#nor feanor...

[stitcherofchaos]

Why I don't speak much about Finrod (and my favorite Tolkien character tier list)

It's weird how much I love the type of character that Finrod is too, but I don't talk or overanalyze him as much as I do with Maglor.

I think this is because I can't say anything new about Finrod that has already been said. Finrod's literally perfection on this site.

You know I love him than Maedhros but no one would've guessed that because I just don't talk about them.

I fear that I've "over-posted" about Maglor... and to think, originally, I didn't want this blog to be a fandom one but it became that because of the things I'm interested in and/or think about daily. Hence the blog name and yeah I know this post is pure irony but that's kind of the point.

Anyway, here's my controversial list of my top ten favorite tolkien characters:

1.) Maglor (for complexity and too many other reasons I've posted about already)

2.) Finrod // Fingon (equal pure dorks)

3.) Eowyn (relatable a good thing indeed)

4.) Samwise Gamgee (yass king!)

5.) Manwe (naive dork of a king love him) // Gandalf/Olorin (Favorite chaotic introverted boi)

6.) Elrond // Finarfin (equal "gone through pain but still kind" lords)

7.) Varda // Neinna // Luthien (yasss queenz!)

8.) Maedhros (he reminds me of someone I know so he's down here)

9.) Fingolfin (relatable not a good thing)

10.) Faramir (he's husband material) // Aragorn (You deserved better on this list)

Honorable mention(s): The rest of the hobbit gang in Lotr, including Bilbo Baggins.

[papita474]

Actually forgot to post all of this wips lol

They are a lot,A LOT AND theres even more

A lot of russingon here,aparently theyre the only elfs I can draw jskaks

[chaos-of-the-abyss]

im sorry but i find it funny how you went from tolerating feanorians and those apologists to just straight up admitting your disdain for them. seriously, i feel you on that, because its those type that pushed me away from liking the feanorians, and sadly, it drove me away from liking elrond as well (i know, i'm horrible) because of the many times he's been used as a weapon to shit on elwing or any of her family like y'all i can see the bs from miles away with that

let me tell you anon, i've reached my limit for "everyone can have their own opinion uwu" after the continuous slew of """opinions""" that have zero canon basis and are obviously trying to make the feanorians look better and more moral while simultaneously condemning their literal victims. it is funny too bc like i've said they used to be some of my favorite characters - and i still very much enjoy them as they are in the story - but the refusal of so many of their "fans" to engage with the people they actually are is frustrating and ridiculous. you'd think if you like a character you wouldn't feel the need to sanitize their actions. at that point just write your own original story of misunderstood "forced by circumstance to commit mass murder" tragic heroes, because whichever characters it is you're stanning there, it's not the feanorians

i still do adore elrond (the canon version of him, not the fanon "maglor is my real dad!!11!1! also i hate my parents bc they Abandoned Me" knockoff), but i do steer clear of content that's not from my mutuals lol. like you said some characterization choices are so blatantly just using him as ammunition for their "we want m&m to be elrond and elros' real parents, so we have to make elwing as bad as possible so m&m become better caretakers by comparison despite being the reason elrond and elros no longer have their family, home, and friends" pipeline. it's transparent as hell and especially annoying considering that elwing lost her family and home and was displaced as a toddler thanks to the feanorians' actions. then when they come back and take everything from her a second time you want to vilify her while glorifying them? using her sons who in canon clearly loved and respected her? lmao

[annoyinglandmagazine]

So off topic here a bit, but I’ve just watched the Witcher on Netflix. And let me just say that no matter what criticism and discourse there is of decisions made here (and I’m sure they are many justified, I just haven’t interacted with the source material enough to have an opinion on that) I really, really enjoyed it. But the one thing in particular that just really hit the spot for me is the Found Family obviously, I think we all love a good found family and wow do they deliver there, but especially Geralt’s arc. And no I’m not talking about with Yennefer or Jaskier.

He starts off as this typical stoic dude entirely disillusioned and doesn’t really have any meaning to his life whatsoever outside his dangerous line of work. Fairly standard. And then we start to see the Childhood Trauma and he has a genuine romantic connection which is all very nice but still quite standard. And then what actually, truly changes him more than anything isn’t Yennefer, instead they make a decision that made me genuinely start to feel for him more than I was at all expecting to and makes this story so much more interesting to me. They give him a daughter. And this little girl is suddenly the most important thing in his life; no romantic or sexual relationship but a pure platonic love and affection for his child.

I need more focus on good parent child relationships in media and this just hits all the spots. I thought they were going to get me with Yennefer if I’m being honest, and she’s incredible, but god do I love father daughter relationships being not only healthy but central and the fact that it’s found family just makes it a thousand times better. I’m a simple gal I’m discovering, give me a big intimidating guy who’s life mission is to protect the world but he’d let it all burn to protect this little girl he found on the side of the road and it will imprint on me so fucking hard.

[sesamenom]

highlights from Hobbit-Era Worldbuilding:

according to tolkiengateway these were-worms are never again mentioned (occupying a similar mythological space as mermaids and turtle-fish and dumbledors/hummerhorns), and the Last Desert is in fact the Gobi Desert

dragons established a breeding population sometime between the end of the War of Wrath and the beginning of the Hobbit

dragons have an innate sense of the market value of precious metals

one troll has a talking purse, which is also never again mentioned

The entirety of the moon-letters?? and also the riddle-game

lol bilbo

gollum has pockets, apparently

okay so at this point in the lore chances are this is either irrelevant or metaphorical. but imagine if gollum survived 500 yrs with the ring because he randomly has a fire-fea, like some weird ancient hobbit equivalent of feanor

gandalf's "also naughty little boys that play with fire get punished" sounds very much like it was tacked on there as part of the bedtime story edition lol.

the Eagles regularly random shepherds' flocks

matches exist and are commonly in use, except for by dwarves

eagle pleasantries

the Lord of the Eagles might not be gwaihir on account of the lack of a crown in gwaihir's later descriptions

forget bombadil, where did beorn come from. he's probably related to the tompolle dancing bears of numenor, but where did *those* bears come from. and who are these ancient giants (the thunder-battlers?)

beorn's weird dogs

how many dancing-bear skin-changers are there in rhovanion?? or is beorn just hosting dance parties with regular bears

The sleep river and eyes and white deer are probably the mirkwood equivalent of the nan dungortheb too-many-ainur-in-one-place weirdness

Thingol mention!

also "his people neither mined nor worked metals or jewels, nor did they bother much with trade or with tilling the earth." what was doriath even doing

dragons do the dolphin sleep thing

...so this bit of dragon etiquette is definitely turin's fault

and come to think of it, the wearing-hoards-as-armor is definitely from azaghal stabbing glaurung

bilbo has coined a lot of proverbs

hey that was gandalf's original name. it's a noldorin/gnomish name now and not attributed to a numenorean, so was bladorthin like. gil galads successor or something.

i had forgotten how much this sounds like the Oath

lol

the Iron Hills dwarves have some sort of superfine maille?

sorry thorin, that's what you get for calling him a rat

imagine the Wars of Beleriand with added bilbo commentary

[doodle-pops]

House of Feanor | When You Fake Your Orgasm

Request: Hi! I’m so happy you opened the request again!☺️ I wanted to ask if you could do the “When you fake an orgasm” with the Feanorians, the one for the Ainur was amazing!! Thank you and have a great day💖

A/N: I didn’t include the twins in this because I was unable to write smut for them. I don’t know why, but I can never envision smut for them, it doesn’t click for me. Sorry, but I also hope you enjoy it!

Warnings: smut, fem!reader, rough sex, spanking, fingering, overstimulation, edging, multiple orgasms, orgasm denial, cunnilingus, oral sex (male and female receiving), manhandling, restraints, dirty talking, pet names (kitten, little one, bunny, good girl, princess), punishment, reader being mocked

Masterlist | Navigation

Feanor — I don’t know if I should clap you on the back and say, “Great job for challenging a man like him,” or be concerned that you chose to challenge a prideful man like him. Because baby, he’s not letting that slide on his pride. Verdict? Punished

He sensed it, the minute you tossed your head into the pillows and released the most ear-aching groan you attempted to have sound believable, he stopped. There was no shouting, no groaning or fuming like he usually did—he simply pulled out with a loud slick, the look of pure dissatisfaction on his face, and climbed off the bed to stand at the foot. There was a sharp gleam in his eyes the longer he looked at you, contemplating what punishment to dish out—so many options, a lot of time to execute them all, which one came first. He chose to say nothing, instead grabbing you by your calves and dragging you to the foot of the bed.

Before you could properly react, he snatched you by the arm and spun you around, planting your face into the mattress with a hand gripping the back of your neck to firmly keep you rooted. A high-pitched squeal left your throat, but it wasn’t from the sudden roughness of his actions, it was from the loud crack of a hand across your ass, followed by the immediate dragging of his fingers through your folds to harshly rub your clit. “Feels good doesn’t it? So good you could cum all over my fingers right now,” he muttered in your ear, pressing more weight against your sweet spot once he found it, causing a string of gibberish to leave your lips. “Then why don’t you cum right now. Fake another one if you dare.”

“F-Fea…nor—shit—was just a—ngh—joke,” you cried out as you wiggled your hips against the thrusting of his thick and calloused fingers.

“A joke,” he gasped lightly with humour in his tone before continuing, “then I too should give you one as well.” Then, he withdrew his fingers an inch away, listening to you crying out from the loss of pleasure. “Let me give you the best joke in the history of the Noldor—so good, that you’ll remember it forever and even learn a lesson from it.”

Maedhros — what can I say. Best rough fuck of your life? This man had his own sense of humour, and he was about to display how funny he could be during a crucial act since you wanted to play games.

The moment your lips parted to gasp, fingers digging into his biceps and legs tightening around his waist, he smirked. The hands on your waist slid downwards to grip your thighs and curl them into your chest, flush against your breasts while pressing his weight upon you, essentially pinning you beneath him. The new position had his heavy cock pressed deeper within your walls; you were scrambling to find purchase along his sweaty back. “Nggh, fuck—too deep, Mae,” you whined with a pout, brows furrowing and lip biting as he doubled the pace, making the bedframe shake.

“Hmm, I’m as deep as I should be,” he purred against your lips while one hand from your thigh reached up to grip your chin, forcing you to keep eye contact. He chose to roll his hips, his flared tip rubbing against your sweet post, prompting your eyes and walls to flutter as you genuinely came around his cock, a warm gush of your juices coating his length. “That’s more like it. That’s how you should look when you’re about to cum all over my cock,” he grinned and pecked your lips swiftly. “All fucked out, not that phoney performance.”

“M-Mae…please, ’s too much.”

“Uh-Uh.” He was having fun with this, giving your face a small shake while his grip on your jaw tightened. You could feel him deep in your stomach—getting deeper—and the loud squelching sounds of your cunt gushing around his length telling you that he didn’t plan on stopping. “I’m having just as much fun as you faking your orgasm, melda. Why should I stop when all you have to do is lie there and take my cock?” he whispered cynically with a wicked grin. “Or do you want to fake another orgasm again?”

You shook your head, struggling to keep up as another orgasm was approaching after he fucked you through the recent one.

“Good,” he hummed and lifted his body slightly off you, releasing your chin. “Now be a good girl and cum for me again.”

Maglor — the gentle poet isn’t always as gentle as everyone considers him to be, you know? Kano has his tricks up his sleeves, and one of them is ensuring that you’re not leaving this bed unsatisfied, no matter what it takes.

He didn’t even wait for you to finish before he came to a complete halt, staring at you with all the restraint and disbelief. And then, ever so slowly, he broke into a smile—a cunning, wicked smile. “My, my, my, princess. You didn’t tell me that we were performing. Had I known—” he growled and suddenly pulled out to flip you onto your knees, pushing your face into the pillows and sinking your back into a beautiful arch. “—I would have put on an equally, captivating performance as well.”

Whimpering, your excuses falling short when you felt his fingers trail down your spine to dip between your folds, spreading your wetness around to rub lazily circles around your clit. “I hope you know how great of an improviser I am—one of the best. So, I hope you can keep up. It would be a shame—a real shame if you were unable to…” That was all Maglor needed to do to have you falling apart under his touch. Those skilled fingers, working you to the brink and bringing you back down, edging you as if he was playing his harp and plucking strings of cries with each pinch or flick.

His other hand rested at the centre of your back, applying just enough pressure to warn you of his warrior’s strength underneath while his fingers ran through your fold, circling your clit and then down to your entrance, doing everything but sinking inside. The needy whines you released only fuelled him to continue his ministrations as you begged him.

“Kano, quit playing—please, put it in,” you groaned, voice muffled as you pushed your face into the pillow to swallow your needy cries which he revelled in.

“Kano quit playing,” he mocked, laughing at the end as he pulled his fingers away to give your ass a solid smack, jolting you forward. “How demanding? What are you, a star actress who can’t play her part correctly?” In an instant, just as the response was at the tip of your tongue, his cock plunged into your cunt and immediately started moving without an inch of reprieve. “Why don’t you leave the improvising to me, sweetheart, and just do what you’re supposed to. Cum for me when I fuck you.”

Celegorm — gosh, you’re giving his man a game. A thrill. A chase. He’s a hunter—this is the type of game he’s into. Make him work for his prize, and you, my dear, were so kind to delectably present him with the best challenge ever. One neither of you would ever forget.

Coming down from your so-called orgasm, had you trembling in Tyelko’s hold. Ankles locked around his neck, nails curling into his meaty biceps and jaw slackened as you mimicked the expression of ecstasy, but that was never enough to fool the hunter. For in an instant, he leaned into you further, pressing more of his weight against you, squeezing your thighs against your chest, caging you in like some prey with those gleaming, green eyes. “Little bunny wants to make me work to earn an orgasm from her, huh? Acting as though I wouldn’t know what this pussy feels like around my cock,” he taunted with a sickeningly, sinful laugh.

“T-Tyelko, don’t—” Your attempted words were immediately cut off by an abrupt tumble as he rolled over to place you on top, adjusting your legs to straddle his hips, yet pulling you down, chest to chest.

“Shh, kitten. You don’t need to speak—you’ve told me enough.” His cock still buried deep within, started moving sluggishly at first—just for a few strokes to get you relaxed—while he gingerly took both your wrist and bound them with one hand behind your back. As slowly as he moved, it was enough to make your stomach flip. And like the predator he was, his feet planted into the mattress and instantly thrust upwards with much more force jerking you forward, save for the strong arms around your waist.

A loud crack of his hand followed against your ass, groping the flesh before sending another, matching the intensity of his thrust. “Just like that—feels so good doesn’t it? Nice and deep enough to fake another?” he growled, increasing his tempo for the sound of sweaty skin clapping against each other to ripple around the room.

“T-Tyel–…ko—fuck! ’m s-sorry…slow down—ah!” Sputtering his favourite chorus of gibberish, he merely grinned and sunk himself deeper into your cunt, purposefully rubbing his cock head against your sweet spot which had your nails digging into your palms and more juices dripping down his cock.

“Not at all kitten. I’m right where I need to be,” he purred and cracked another hand across your ass. “Chasing as many orgasms I can get all night long.”

Caranthir — he doesn’t do anything half-assed, so why would you make him feel like he wasn’t performing up to standards, huh? Don’t you think that you’re about to be reminded to never test his skills?

A hand pinning the back of your neck to the polished desk while the other torturously dragged its fingers through your dripping cunt—if you thought Moryo was about to let it slide with a fickle excuse of ‘I was just tired,’ you were fooling yourself. He didn’t appreciate the gesture and was fixated on ensuring that you never thought about attempting your foolish jest ever again. And judging from how his fingers glided so smoothly through your cunt, your juices coating his palm and wrists, and the obscenely loud echoes of your thirsty walls sucking him back in, he was making a point. All of this when it was your umpteenth orgasm for the night, and he wasn’t letting up. No amount of, ‘I’m sorry,’ ‘Please don’t tease me,’ or ‘It was just a joke,’ could reduce the number of times you’ve cum all over him.

“Have you learnt your lesson yet, melda?” he questioned with such authority, yet a distinctive quietness in his tone. His question was followed up by a sudden contracting off your walls, spasming around his fingers as they remained still and pressing against your sweet spot. Within seconds, another gush of your arousal oozed out, making his rings and bracelets glisten under the lamps. “Hm, not yet it would appear.”

“Moryo—”

“Silence. You had your chance to answer and missed the opportunity. It is clear to me that you still crave more, so I shall give you more. Enough that you will not attempt such foolishness again.” There was a faint smirk in his tone as he leaned down and pressed a kiss to the centre of your back, the same time his fingers regained their pace and continued to fuck you through your orgasm, into the next one. The tremble of your legs as shivered with oversensitivity made him laugh airily, not slowly or increasing his pace, keeping you right there, and giving you want you clearly desired from the start. “You’re doing so well, darling.”

Curufin — nothing misses his eyes. Nothing misses his focus, and you thought it would be a brilliant idea to test the man who was cunning, perspective and undoubtedly harsh when it came to dishing out punishment? Good luck.

“Open—wider.” Just as swiftly as the command came, your mouth was filled with the sliding of his thick cock between your lips to rest heavily against your tongue. He wanted to silence those nasally cries you emitted earlier, calling it the regular sounds you made when you orgasmed, and listen to you gurgling on his cock, rethinking your options. “Just like that. You sound much better.”

All you could do was look up at him through your teary lashes while he tossed his head back, hands tightening in your hair as he held you still. He didn’t move too slow or too quickly, just at the right pace to satisfy him and leave you clenching around nothing in anticipation. A soft, muffled whine escaped your throat when he pulled back, leaving his tip to rest against your lips, causing him to finally open his eyes and look down at you—with disappointment. “What’s wrong? Finally ready to apologise so I can make you cum for your ridiculous stunt?”

You nodded, pouting up at him with your teary eyes, knowing the effect it always had on him. “I’m sorry…won’t do it again.”

Instead, he scoffed. You were so shameless. Fake your orgasm and then had the audacity to be wet while he fucked your throat, wanting his cock to quench your heat. If anything, it made him more irritable. “I’m not so sure that you are sorry,” he corrected, biting his lower lip. “You just want me to stuff you with my cock like the needy little thing you are.”

“You can do whatever you want,” you pleaded. “I just want to cum.”

Rolling his eyes as he tapped his cock head against your lips, signalling you to open up, he pushed into the warmth of your mouth again, exhaling deeply at the welcoming of your heat and wetness. “I am doing whatever I want, darling. And that’s making sure you don’t cum like you wanted from the start.”

Celebrimbor — okay, why would you even try this stunt on this pookie wookie? He’s trying his best to bring you the best pleasure you ever had in your life with passionate precision and you of all things to do…fake your orgasm. Go stand outside in the rain, for making him feel like his performance wasn’t good enough,

His hips stuttered the minute you started vibrating and clinging to him, giving him a world-altering performance of you orgasming. There was a look of sadness washing over you as he continued to observe your shaking figure under him—you were so caught up in acting to notice that he had stopped and slackened his hold on your hips, slightly sitting on his hunches. The way his brain was calculating what to do in the face of such an event he never thought would occur to him. Then, he recalled—a conversation between two of his Lords he overheard speaking about their wives pulling this same stunt.

So, it was a thing. Just you attempting to trick him. He was still saddened deep down, but with a fervour.

Gingerly, he pulled his cock out and shuffled off the bed, noticing how you watched him with curious eyes. “Where are going? You haven’t finished?” you worried, sitting upright and frowning as he slipped back into his trousers, keeping it loose around his waist.

He said nothing as he reached into the drawers for a pair of handcuffs, designed just for you. A little something he was working on for a while to surprise you with, and what a joyous occasion it was for him to introduce them to you because, in mere minutes, your hands were cuffed to the headboard and left sobbing—begging for release, overstimulated. Tyelpë’s mouth worked so fervently against your pussy, giving you all the orgasms in the world so you would never test his abilities again.

A languid drag of his tongue against your clit, followed but a sharp suck had your toes curling, yet, unable to move from the iron grip that held them apart. You were beyond sensitive, unsure if he could milk another orgasm from your thoroughly wracked body.

“Hmm, do you think you can give me one more?” he peered up at you through those gorgeous emerald eyes. How could you say ‘no’ even when this was punishment? And yet you found yourself nodding slowly. “Lovely, let us see if this would be the one to remind you to never try that trick again.”

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[kkolhen]

Sauron with pets. Has anyone noticed that he has trouble coming up with cool names? He simply called his lands “Dark Country.” He called his capital “The Dark Tower”. Sauron did not name his flying creatures at all. Neither a dragon nor a wyvern, just a creature with wings.

And remember what exquisite names Melkor gave to everything! Ancalagon, Glaurung, Dor Daedeloth, Grond. What fancy names!

Feanor also named his creations. Everyone knows the Silmarils and Palantirs. Sauron called his rings simply rings! Maybe it was he who invented and named the bagpipes? Anyway who cares what Sauron named his pets as long as he cared about them? Hope he cared

[shrikeseams]

Now I love a counter-textual interpretation as much as the next bitch, but textually, when Feanor approached the Teleri during the flight,

He invited them to go with the Noldor, rather than just asked to borrow their boats (I had fully forgotten this and it's honestly so under-used): "He resolved now therefore to persuade the Teleri, ever friends to the Noldor, to join with them[...]"

The Valar's stated policy is given as an explicit reason the Teleri chose against the Noldor. I don't read it as that being the only reason, but unless you're going against the published text that is part of their decision: "But the Teleri were unmoved by aught that he could say. They were grieved indeed at the going of their kinsfolk and long friends, but would rather dissuade them than aid them; and no ship would they lend, nor help in the building, against the will of the Valar."

As stated in the quote above: the Teleri wouldn't even teach the Noldor to build boats. This is not just natural reluctance to give away prized possessions. This is actively gatekeeping essential knowledge for the Noldor to depart Aman in any degree of physical safety, specifically because of the Valar.

"And [Olwe] had never lent ear to Morgoth, nor welcomed him to his land, and he trusted still that Ulmo and the other great among the Valar would redress the hurts of Morgoth, and that the night would pass yet to a new dawn." I do wonder how long that confidence lasted. Did it survive the kinslaying? Did it survive centuries of the valar's idleness, with a slow but steady stream of reimbodied sindar reporting on Morgoth's efforts, wholly unchecked by the valar and only erratically checked by the Noldor and their allies? Did it survive the drowning of Numenor?

[istaricelebelasse]

…neither law, nor love, nor league of swords, dread nor danger, not Doom itself, shall defend him from Fëanor, and Fëanor's kin

Fate of the Silmarils and Oath of Feanor

Hand embroidery

[skyeventide]

does the Oath of Feanor work as a magical compulsion, or does it have magical properties, and are its consequences real?

yes, because the magic of Arda is also based on words of power, and it would be dissatisfying and limiting to assume that somehow that power doesn't work in this specific instance. no, because even if Feanor is the one speaking, not even his power could bend the fate of elves to that extent. yes, because the fate of any one people can be bent, delayed, or weirdly modified until an oath is fulfilled; in LOTR, the ghosts of the path of the dead prove it. no, because Manwe and Varda would not feel bound to enforce an oath of death with them as witnesses, and it goes against the rules of oathing. yes, because the enforcer is Eru, they just stand as witnesses and do not have the power to release the swearers as Eru would. no, because we don't even know if Eru accepted that oath. yes, because if the oath was invalid from the start, it would be beyond callous of Manwe and Varda not to inform the swearers and allow the consequences of the oath to happen. no, because a magical compulsion would remove or to an extent at least lessen responsibility of actions taken in its pursuit. yes, because the author of the story acknowledges a certain "will" of the oath by making it wake or sleep with active verbs. no, because even swearing without additional magic on top can feel like a compulsion to do things or to keep going that otherwise would not exist or not be felt by a given swearer. yes, because no matter what the everlasting darkness is or does, it can be real independently from any other prior compulsion to act; in other words, there may not be a magical property to the oath, but its called consequences for the swearers are very real. no, because there's several slightly different versions of the oath across the texts, and it's impossible to do a literal, word for word reading of its lines if it's possible to recite it slightly differently at a given time. yes, because the only valid version is the original pronounced by Feanor in Tirion, you can't wiggle out of that one. no, because who's to say that was recorded correctly, it's far too poetic for a sudden decision. yes, because who's to say that Feanor couldn't whip out all that via improvisation, I bet he could. yes, because other characters beyond the sons of Feanor treat the oath as something absolutely serious and real, and that includes Finrod in speaking to Andreth, when he says that Eru's name is not called upon even in jest, as well as Melian, when pointing out the strong forces awakened by involving that power. no, because neither of them can talk to Eru anyway. yes, because it's narratively more satisfying to imagine characters morally struggle against something that is eventually unbreakable and unavoidable like in any good tragedy. no, because it's narratively more satisfying to imagine characters do it to themselves and compromise with who they are out of family loyalty. yes, because the curse of Mandos actively turns it against the swearers into a betraying force, a consequence that wouldn't otherwise be a given, that is, nothing says that everything they start well would have finished badly and that the oath would have led them to defeat, and if it weren't magical before Mandos' addition, it is now. no, because Amrod's death in a draft would prove it breakable through his (admittedly only guessed) desire to turn back. yes, because he still died in the process, aka the everlasting darkness claimed him for being an oathbreaker. no, because how is it possible that it's simultaneously unbreakable and broken. yes, because the fate of arda and that of elves is inscribed within the eternal paradox of everything being predicted and everything being free will, and that will never be solved, neither regarding the fate of the elves nor the oath of Feanor. no, because the oath is a narrative device. yes, because the oath is a narrative device. three hundred more lines.

hope this helps. hope it doesn't. your pick.

[chaos-of-the-abyss]

celegorm: be he friend or foe, whether demon of morgoth, or elf, or child of men, or any other living thing in arda, neither law, nor love, nor league of hell, nor might of the valar, nor any power of wizardry, shall defend him from the pursuing hate of feanor’s sons, if he take or find a silmaril and keep it. for the silmarils we alone claim, until the world ends celegorm when he hears that luthien has a silmaril: fuck no. i am not messing with her

[sunnyshinesunshine]

I love Kidnap Fam a lot, I really do, but I’ve seen a trend of brushing over the worst parts of Maglor and especially Maedhros’ history in Kidnap Fam works.

And I suppose that’s fine sometimes you don’t wanna deal with atrocities and you just want fluff.

But I think a lot of the time when writing the Kidnap Fam there’s a tendency for mostly Elrond to sort of excuse the actions of the House of Feanor.

I think maybe that’s because it is hard to conceptualise Mags and Mae being both kind to the children and villains at the same time.

And don’t mistake me, I think all the sons of Feanor were villains by their deaths. Maedhros, in my opinion, is the definition of ‘die a hero or live long enough to be a villian’.

Being critically online (guilty) I find it hard to remember that the world isn’t black or white. People are multifaceted. Their goodness doesn’t wipe away the harm they’ve done and vice versa.

All this to say that I’m really looking forward to some more Kidnap Fam fics that explore the idea of Elrond loving and honoring them as his parents, all the while being like ‘yeah they were also horrible but I still love them and don’t think they should be doomed forever’.

Because at the end of the day, neither Mags nor Mae were truly monsters (just straight evil with no goodness), but people who were capable of hunting for hours for a pair of lost boys, and refusing to burn the ships for love, as well as slaughtering an entire city full of refugees.

So yeah! Let’s see some Elrond having complicated feelings about that!! Woo!

[tanoraqui]

Lalwen welcomed Arafinwë into the parlor, the last of the party to arrive, then locked the door behind him and hid the key deep in an inner pocket.

.

Lalwen leapt to her feet and flung herself between the door and Fëanor with his improvised lock pick.

“Don’t you dare!” she cried, and hung on his arm like she was an attention-greedy toddler again. “Náro, Náro, this is good. This is great! Look, we’re talking!”

.

Lalwen leapt to her feet and flung herself between the door and Fingolfin with his lock pick which had been beautifully disguised as just another shirt button.

“Why do you even have that?” she demanded.

.

“Why doesn’t Fëanáro live with us?” Lalwendë asked her sister, who was nineteen years old and thus could be expected to know nearly everything.

They were just trooping inside after bidding their oldest brother farewell, like always after the holidays. Except for sometimes when he didn’t even come home for the holidays. Lalwen had at least gotten her ritual parting promise that he’d make her something extra nice while he was gone, in exchange for her ritual refusal to let go of his leg until he made the promise.

“He’s apprenticing with Mahtan Aulendil,” Findis said, like that should explain everything.

When Lalwen just kept staring up at her, Findis rolled her eyes and added, “Who lives with the Lord of Forges in his mountain, which is miles and miles from here. As an apprentice, Fëanáro has to live with him and the rest of the Aulendili. He used to live with us, when you were really a baby. And before that.”

“Oh!” said Lalwen, much relieved. She’d been worried that it might have something to do with Queen Miriel of the hallway tapestries, in which case it would be Very Sad and Terrible, and Not To Be Spoken Of.

Nolofinwë had been tagging along at their parents’ heels ahead, but he’d obviously been eavesdropping on their private sisters conversation, because he dropped back to join them.

“I think it’s not just the apprenticeship,” he said, with the gleam in his eyes of someone who knew a secret. He lowered his voice. “I think there’s a girl he likes, there. I peeked at his notes and he’d drawn her, over and over.”

Lalwen gasped with delight.

.

“Never mind. I can see when I’m not wanted.”

Findis stood, wrapping simmering dignity around herself like a cloak, unconsciously echoing the words she’d said before the last time she stalked out of a family game night—when the Trees still shone and she’d moved to Valimar shortly thereafter, and never moved back.

This time, Lalwen’s hand shot out and gripped her wrist like a steel chain.

“Don’t you dare,” she snapped. She leveled her glare across the table. “Beside, Fëanáro’s sorry, isn’t he?”

.

"I'm sure they have those cheese snacks in the kitchens," Arafinwë mused, and ambled toward the door.

"I'm far ahead of you, brother!" Lalwen crowed, and with a flourish opened the vine-carved cabinet beside the fireplace. "Voila: snacks to last the night!"

.

Lalwen didn’t see Fëanor off at first flowering; she’d given up on that when she was a child. Even if this time, for the first time, he didn’t go of his own free will. But she stood on a balcony and watched her father leave with him, a simple traveling circlet on his dark head. She hadn’t spoken to Finwë since her bitter words two nights before.

Her mother the queen left at the next fruiting, with no warning save the maids hurriedly packing her bags. She went to stay with her kin in Valimar.

Lalwen wanted to scream. She wanted to fight, to dance, to move until her limbs felt like they were coming off at the joints. She wanted to throw furniture and fine glassware until all of Tirion was shattered, and they all packed up the few remains and built a new city somewhere else.

But someone had to stay, because Arafinwë would sidle back to the shore within a week and the children were even more tumultuous than their parents. So she stayed and helped Nolofinwë pretend for their people that everything was going to be okay, even though it felt like the Light itself was flickering.

.

Fingolfin picked the lock picks from Fëanor's pocket, his own having been confiscated.

Fëanor stole them back once he noticed, on principal.

.

Lalwen watched her little brother turn and walk away, the starlight that still seemed too dark glinting in his golden hair.

She was proud of him for standing up for himself. She was indignant at his presumptuous, self-righteous judgement. She wasn’t entirely surprised, except maybe at how he’d yelled back at Fëanáro and Nolofinwë both, because she knew that gentle Arafinwë didn’t have the heart for what the rest of them were about to do—to venture into strange new lands and fight sword and arrow, tooth and void-damned claw until the Enemy was dead, and their father, their home, and all the peace of Arda was avenged.

.

Having failed to find the key, Fëanor tried to steal one of Lalwen's hairpins, which were, indeed, perfectly serviceable lock picks.

She whipped around and bit his hand.

"Ow!" Fëanor yelped, and Findis said, "Oh, you're just- Let me do that," as Lalwen tried and failed to recapture her loosened locks.

It was much harder to manage the back of her head after three glasses of wine. Suspiciously, Lalwen clutched all her hairpins as Findis removed them one by one, and only handed them back upon explicit request.

.

With the rest of her people, Lalwen woke up to a distinct lack of ships offshore beside their miles-long camp. It was quickly determined that all, and only, Fëanáro’s people were missing as well.

They waited. They waited hopefully, faithfully, until they saw the fire in the far distance across the water, and the dozens of part- and once-Teleri among them wept, knowing in their sea-touched hearts what had been lost.

.

Fingolfin stood from the wine-stained carpet with a frown. "I'll go fetch some washcloths—"

"It's fine, Nolo!" Lalwen insisted, and gave him the bright and perfect smile which had once earned her the title 'Jewel of Tirion', back when the world hadn't obviously been unkind. "Look, we can simply douse the napkins in water..."

.

Lalwen raced into Barad Eithel’s smoke-stained courtyard of Barad Eithel just in time to watch helplessly as Fingolfin, her last remaining sibling, her king, the dearest companion of her heart, raced out the gates on Rochellor’s back, sword unsheathed at his side. Alight like the Hunter himself, he faded into the dark battlefield like a shooting star. He never, not once, looked back at her.

.

The drinking game of The Worst Thing I Ever Did To You having wrapped up more or less naturally, they all adjourned to the balcony to enjoy some pipeweed under the stars. Lalwen lay down on the wooden slats. It was a truly beautiful night - maybe it was an illusion of the wine and smoke, but Varda's jewels seemed to dance in time to the Great Music.

Laying beside her, Arafinwë said nostalgically, "Remember that time the kids held a competition of who could leap from the highest balcony without injuring themselves?"

Their elders were all leaning against the balcony, slightly more upright. In mirrored movements, Fëanor and Fingolfin both shifted to look out between the narrow bars, assessing the distance to the palace grounds; then made sideways eye contact with one another, then struggled toward more upright positions.

"No," Lalwen and Findis chorused. Findis scuffed Fëanor like a suddenly-squalling kitten. Lalwen wrapped her ankle around Fingolfin's and yanked him flat on his back.

.

“Are you sure you don’t want to stay for the anniversary?” Lalwen asked, leaning on the doorframe of her sister’s guest bedroom. She added wryly, “I promise, the Nirnaeth processions are always less rambunctious than the Bragollach. Much less effigy-burning.”

“No thank you,” Findis said fervently, and zipped her suitcase shut. “Those are your memorials, Lalinkë. I have greater mysteries to contemplate.”

.

Arafinwë tossed his cards down with a huff of laughter and said, "Alright, I'm out! I cannot out-bluff any of you." He tousled Fëanor's hair as he rose and teased, "Even you, youngest brother."

"Play the next hand without me," he added, and fished a palace master key out of his pocket as he strolled to the door. "I'll be right ba—"

It was taking all of Lalwen’s focus to stay upright and focused on the poker game, but still she leapt to her feet. She caught her balance on her chair, then flung herself between Arafinwë and the door.

"No!" She seized his arm and yanked the key from his hand, flung it on the floor and stepped on it like she could break it. "No, stop cheating! Just stay here and have a nice family game night, without any of our parents guilting us into it, for once!"

"I just have to go to the bathroom," said Arafinwë, tipsily bewildered. "We've been having a nice—ish—family game night for nine hours, Lalië, and drinking the whole time. I need to pee."

But he saw something in her face, or in the way she was still gripping his forearm, and, instead of trying to get loose, put his free hand on her shoulder.

"And you've been odd almost the whole time," he said slowly, reaching out with his warm spirit as well. "Lalwendë, what's wrong?"

Wine always made Lalwen giggly as well as wobbly, but too much of it made her more likely to burst into tears than laughter, especially with a mellower like pipeweed on top of it. She knew this and she'd done it anyway. She knew this and she hated it, because she hated not being able to live up to her name. The lovely, laughing maiden; the ever-charming princess and hostess, the Jewel of Tirion! (Not that she'd lived her since she'd Sailed, and found it so empty that it no longer felt like home.)

Lalwen burst into loud, messy tears.

"You all keep trying to leave!" she wailed. "I just want us to be together, and happy, for once, for one night, and every one of you always, always leaves!”

She had a brief, minutely satisfying glimpse of Fingolfin and Findis pulling identical expressions of oh Varda, we Fucked Up and made a younger sibling cry, with Fëanor a heartbeat behind. Then she collapsed against Arafinwë’s chest and commenced getting sobbing snot and tears all over his shirt, while his arms wrapped around her. The advantage of being the shortest in the family: you could always get a good hug.

The others came and joined around her, until all five of Finwë Noldáran’s children stood in an embrace, roughly youngest to oldest moving outward.

“I’m so sorry,” Fingolfin murmured against her temple, his own tears wetting her skin. “You should have— I should have said so. My dearest sister, I am so sorry that I rode into the dark and left you alone.”

Lalwen sobbed harder. “You already— I know. It was good for morale. No more apologies between us.”

“Yet you still haven’t forgiven me.” He kissed her forehead, not arguing, just accepting.

Findis squeezed her around the waist.

“I should never have left you alone with these idiots,” she said fiercely. “I can’t apologize for striking my own path, but, Eru, I should have visited more. I should have written more. I never should have abandoned my sister.”

Arafinwë didn’t say anything, just kept holding her upright, because of all of them he had come back, come after her; and she’d mostly been an ass to him on and off for three thousand years as repayment. Fëanor didn’t say anything because even exhaustive tutelage couldn’t teach Fëanor how to apologize. But he was here for the first time in millennia, a hearthfire come to stand beside them, not wanting to be anywhere else.

Lalwen wiggled one arm just free enough to slip into her pocket for a handkerchief, and blow her nose on something actually meant for it.

“Look at us, all amicable together,” she said huskily. “Dad would be so proud.”

“Dad’s not here.” Fingolfin teased gently, “Someone lied to the lot of us that this was a full classic family game night, but apparently he and our mothers are at a concert tonight.” He squeezed her shoulders. “Are you proud of us, Lalwen?”

Lalwen sniffle-sobbed, then blew her nose so hard that Arafinwë finally did recoil just an inch. She giggled wetly.

“You’re alright,” she said, still sniffling. “Eight out of ten. Ara gets points off for needing to go pee like a total lightweight.”

Findis snorted, thank all the stars.

“Lalinkë, you cannot stand.”

continuation of this, though not necessarily immediate, and in fact precursor to this. If I write enough parts of the events of this night, eventually it'll coalesce into a coherent fic, right?

Fëanor slammed down the now-empty goblet of his latest rightfully earned apology drink, then narrowed his eyes suspiciously at his latest apologizee, across the table. His vision was wavering around the edges, after most of a bottle of this rich Maiaran vintage all on his own (the table overall was halfway through the third). But the day he was too drunk to glare suspiciously at his half-brother was the day he'd return to Mandos for a neighborly cup of tea.

"Why art thou being so nice to me?" Fëanor demanded. His diction was still crisp, though he could admit that his vocabulary was wavering across millennia.

Fingolfin, not a few cups in himself, rested his chin in his palms and stared back at him with cow-eyed contemplation.

"Am I being nice to you?" he asked philosophically.

"Never mind," Fëanor grumbled. "Now I want to punch you in the face again. Normalcy hast resumed."

"I guess I have been," Fingolfin continued musing as though Fëanor hadn’t spoken. He seemed to be looking straight through Fëanor's head, with those big grey eyes so frustratingly like their father's. "I suppose it's just difficult to be as harsh as I used to be, when I feel like I understand you so well, brother."

Fëanor recoiled upright.

"You know nothing of me." he hissed. (Though he did feel a bit like a petulant half-century to speak so.)

"Don't I?"

Fingolfin looked at him now, with terrible sympathy.

"Did you not hold yourself responsible for the deaths of thousands, including countless loved ones—countless save that you could never not keep count—indeed, do you not still, as you've admitted this night? Did you not race forward alone to challenge the Enemy, confident if not in your victory, then at least in that nobody else had as much of a chance, and if you could end even just your own suffering, it would be worth it? Did you not die in an apogee of burning wrath and utter, utterly helpless despair?"

Carried forward the strength of Fingolfin’s speech, by the currents of wine and truth both flowing so richly this night, and by his own damn vow to do better this time, Fëanor muttered, "I deny none of it."

Fingolfin opened one hand, palm up, to say, Well? Look at me. He raised his chin, for once not contrarily proud, just casting into the lamplight the scars of a crushed neck, which lingered even in this re-incarnated form.

Fëanor reached forward and shoved the third wine bottle toward him, as well-earned tribute and because remembering one's death wasn't pleasant for anyone. Especially when one did so just to disarm querulous kin.

Arafinwë and the girls, thank Eru, were off on the sofa pretending to be absorbed by a new picture of whatever iteration of great-grandchild Arafinwë's eldest's descendants had spawned now. Habit (and the need for a change of topic) made Fëanor think sourly of how he'd lost that contest, too—though, to be perfectly honest, he'd lost that one when the Trees still shone, when exactly one of his seven children showed any interest in having their own.

Still, sour it was. He swiped the remedy of the evening back from Fingolfin and pour himself another goblet, burning and sweet.

[riding-with-the-wild-hunt]

"Yet neither bread nor rest would he grant to Celegorm and Curufin within his realm, and he swore that there should be little love between Nargothrond and the sons of Fëanor thereafter. ‘Let it be so!’ said Celegorm, and there was a light of menace in his eyes; but Curufin smiled. Then they took horse and rode away like fire, to find if they might their kindred in the east. But none would go with them, not even those that were of their own people; for all perceived that the curse lay heavily upon the brothers, and that evil followed them." - J.R.R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion, "Of Beren and Lúthien"

@cnc-week day 2 ⇢ CURUFIN + FLAMES

[ID: an edit comprised of six posters in shades of brown, black, cool-toned red, and white.

1: A closeup of Saffron Vadher, a british-indian model with brown skin and long black hair. She is shown from just below her eyes to her mid chest, and wears a large silver necklace. Her expression is neutral and her eyes appear closed, one decorated with bold black lines. White text in the center of the image reads "curufinwë" and underneath in a smaller serif italicized font "skilled finwë" / 2: A dark sky full of stars and the red clouds of a nebula. White text at the top of the image reads "stars" and underneath "fire of inspiration." More text at the bottom of the image reads "Curufinwë Feanor's own name; given to this, his favourite son, because he alone showed in some degree the same temper and talents." / 3: Red lightning in a dark sky. One tendril reaches down to strike the dark mass of a hill. Same format as Image 2, but the upper text reads "lightning" and "fire of action" and the lower text reads "And after Celegorm Curufin spoke, more softly but with no less power, conjuring in the minds of the Elves a vision of war and the ruin of Nargothrond." / 4: Saffron Vadher, this time looking straight ahead and leaning her chin on a silver holder. She wears silver earrings and is smiling slightly, possibly in anger. Same format as Image 1, but the text reads "atarinkë" and "little father" / 5: Saffron Vadher's face unevenly reflected in the pieces of a broken mirror that she holds in one hand. She wears a metallic bracelet of interlocking swirls. Same format as Images 1 and 4, but the text reads "fëanárion" and "son of fëanáro" / 6: A billow of red fire in the dark. Same format as Images 2 and 3, but the upper text reads "flame" and "fire of destruction" and the lower text reads "In the night Fëanor, filled with malice, aroused Curufin, and with him . . . he went to the ships and set them all aflame; and the dark sky was red as with a terrible dawn." //End ID]

[thesummerestsolstice]

This is for my unwritten fics game, responding to @JaztheBard's ask on "The Love of a Parent."

So, this story is very firmly about Elrond and his weird parents, none of whom are supposed to be in the world any more (M&M are dead, Earendil and Elwing are forbidden from setting foot on Arda). Of course, none of this stops Elrond's parents from wanting to be involved in his life, and making sure nothing bad happens to him.

Gil-Estel always seems to appear on the dark nights when Elrond's grief catches up to him, or when he's struggling to find hope. The birds of Lindon– and later, Rivendell– often give him things, little tokens, some of which are very obviously from Valinor. Elrond doesn't sail often, but when he does, the sea always seems to welcome him, calm and gentle. The strange, unearthly songs that seem to follow him out on the water unnerve most people, but Elrond finds them comforting. He gets caught up in orc attacks a few times, in the Second and Third Ages. Somehow, he never seems to get captured, or even badly injured. Neither he nor the people he's with really understand why. All they can remember is the smell of smoke and a flash of something that could not have been fire.

The actual plot of the story, however, is Elrond deciding to try and convince his parents (or at least, whatever is left of them) to come live with him in Rivendell. This includes, but is not limited to:

Elrond chasing a wraith (spirit? ghost? living flame?) that may or may not once have been the eldest son of Feanor through the woods

Arguments with the Valar about what constitutes fair labor practices for stars

Elrond spending a bunch of time in slightly shady dock towns tracking down rumors of a "wandering spirit" who roams the beaches

More arguments with the Valar, this time about how keeping incarnate beings (especially part-humans) from the world against their will is like, maybe kind of cruel

Several people finally getting to meet their grandchildren

A surprisingly peaceful family lunch in Rivendell's welcoming halls

[doodle-pops]

A Promising Future

Feanor x human!reader

Request: Hello!!! Hope everything is okie dokie on your end!! So this is like an alternative timeline sorta thing. Could I maybe request a fic where a severely wounded Fëanor does survive the battle, but he's badly hurt, barely holding on, and a mortal!reader helps him recover? We know Fëanor would be too proud to accept any help from anyone let alone a mortal, but over time he comes to rely on the reader, and secretly enjoys being doted on? And mayyyybe little bit of romance between them...?😁 Hihii! Thank ya and take care!!!💖💖– @koyunsoncizeri

A/N: This was an interesting piece to spend a long time concocting. Most pleased with this yearning troupe—gives me life. Thank you for requesting and giving me soft Feanor.

Warnings: canon-divergent (Feanor survives), pinning (deep-seated yearning), comfort, soft content, confession, soft Feanor

Words: 2.8k

Synopsis: And it terrified him—a mortal who was able to break down his walls and leave him yearning like a fish in search of water. Who were you to make him this weak?

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The dim glow of the fire flickered against the modest wooden walls of your home, casting long shadows that danced and shifted as the flames licked at the logs. Outside, the wind howled faintly, a distant voice in the vastness of the night, but inside, warmth and quiet enveloped the space—save for the occasional grumbling of your stubborn guest.

“Oi, cease your movements, your wounds are still fresh.”

Nothing.

“Will you put that down? That is not a toy.”

Nothing.

“Oi, elf boy! Quit moving or you will feel this hot wooden spoon.”

Well, that did something.

Standing there in a widened stance, hand on your hips, sleeves rolled up to your elbows and a look of ‘so help me God, I will throttle you,’ on your face as you stared at the raven-haired elf trapezing your dollhouse-sized home—compared to his towering seven foot and more frame. Still covered in bandaged and faint scars from his tumble with those fiery creatures in the North, Feanor paused midway examining a jar filled with some liquids that smelt like alcohol and what appeared to be venomous creatures, to throw a look of ‘come hither.’

“You mortals,” he murmured, tilting the jar and watching the brown substance shift loosely within. “So quick to violence.”

“If only you knew,” you sighed, returning your attention to the bubbling cauldron over the fire. “I spent all morning hunting down your favourite mushrooms because you are a picky bastard, and yet here you are, prancing about my house like an overgrown child instead of resting.” You were tempted to launch your wooden spoon, freshly drawn from the cauldron, and wack his head with it, but that would only create another session of his temper tantrum.

As you stirred the soup, inhaling the fragrant steam curling from the surface. Behind you, you could still feel him, standing there, likely observing you with that unreadable expression of his. He had done so for days now—watching you as you moved, as if you were a puzzle he could not quite solve.

You heard him hum—a sound of neither agreement nor dismissal—but he finally set the jar back onto the shelf. A small victory, you supposed. “What is this concoction?”

Heaving, you focused on the heat and stirred the soup, adding in the fine herbs. “It is a cure for venomous injuries.”

“And how does it work?” he inquired, holding the jar up to the light. The size difference between his hand and the jar made it appear like a small bottle.

“If one were to be bitten by a venomous creature, consume a mouthful to purge the body of the toxins. Would you like to test it yourself?” you replied, unamused at his fascination. To this day, you still do not understand the fascination that his kind had towards humans. You were smaller, some matching the height of elven women, slower, aged and less refined—hardly any reason to be enchanted. Rather, disenchanted was a better response, yet you were stuck with one who broke the typical themes of interest.

“Once again, you mortals have sedated my curiosity—for a moment,” he muttered before seeing the jar once more and turning on his heel to scour the tiny house.

You rolled your eyes at his comment. There it was again—the ever-condescending ‘you mortals…’ followed by some half-hearted remark that barely qualified as praise. As if you should be grateful that a being as great as he had taken an interest in your primitive existence. First Thingol’s kin, and now him—a different race of elves who had a fondness for the arts, or perhaps just him.

Turning your head to catch him staring at the metalwork of your water system—which he had been learning for the last two weeks—his mouth was moving at an unrecognisable speed. Muttering calculations and theoretics of the mechanics he was taught by Aulë and Mahtan, comparing them to your craft.

“How long are you going to stare?” you called out, not breaking his focus or attention, but enough to earn you a grunt. “You are genuinely obsessed; most would not be.”

“I am not most.” Came his subtle response while he stroked his chin as though he had a beard.

Giving a small ‘humph’ and setting your spoon down, you stepped away from the fireside and began gathering the bits of mess lying around the house. “You are indeed not most,” you commented with a smirk. “You are simply an elf who had seen death which resulted in you being draped in excessive bandages. Most would not charge at three or more fiery beasts and expect to win—clearly, you are more.”

Thankfully, your head was down as you gathered the doily and withered flowers off the table, missing the ‘how dare you’ expression. Anyone else would have melted on the spot, even squeak out an apology, but you, unbothered. In the two weeks he had been within your company, you had done more damage than the Balrogs had managed—quell his pride. You could sense the heat of his glare, smouldering it was in fact, less than in the beginning, it only served as humour to your bored, tranquil days. Something that felt more like calm amusement than the wrath of a fiery storm. Tolerable.

“I will have you know that I—”

“—faced the mightiest of foes, the Great Enemy of the North, and survived to fight another day,” you interrupted, finally looking up to give him a tender smile with a small, reassuring shake of your head. “It is not something to be taken lightly.”

His arms folded across his chest—then immediately unfolded as he winced at the motion, pain flickering briefly across his expression. He tried to suppress it, his pride refusing to acknowledge his own weakness, but you had seen it.

Sighing, you step toward him. “Sit down before you rip your stitches,” you said, the amusement in your tone fading into something softer.

He did not move, prompting you to exhale slowly, tilting your head. “Fëanor.”

His jaw tightened as if warring with himself before he begrudgingly moved to take a seat on the wooden bench near the hearth. There, he sat stiffly, as if the mere act of compliance wounded him more than the battle itself.

You crouched in front of him, fingers reaching for the bandages around his ribs. He flinched—just slightly—but did not stop you as you carefully unwound the wrappings to inspect the wounds beneath. The deep gashes had closed, the flesh mending slowly, but bruises still painted his skin in shades of deep violet and blue.

The fire crackled softly in the hearth, its glow casting shifting patterns of gold and amber across the wooden walls. Shadows flickered along the grain of the floorboards, elongating the space between you and him, yet the air between you felt unbearably close. He sat stiffly on the bench, his mountainous frame oddly subdued, his shoulders still drawn taut as you crouched before him, carefully unwinding the bandages that bound his wounds.

His skin was warm beneath your fingertips, the flesh no longer torn as it had been when you first found him—broken, battered, but not defeated. Never defeated. The bruises remained, deep smudges of violet and blue painting the edges of his ribs, but the worst of the gashes had closed, and healed over time and care.

“You heal well,” you murmured barely above a breath as your fingers ghosted over the smooth, newly-mended skin.

There was a sharp exhale through his nose, shifting slightly beneath your touch. “Of course I do,” he scoffed, but his usual sharpness was absent. The words lacked their customary bite, ringing hollow in the thickened air between you.

You glanced up at him then, your face close to his, close enough to see the exhaustion lining his sharp features, the way his lips parted slightly in an unspoken thought. The firelight caught the dark waves of his hair, casting a soft sheen over what should have been wild and untamed, yet now seemed almost...hesitant. He was always a force of motion, a wildfire that consumed all in his path, yet now, he was still—unnervingly still.

His mismatched eyes, filled with the sparks of something unknown, burned into you with an intensity that sent a shiver down your spine. He was watching you again—not as the strange mortal who had taken him in, nor as the healer who had bound his wounds. There was something else in his gaze now, something unreadable, something unwanted if the flicker of tension in his jaw was any indication.

“You should be grateful that you are here, alive,” you murmured, tilting your head slightly, the corner of your lips barely curving into a smirk. “You should count your blessings.”

A muscle in his jaw twitched.

Fëanor did not answer immediately, and for a moment, you wondered if you had finally pressed too far. He was not one to dwell on the past—his entire life had been defined by the forward momentum of his will, the sheer force of his existence too great to linger on what was. And yet, something unreadable shifted in his expression, something that did not belong to the proud warrior who had fought fire with fire, nor the brilliant craftsman whose hands had shaped wonders beyond mortal comprehension.

It was a hesitation. A pause in the storm.

He swallowed, the movement barely perceptible, but you caught it, nonetheless.

Grateful?

He should have been dead. Would have been dead, had it not been for you, a mere mortal who had found him among the scorched remains of battle, who had dragged his barely-breathing body from the clutches of death itself. He should have resented you for it.

He had been a king. A leader. A father. A husband. He had known what it meant to be bound to another, to share space, to accept care. But that life was gone, shattered long before his body ever fell to the flames. His marriage had ended long before death had first reached for him. And yet here you were—offering him care he had long since forsaken, offering him patience, offering him something he had not asked for but had begun, over these weeks, to expect.

But he didn’t. And that was the problem.

No one had dared tend to him since Nerdanel had left. No one had been allowed. And yet, you—a mere mortal, a lesser being by every elven measure—had not only mended his wounds but had dared to scold him, to tease him, to touch him with the ease of one who did not see the legend, only a man.

That should have infuriated him. And yet, his gaze continued to linger.

On the curve of your lips, the delicate line of your throat as you tilted your head, the stray strand of hair that had fallen loose from behind your ear. The hands that had time and again seen to his wounds with the care he had not deserved. The very same hands that had struck him with a wooden spoon the first time he had tried to move before his body was ready.

He had scoffed at it then. But now, in this closeness, in this unbearable stillness, he was left to reckon with a far more troubling truth.

What was this? This need?

He had come to like it.

The doting. The attention. The quiet, steady presence of you in this little home.

He had craved it.

A sickness took root in his chest, something far more suffocating than his wounds, far more dangerous than the lingering weakness in his limbs.

His hands curled into fists at his sides, his knuckles taut beneath his skin. It does not matter, he told himself. He was leaving soon. He had to leave. He had no place here.

And yet.

And yet.

His next words left his mouth before he could stop them, low and quiet, as if they had been stolen from the depths of his mind before he had a chance to cast them aside.

“Then I only have one blessing to be grateful for.”

Your breath hitched slightly, hands stilling against his skin. There was a brief moment as you searched his gaze, unsure if he truly meant what you thought he did. Enough for him to know that you understood. His expression remained unreadable, but the way he held your gaze—steady, unwavering—sent warmth curling in your chest. The space between you was unbearable now, the air thick with something unspoken, something vast and terrifying in its weight.

Your fingers, still resting lightly against his bandages, trembled for the briefest moment before you swallowed, pulling your hands away.

“The soup will be ready soon,” you murmured, standing and turning away.

Fëanor exhaled, slow and measured, as if that breath was all that was keeping him from being swept into something he could not control.

He did not stop you as you moved away. And yet, as he watched you—this stubborn mortal who had refused to let him die—he could not shake the thought that had begun to take root. That leaving this place, leaving you, would be a battle of its own. And damn anyone who prevented him—he could not leave without you. And it terrified him—a mortal who was able to break down his walls and leave him yearning like a fish in search of water. Who were you to make him this weak?

And before he knew it, the words came tumbling out before he could stop them. He did not look at you immediately. He stared at the floor, at the dying embers in the hearth, his lips pressed into a thin line.

“I am leaving soon,” he said at last, quietly.

You stilled, spoon in midair and bowl in hand, swallowed past the lump in your throat. “I know.”

A pause. Then, you felt his hand reach out to gingerly curl around your wrist, prompting the spoon to be released, as if you were his most precious glasswork—enough to keep you there.

“I do not wish to go.”

Your breath stuttered.

Slowly, hesitantly, you turned to face him. He finally lifted his gaze, and in that moment, Fëanor, the great and mighty warrior, the King of the Noldor, was just a man. A man who had lost everything and had, in the most unexpected of places, found something worth holding onto again.

And for the first time, he admitted it.

“I do not wish to leave you.”

A quiet stillness settled between you. The weight of his words hung in the air, unspoken yet undeniable.

You studied his face—the proud tilt of his chin, the flicker of uncertainty in his mismatched eyes, the way his fingers still curled lightly around your wrist as if hesitant to fully commit to what he had just confessed. It was not an easy thing for him, you knew. He had spent so long burning, consumed by his own fire, forging himself into something untouchable. And yet, here he was—revealing something raw, something fragile, something he had likely never intended to say.

You exhaled softly.

“Then don’t.”

He blinked. Just once. As if startled by the simplicity of your response. No grand proclamations, no desperate pleas—just a truth laid bare, plain and unembellished.

His grip on you tightened just slightly, as if testing whether he could believe in it.

You tilted your head, your voice quieter this time. “Stay, if that is what you want.”

There was no demand in your tone, no expectation. The decision had always been his to make—would always be his to make. And for a man who had spent a lifetime consumed by choices that had shaped empires and shattered worlds, perhaps this—this—was the one choice that truly mattered.

His lips parted slightly, something unreadable passing over his expression.

Then finally, his fingers slipped from your wrist, only to settle against your hand instead, turning it palm-up in his grasp. His thumb brushed absently over the skin there, his gaze still searching yours as though waiting for some unseen force to pull him away.

It never came.

“…Then I will stay.”

Not forever. Perhaps not even for long. But for now.

And somehow, for a man who had always burned too brightly, too briefly, that was enough.

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