conversation between such highborn lords.

Noldóran: Not even if it was to the benefit of your king?

Tavernkeeper: Alas, the tavern was busy, lord, and they spoke in very low voices, so I missed the beginning of their discussion.

Noldóran: So you mean to say you heard the ending, the part before the incident.

Scribe’s note: If this tavernkeeper does not hurry up and tell the interesting  parts, I may die of boredom in front of the King and embarrass myself and my entire family.

Tavernkeeper: They stayed long after the tavern emptied. I must say, lord, they had drunk quite a lot, so their voices were raised. I did not eavesdrop on purpose.

Noldóran: I do not fault you, tavernkeeper. Do recount the argument arising between N and F.

Editor’s note: To make for easier reading, the argument is relayed here directly. Readers must trust that they shall miss only a great amount of hesitation by the tavernkeeper to report to the King the exact details of the conversation and the number of drinks N and F consumed meanwhile, which is high.

F: It has always been your greatest fault! N: Loyalty? F: Loyalty to the wrong person. N: Who would the right person be then? [long silence] N: It is not in your nature to avoid a question. F: Why speak if you know the answer well? N: You cannot fathom what you demand of me. F: Only to do the right thing. Is it too much to ask for? N: Ever you have shown nothing but contempt to my father. You do not know him as I do. F: You are blind to his faults. N: I am not. But, unlike you, I am familiar with his virtues, too. F: Any virtue he possesses pales before his vices. N: Is it not unfair to speak so when you have made no attempt to understand him? F: He deserves none. N: Do I? Do it for my sake. I would do it for you. I have done it for you. F: It was not for me. You had taken a liking to my father long before I was born. He is easy to love. N: How naive for someone who claims to know others with no effort. You say I am blind to my father’s faults, yet you see none in yours. F: He has none. N: I can name one. Just now, he made you lie to me and to yourself. F: My father is blameless in this! N: Of course, only mine is to blame for everything. F: What is the use of seeing his faults if you do nothing about them? N: What do you expect me to do? F: I told you. The right thing. N: Why did you summon me here? We are only repeating ourselves again and again. We shall never agree. F: If only you were less stubborn. N: I am no more stubborn than you. Why should I be the one to relent? What will you sacrifice? F: Have I not sacrificed enough? Have I not endured your father’s scorn without protest? Have I not stayed by your side through all of it? N: What a great sacrifice it must be for you to stay by my side! Have you overlooked that I did the same? Or perhaps you believe it is easier for me? F: If it is not, then we both know who to blame. I suppose I must be grateful you have gathered enough courage to even agree to speak with me. Have you told your father where you will be? N: Have you told yours? F: You give me no answer as expected, but I shall answer you. I have not only because my father has no perverse need to keep watch over his children’s every move. He is not cowardly enough to look for betrayal where there is none. N: You will not call my father a coward! Have I ever treated your father with such disdain? F: Why would you? He does not deserve it. N: But mine does? F: Doesn’t someone who belittles others to hide his own weakness, who is craven enough to forge weapons in secret, deserve to be treated with contempt? N: Do not speak so, I warn you. F: What will you do? Leave and shun me as always? Disregard my letters and flee when I try to visit? Run to your father to assure him of your loyalty, so you can stave off his bitterness and suspicion for a while longer? 

Noldóran: Do go on! What happened then?

Tavernkeeper: I hesitate, lord, for even now, I can scarcely believe it.

Noldóran: Nevertheless, I would hear it.

Tavernkeeper: After those words, N, well, he struck F.

Noldóran: Struck him?

Tavernkeeper: He did. A mighty fist against F’s jaw.

Noldóran: Are you certain that it was N who struck first?

Tavernkeeper: Quite certain, lord. I must say I had lost count of the cups they had both drunk by that point.

Scribe’s note: Liar! It does not sound like N. Although, the son of [redacted] would have deserved it.

Noldóran: Please continue. Spare no detail.

Tavernkeeper: The blow was strong enough that F fell from his chair. They both looked as astounded as I was. I thought N wished to offer a hand to F, but instead, he turned back and moved to the door. That was when F pounced on him and brought him down. They tumbled together, grappled, and shoved each other against the walls. They damaged five chairs and two tables during their brawl as well as all the cups and plates that were on them. F twisted N’s wrist in an attempt to restrain him, but N wrapped F’s braids around his other hand and wrenched him away. They were on the floor once again by then. N tried to rise, but F took a broken chair leg and hurled it towards N. It hit the mark rather painfully. In response, N threw a half-empty goblet at F, which missed his head but drenched his hair in ale.

Editor’s note: The sketch of King Finwë with his head in his hands is presumably drawn by the scribe.

Noldóran: What then?

Tavernkeeper: They must have exhausted themselves because they remained lying on the floor for a while. I was afraid to approach them, but I also hesitated to leave in case they resumed their fight.

Noldóran: Did they?

Tavernkeeper: No… They did something else.

Noldóran: …what was it?

Tavernkeeper: F sat and helped N up. N said something to F in a very low voice. F answered. I could not hear the words. And then they… They kissed, lord.

Noldóran: A kiss between friends?

Tavernkeeper: I would not say so.

Scribe’s note: This does sound like N.

Noldóran: Did you see what happened after the so-called kiss?

Tavernkeeper: No, lord. I hurried to leave. That was all I saw, I swear.

Noldóran: Thank you, tavernkeeper. I believe it goes without saying that what we have spoken about must remain within the walls of this hall. Of course, you shall be compensated generously for your losses. Scribe, there is no need to record this part.

Scribe: As you command, Noldóran.

Tavernkeeper: No word shall leave my lips, lord.

Noldóran: You have my gratitude.

Scribe’s note: Future generations of the Noldor, I shall have your gratitude for making and preserving these records. Glory to the House of [redacted]!

***

Fingers run between disheveled braids, smoothing them with gentleness in stark contrast with the violence they had yanked at them. Inhale. The faint perfume of almond oil wafts through the heavy scent of ale. They do not mix well. Maitimo says so.

“Who could have guessed?” Findekáno says dryly.

Maitimo’s fingers continue their tender way through Findekáno’s braids. Findekáno closes his eyes, his head turning where Maitimo guides him, willingly this time.

Languidly, he raises a hand and runs it – feather-light – across Maitimo’s face, across his left cheekbone where a hideous bruise is already forming.

“Does it hurt?” he asks.

“Yes.”

Findekáno leans forward and retraces the path of his fingers with his lips, leaving a faint trail of red across Maitimo’s cheekbone. Maitimo’s eyes fall shut, his breath stutters. Findekáno takes Maitimo’s hand – the same one that split his lip open – and kisses the bloodied knuckles. Maitimo’s fingers entwine with Findekáno’s – a movement so familiar and practiced that it is almost an instinct.

Findekáno raises his head and presses his lips to Maitimo’s, but the moment Maitimo deepens the kiss, Findekáno pulls back with a hiss.

“It is bleeding again,” Maitimo says with dismay.

He takes a dampened rag and taps it tenderly against Findekáno’s lip, careful to avoid touching his bruised jaw. But Findekáno leans into his hand, his eyelids fluttering in something between pain and relief.

Maitimo undresses him, runs his fingers along his shoulders, caresses his chest, strokes his hips. Bruises are late to bloom and hard to find on Findekáno’s skin, unlike Maitimo, who is already painted red and purple. But Maitimo knows exactly where he had hurt Findekáno – an elbow to the sternum, a closed fist beneath the ribs, shoulders slammed against the edge of a table too many times.

Maitimo explores Findekáno’s body with hesitant touches, soothes his aches, brushes his fingers against the bruises. Does not apologize. The sound of Findekáno’s harsh breathing grows louder and louder until he grabs Maitimo’s hands and turns in his arms.

He bares Maitimo from the waist up in pained, hurried movements as if there is no time left. Maitimo winces when he raises his arms to allow Findekáno to disrobe him.

“Oh!” Findekáno exclaims, staring at the fresh bruise that covers most of Maitimo’s lower rib cage.

“Even inebriated, your aim is true,” Maitimo says.

Findekáno sinks down. Raises a hand to the bruise, then lets it fall. Leans forward and traces the uneven edges of the bruise with his lips, warms it up with his breath, soothes it with his tongue. Does not apologize.

Findekáno begins the work of relieving Maitimo of the rest of his clothing. Maitimo’s hands shake, then his knees, then his shoulders. Findekáno’s lips slide lower, ghost over Maitimo’s groin.

“You did not hurt me there,” Maitimo says, his voice coming out as bruised as his body is.

“How fortunate I still had some sense left,” Findekáno says.

Maitimo laughs, and for the briefest of moments, all pieces fall into their places – Findekáno before him, teasing him gently, making him laugh – so familiar and so right. But the tremors of laughter reach every aching place, reminding him sharply of what they did.

“Wait,” he says.

“Hush,” Findekáno says, holding Maitimo by his unhurt hip.

Maitimo looks down at Findekáno, kneeling on his bruised knees, looks at Findekáno’s swollen lip and beaten face.

“Who would do this?” he asks.

Findekáno draws back.

“Who hurts someone he loves and cherishes in such a cruel way?” Maitimo asks.

“You do,” Findekáno says. His gaze slowly passes over all the angry red marks he has left on Maitimo’s body. “And I.”

Maitimo sits before him.

“Will you swear it will never happen again?” he asks. “Can you give me your word that you will not do it again?”

Findekáno is silent for a moment.

“You cannot either,” he says then.

“No.”

“It is not right.”

“No.”

Findekáno leans his forehead against Maitimo’s. There is a small but painful bump on it from hitting it against a chair. It aches.

“You should leave,” Findekáno says.

“I should.”

“So should I.”

“Yes.”

They sit before each other, bare and bruised, hand in hand, skin to skin, amid the broken cups and chairs, amid the destruction they caused. None moves. 

[arthur-lesters-larynx]

“Why did they choose me?”

“=`8F*G@bf++DQ%?F<G[=ATD?7”

“So not any special reason? That’s disappointing.”

“:2b5fBl7Q+F)Y]#Bjkg#@:F.tF<GjIFWb+1H$<\BF"SS(G[k<(F<G".C`mh5AKZ).Bl7R)+F.mJ-ZWc@GA1l0Bl7Q+FDi:4D]j.?+D#G3F`M%9H#IhG+D,Y*ARo^r/g*`--Z^DEDKKH1ATMs-DJ(R”

“How would you know what makes someone important? You’re not even human.”

“:1\-]BOu3,@<,p%H#IgV+Du+>+CT/5D/XH+/g+;8FWb1&DC9NKA8,Tt@;^@-DfTDA/g,:SCh7[/+F.mJ+D,%rC`mY.+Cf>4EcYeE”

“Ah right, I have to do whatever you say. Lovely.”

“8LJ?tDJsV>@<63uDJ()(DfQt;F^o)9+AHQkF!*\35<h@b+@pWl@;[3(Bm+'/+CT;%DC9NKFDl(?BOPpl+EVNEFCArr/c”

“Of course you’d think that.”

👁👁👁👁👁👁👁👁👁

10/26/14

AN ASK?? IN MY INBOX?? its more likely than you think

[zwcsolutions]

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[zealouswerewolfcollector]

Fingolfin and Fingon discuss trust, betrayal and the crown, T, 735 words

On Ao3

Fingon stared at the wood burning in the fireplace and did not speak. The fire died slowly. Dull red embers were taunting him. He turned away and met his father’s gaze. He wondered if Fingolfin was thinking about the same thing he was. Red embers on the horizon like specks of blood, making a mockery of brotherhood and friendship.

“Do you trust him?” Fingolfin asked.

Fingon lips were stuck together as if dried by the cruel sea wind.

“Makalaurë says he did not burn the ships because he wanted to return for us,” he said finally.

“Makalaurë will say anything his brother tells him to.”

“Such a lie would be easy to uncover.”

“I suppose.”

“I cannot find any sinister motive in his decision to waive his claim to the crown,” Fingon said. “His brothers’ reaction surely proves his sincerity. I do not believe he is capable of plotting just yet.”

“A Fëanárion plot against our house is not what worries me.”

The embers had died down. The windows were shut, but Fingon could still feel the wind sawing through him. Standing on the shore as the blood specks on the horizon faded, leaving ashen silence behind, he had felt emptied of everything, a shell that had once housed a person.

“What then?” he asked quietly.

Fingolfin looked into his eyes.

“You were with me when the Sindar told us of the thralls that came back—”

“He did not come back. I brought him back. I freed him. He was not set free. He would stay there forever if the Enemy had his way.”

“We cannot know all the tricks of the Enemy.”

Fingon had rebuffed every attempt at conversation after the ships burned. Back then, he still could afford it. Or he had thought he could. Now he knew he could not turn away.

“Manwë’s eagle came for us,” he said. “Is that not a proof?”

“It might be.” Fingolfin sat by his son and squeezed the hand that was gripping the armrest tightly enough to crack it. “Do you trust him?” he asked.

“What would Moringotto gain by putting you on the throne? If Maitimo is in thrall to him as you suspect, it would make more sense for the Enemy to have Maitimo claim the crown and divide us further.”

“It would make more sense for him to Sing in harmony with the other Valar and take joy in Arda. But that is not what he did, is it?” Fingolfin waited until his son looked at him. “I am merely suggesting that we need to be prepared for every possibility.”

“Make sure to avoid suggesting it in front of his brothers lest we risk another bloodshed.”

“One would think they would be eager to jump at the opportunity to declare him unfit to make such decisions.”

Perhaps it was Fingon’s brisk tone that had angered his father enough to make such an unkind statement. 

“No matter what, they will not price the crown higher than their own brother,” Fingon said.

He did not mean it as a barb against his father, but Fingolfin’s eye still twitched. 

“They will let love blind them then,” he said in a deliberately even voice. “Will you?”

Fingon wrenched his hand away and strode to the door.

“Do you trust him?” Fingolfin asked.

Fingon stopped with his hand at the handle.

“I trust he will not want to live as the Enemy’s weapon,” he said without turning to look at his father. “So I will not allow it to happen. I am a kinslayer already. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

“No, Findekáno.” Pain colored Fingolfin’s voice and made his hand that gripped his son’s shoulder tremble. “I will not let the responsibility fall to you. You have already shouldered burdens greater than you should have to.”

“It has to be me. He would want me to.”

“I care not.”

“If what you fear comes true,” Fingon said, turning to look at Fingolfin, “and anyone else raises a blade against Maitimo, I will not ever forgive them. Not even you, Father.”

Fingolfin inclined his head. It was not acquiescence but simply a decision to delay the discussion. For now, it was enough for Fingon. 

When Fingolfin looked away, Fingon slipped the dagger he had placed on the table back into his sleeve. He said his goodbyes to his father and went to sit by Maedhros’s bedside.