#thingol; threads

[menelvagor]

( SURPRISE ) being found without an article of clothing (Melian and Thingol) -✧- @pxnxply

Thingol began to undress himself so that he could take a dip in the river, wishing to cool down on the warm summer's day. This was often the time of year when he and Melian would take long walks in the forests of their kingdom. Melian and he had been parted for a while, off to follow their own fancies for the day, so he had not expected them to reunite soon.

He stripped the leggings off of his legs and had a bare lower half, his intricately etched tunic doing little to cover him - when his wife had returned. He felt her presence and her mind prodding at his own before he heard her.

The King did not turn around right away, reaching out for her emotion. His own was then present with the amusement which glinted in his eyes as he fully faced her.

"Thou hath reunited thyself with me so soon, dearest," he said, unbothered to have been met this way, though unexpected - and pretending to ignore his bareness. "Why is this so?"

[menelvagor]

APRIL FOOLS MY GRANDSON CAN KICK YOUR SORRY ASSES

Thingol forgives Celegorm and Curufin for the kinslayings........

APRIL FOOLS HE HATES YOUR GUTS

WELL APRIL FOOLS THEY ARE GOING TO KILL YOUR GRANDSON!

[cilil]

The more I dig into the lore around the Second Kinslaying for my current project, the more I'm fascinated by the detail that it was specifically Dior who killed Celegorm. That's one of the main details we get, we aren't even explicitly told who killed Dior, Nimloth, Curufin and Caranthir, just that they were slain.

Celegorm meets his end at the hands of the son of the woman he tried to marry, the son of the couple he fought against and I just love it when narrative threads come full circle (or parallel one another).

I know opinions differ in regards to the level of sexual or romantic interest Celegorm had in Lúthien, as well as the exact appearance of Dior, but this is why I love having him look like a male copy of his mother. I love the idea that Celegorm, in a way, sees her face one more time, but this time it's Dior's. I love the idea that the opponent he fights to the death looks like Lúthien. I love the idea that Dior's face may have been the last thing he saw.

And yes, I also love the idea that Dior may have wanted revenge for what happened to his mother.

If you then put the Silmaril aside for a moment, you can see a more private, personal conflict at the heart of this tragedy: Dior vs Celegorm, though Dior, true to his name meaning "successor", acts as a sort of stand-in for Beren, Lúthien and Thingol in Celegorm's perception.

It's just... ugh. So very fascinating and emotional and tragic.

[balrogballs]

queen of ai art <3

I genuinely have no idea what the fuck is in the tap water right now considering these all came in the last ten days from what I suppose are different people considering I blocked the first two… either that or it is one very persistent person or the collective actions of what I assume is probably the world’s most depressing groupchat. Incest anon, come back, I miss you on hindsight.

I don't normally answer mean-spirited questions but these pissed me off recently because of the nature of the accusations. So, let’s get into a long, illustrated lesson including a WIP gallery as to why you shouldn’t rely on “gotcha” AI logic and/or be a little twat, with tips on manual digital scaling, presented in classic Balls style.

Now, the vast majority of my art is traditional, many are quick ‘challenge’ sketches—they are drawn or painted on paper. With many of them, there are progress shots. Sometimes multiple, including fucking gemwork. Sometimes I do silly sketches. I have also been quite open that I’m really focusing on exploring varying styles of portraiture at the moment after an artistic background in watercolour landscapes. A number of you follow my traditional art blog where said landscapes were posted, and you know they’re banging.

Now, I’ve posted *checks notes* like five digital pieces last year from the time I owned a tablet (after which all my work has been trad due to being indefinitely parted from said tablet), and none of them are what you’d call professional quality, considering most of my work is traditional/realist and I am still not very good at stylised or digital drawing. I’ll choose my “best”/most detailed one for the purposes of this impromptu demonstration using the files I do have on me at the moment.

Due to my background in traditional art 👆🏻I always and without fail do my initial sketching by hand, because I find it difficult to get perspective and proportions correct digitally, because I learnt various pencil angling tricks etc… so anything I have drawn digitally that includes people/buildings, I’d do a sketch on paper and scan it, and do the lineart from there.

Here is the sketch, the sketch cleaned up into lineart, shaded values, and a portion of the colour-blocking stage, where I checked to make sure the major colours don’t clash at the borders, thanks to Thingol’s bright orange outfit from hell.

I assume what has been done here is that you or whatever program you’re using has picked up on the below little noisy bits, threads and spirals and decided they’re AI. Let me introduce you to the magic of textural overlays, aka texture stamps/brushes, which I get so impatient with that it becomes quite obvious they’re on there… which works in my favour right now lmao.

Here is me sliding the opacity on and off sections, so you can see what exactly is going on (pillar with marbled effect, thingol skin texture, elrond jacket texture, elrond's remarkable forehead, and the marbled archway):

These aren’t overlaid by my mystery robot sex toy, they are done by hand and there’s around 20-30 different ones in any given piece, some of them (eg skin texture or leaves) are repeated 10-15 times. Using texture brushes or stamps is not a cardinal sin, they are literally sold on this website by the artists who make them. Here is a clip of me just selecting them all in one go, if you’d like that proven for your face eyes as well.

I have no excuses for overblending my colours or leaving sections choppy, I’m just lazy to do painterly detail on stylised digital pieces, and usually just stop after a couple rounds of blending. But if laziness was a crime then most nation-states in this world would not have a functioning government.

Now, the final two stages—because the base for these images are usually scans or photos of my sketches and thus not exactly at the best of resolutions, I upscale in Lightroom. Amusingly, image upscaling is actually normally done by AI either built into Photoshop or plugins—this isn’t exactly generative AI, it’s more an algorithm that breaks down your existing photo and “reconstructs” it at a higher resolution. Hence, many upscaled images are flagged as AI regardless of the manner of upscaling.

I am too stingy to purchase Photoshop, the above plugins can/do use your art to train generative AI even if it doesn’t use it for your image, and I have Lightroom Classic already—upscaling is relatively easy to do here and does not train AI. Here’s a walkthrough:

Open Image > Denoise > Play with Slider > Save as TIFF > Open TIFF > Develop Module > Enhance > Save DNG. Then, work on DNG image re: adding noise/brightness/contrast whatever.

Just a note that the ‘Super Resolution’ feature does actually use (algorithmic, not generative) AI so don’t click on that, just do the normal Enhance. This will increase your image size and resolution without sacrificing detail. However, the file itself would be fucking enormous by this point so you can either compress it yourself or use Canva or whatever.

If you don’t mean those and instead mean these fucking things, jesus fucking christ they’re free graphic design templates with free Illustrator vectors, get a fucking grip, ten days in a charity comms job and you can make these in your sleep while moving the mouse with your pussy.

Here is a collage of some of my other digital works at various stages as well, including pencil/pen sketches, to help you sleep at night:

Please remember that I stopped posting digital art except one charcoal+digital work after I was parted from my tablet in December. If I was really iBalls, I would have continued churning them out surely 😇

Writing

I am not going to even take this seriously because there is clearly no way to explain the concept of writing something in advance to people who clearly type out and immediately send every half-dusted thought the moment it farts itself into their brain.

However, if you are actually sitting in your home in the year 2025, when there is almost definitely litter in your neighbourhood that needs picking and dogs on the Rover app that go unwalked, feeding my fucking writing into whatever fucking AI detector you have that is, in turn, training whatever fucking AI generator it is linked to, simply because of whatever robot you have created in your brain that somehow knows very niche facts about the lifestyle, dialect, speech patterns, culture and politics of a frankly irrelevant town in 1970s Kerala, I genuinely do not wish you a single moment of joy in your life

I have already or will soon be privating some of my artwork considering there are people cheerfully sat there feeding my work to Musk’s field of cows in order to get yourself a good old gotcha against some random Elrondfucker on the Internet — I’m obviously not going to do that to my writing at the moment but please stop letting your actions be driven by your asshole instead of your brain.

As for this one, I initially thought of not being so cocky in my response but considering I either get a version of this like once a month or some fucker goes to another person’s blog to ask them if I’m not tired of people kissing my ass, let me tell you something:

I am not whatever hockey-playing girlboss it was that was a bitch to you in high school and you are now afraid is intruding into your fandom space. She must have sucked I am certain. I am very sorry you had to deal with her. But I am not her. She is not me. I can assure you of this. If you must know, I was a netball girl. In fact, I was netball team captain. If it actually was me, I sincerely apologise for accidentally on purpose fouling you in 2014 because I wanted to win the intra-school friendly and I promise I won’t ever do it again.

And just in general, let me please remind you that I did not curate this audience through purposeful posting of art and literature and tasteful selfies, I did it via the 'Lindircident' post, aka accidentally holding my asshole wide open for the light to shine through two weeks after I made this account and remaining in the same doubled-up position for the six months since.

Tschüss! 🖕

[menelvagor]

❝ This is my favorite seat. ❞ (Thingol from Melian 💀) -✧- @sindarlin

His eyes glinted mischievously - which was a rare show of emotion saved chiefly for his wife - as Melian sat on his lap, legs framing his own. "You have your own throne in which you often comfortably sit as a Queen of all Doriath," he began in response. "Yet your throne of choice is that of the lap of your devoted husband and King? I daresay you have one most loyal to your rule."

Thingol's eyes strayed not from Melian as he slid his hands effortlessly underneath her mantle and onto her cool skin, up her sides and then down, along her thighs.

"You may have me as you will, my dearest," he said as he leaned forward to catch her lips in a light, teasing kiss. "How may I serve my treasured wife?" The longer he felt her underneath his touch, the tighter his leggings became.

[menelvagor]

He smiled as he felt his wife's overwhelming feeling of love and care, both for him and his kin. Elwë felt reassured by her promise that they would never part, and knew that he would do all possible to ensure it. He moved his hand over the moss below them until it rested atop of Melian's.

"We are not lost, and neither shalt they remain, if any are yet awaiting. Olwë knows what I would have done were our roles reversed. I know he has led them well."

“Never. We shall never be parted, even if the world is unmade and rebuilt again.” 

Melian promised, her heart overflowing. Among the maiar, it had always been said that there would be joy when the Children came, but Melian had never anticipated anything like the feeling that flowed from every part of her now. 

“We will find our way back to your people. Our people - what is yours is mine - but there is no need for haste.”

[lissomelace]

Ok, I am admittedly kind of obsessed with this right now.

Another embroidered heraldry attempt! This one is different only in the sense that it was not actively created by Tolkien; it's one of Daniel Falconer's elvish heraldry designs based on Tolkien's that were potentially going to be used on the armor in the Fellowship end-of-the-second-age war with Sauron battle scene:

(Photographs come from The Art of The Fellowship of the Ring by Gary Russell, page 129)

It's explained that Gil-Galad's is based on Tolkien's designs for Gil-Galad's heraldry, and Elrond's and Galadriel's are based on those of their respective fathers.

(One could argue that this is not canonical, because neither of Luthien's sigils look anything like either Thingol's or Melian's--not even in color palette--but I really like the concept anyway. And there are sort of similar elements in Finwe's and his sons, even if it's not as clear as these.)

I like these a lot, and they do feel very consistent among themselves and like a development/variant of Tolkien's originals.

(Also, I will admit to being a little disappointed that there is no official heraldry for Elrond who is definitely my favorite character, along with Finrod)

...can I just say, Galadriel's looks SO MUCH EASIER and I will definitely be doing that one soon.

So here are my attempts:

I chose to both do the whole thing and to isolate the lozenge, since that's how all of Tolkien's designs are.

(I also do really love the elements of Earendil's, which my first attempt for can be found here. And the twining branches look so much like the Imladris architecture in the films, and also I feel like it really goes well with Elrond's interconnected nature with...well, just about everyone. I really love it even though that element was SUCH A NIGHTMARE.)

The circular one was my first attempt, and the second one looks much nicer because I cut all of the thread jumps in the crossover line bits as it was going. The blue field needs a bit of correction on both, but I'm pleased with this attempt. I also may attempt them in greyscale (the drawing isn't this blue after all, but I'm limited in my thread options at the moment). And I have some shinier rayon golds, so I may make an attempt at getting the gold parts more golden without them getting too gaudy.

Unfortunately, I can't do easy gradients with the level of software I currently have, but I'll definitely try this again if I ever get something more advanced.

[chaos-of-the-abyss]

Lúthien was not of the Noldor but the daughter of Thingol (of the Teleri), and her mother Melian was 'divine', a Maia (one of the minor members of the spirit-race of the Valar). Thus from the union of Lúthien and Beren which was made possible by their return, the infusion of a 'divine' and an Elvish strain into was to be brought about, providing a link between Mankind and the Elder World, after the establishment of the Dominion of Men.

love this statement about the significance of beren and luthien in bringing humans -- the younger children of iluvatar -- together with the firstborn elves, and introducing a thread of the ainur's divinity into them. also! love the explicit mention of "thingol of the teleri" and "melian, a maia" being the parents of luthien, the woman who played such a critical role in such an influential development within the grand scope of arda

[eri-pl]

Silm Advent Calendar 3: the Wise

"This I cannot tell thee."

Why? Finrod shouldn't have asked, but here — where thinking and asking were the same — he could not help it. He'd lost so many friends, Mannish friends (mostly not even at his own fault, surprisingly) and all what Andreth had told him was so comforting, it fit so well, it did feel like truth, and yet, to have a clear answer, even a small bit of it—

"Tis not a knowledge meant for the Eldar," said Lord Námo.

But why? Because it did not concern them? And yet it did. There was more time until it would matter, but it would. He knew so little. They all knew so little, despite the tomes of philosophy that had been written during the Long Peace, despite having learned from the Valar, despite calling themselves "the Wise" they knew so very little about anything that would matter in the end.

Even on the small scale… Lord Námo had told him that Beren survived. But what about his quest?

"Their quest. They shall go together from now on."

But Lúthien— childish, laughing, precious Lúthien, who had danced in the forest, and tumbled down the hills! Will she— Can she— How terrible shall it be?

"Thou asketh many questions. But this one I can answer. They shall win the Silmaril, and Elu Thingol shall receive his price and his doom."

Doom. So the sons of Feanor would slay them all in the end? Finrod's brave friend, his sweet cousin—an impossible victory only to perish because of it?

"See, this is the trouble with giving you answers. They only lead to more questions. Not by the sons of Feanor shall they perish, but perish they shall indeed. And what comes after—this I do not know." There was a hint of satisfaction in Lord Námo's words.

Finrod should feel sorry for having so many questions, or at least uneasy for frustrating a Vala. And yet, he could not help but pity the poor, sweet Lúthien, who often used to say so many words with so little thought, and yet it would not be true to call her less wise than any of the Noldor. It was simply a different kind of wisdom. Loving every flower, wishing to catch a star and wear it—

The wave of Lord Námo's attention—his thoughts touching Finrod's in common wonder—was bright, but not painful. Everything was silent—a silence of minds pondering half-understood premonitions that can't be yet put to words.

A memory of Lúthien wishing to see world's most beautiful treasure, to catch a star and wear it as a trinket—And she would.

Time passed in strange currents unlike in the lands of the living, and on the edges of Finrod's attention, tapestries grew.

Lúthien wishing to have a love as great as her parent's but somehow greater, a love that songs would be sang about—And she had.

The tapestries became tangled and strange.

No, not tangled. Interwoven with others, and pins of silver and gold kept from unraveling the loops that waited to connect to events yet unwoven.

Lúthien wishing to find something beyond what even her mother could deram of—

Unsaid, half-understood like a Mannish dream and yet more like a waking world seen from within a dream—

Finrod wished that he had eyes so that they could be wet with tears. He wished that his voice could tremble and he would say that (after he had this moment now, after he'd seen Lord Námo (surprised?) listening to him—to him!) he would not question why Men are given (fragments, shadows, tangled threads of) an answer and the Elves nothing.

There was beauty in that, even if lined with sadness.

But he was dead and there was no voice to break, no eyes to tear up. All his thoughts were bare, and many of them did not make him as wise as names would have it.

"Still, you are much less of a fool than most of the wise. But I must go now." Lord Námo did not have Finrod's limitations, and his voice—mind or not—trembled. "She is here, seeking to say farewells to her love."

[menelvagor]

Severity and sincerity melted together in the look that the King of Doriath then turned upon Hel, for he would not say all-undeserving. He looked at her for a long moment before he said, "Dearest Hel. . . I jest only. My wife and thou hath earned all praise that be offered to thee." He did not wish for it to bother her, as he felt that it would. Her mood shuttered after his tease. His hand he lightly set on top of her own.

A smile returned as she stood before him, stating her folly. He blinked slowly as she held his face in her hand. Precious. Beloved. Friendly adoration shone from the depths of his eyes as he looked up at her. "You need not speak many words for meaning to be taken." I feel thine emotion and understand thy sentiments, he said in the mind connection they shared. "Yet any word spoken aloud holds much weight, especially coming from thee."

No tear shone in his eyes or touched his cheeks, but he sat in his throne, full of contentment to be sharing this space and this brief time together. It seemed like the world was moving faster, and becoming even more dangerous. It was all time taken away from cherishing his kin and friends.

"Glad am I that thou hath chosen to reside here more oft as of late, and not return to thy dwelling far away. I know that Melian enjoys it also."

A single breath of a laugh escaped her throat, almost a scoff. "You believe my mantle is unmet?" She lifted her brows, "That I am undeserving of the reverence it affords me?"

Admittedly, a small pang of doubt and sadness seeded itself in her sternum. Pressing down on her chest like a heavy weight. Maybe that was true. Maybe not. She would dwell on it a long while, later, in the dark hollow of her chambers.

She was quiet, thoughtful, a long while. Taking time to carefully consider her response as she finished up her wine and intermittently watched him in her periphery.

"Nor would I attempt such a feat," she remarked eventually, she set her cup down on the ground and as she rose to full height, reached her hand to touch his cheek, her gaze soon to follow. "Words have always been my folly."

"You are precious. You are beloved." Her cheeks rose in a fond and gentle smile as she brushed her fingers back and pulled them altogether away from his face. "You are unsurprised."

All these things, he already knew. She knew it. Words had never come easily to her in the way they came to others of her age or ilk. They never seemed to unfurl as smoothly and neatly as they were rolled up in her head.

But Hel never had taken steps to mask her affections; Never saw a need. Not yet, not in this age. He would have had to have been blind and deaf to miss the way she adored him.

Her eyes still shined, though she was saved from tears this once. She didn't seem abashed or nervous to speak such things.

[silmsmutweek]

2024 Round-Ups: Ainur

All creations are Mature or Explicit unless marked as *sfw. Please see work tags for warnings.

Arien/Morgoth A Gift for a King by @a-world-of-whimsy-5

Celebrimbor/Sauron Art by @myceliumelium

Celegorm/Orome Autumn Forests (And Other Mysteries) by @unendingwanderlust

Eonwe/Finarfin world condensed to gleaming eyes by @that-angry-noldo

Eonwe/Sauron Art by @myceliumelium

Lúthien/Thuringwethil every lover's got a little dagger in their hand by @aredhels

Maedhros/Morgoth The Things You Lack by @last-capy-hupping

Maglor/Ulmo Sea-led With a Kiss by @whovianofmidgard

Melian/Thingol Made For Each Other by @ladysternchen Autumn Harvest by @tethysresort

Míriel/Vaire Needle and Thread by @meadowlarkx

[hakones]

I . V - of mourning lilies

PAIRING → mairon | sauron x female!elf!oc

WORD COUNT → 5k words

SERIES → of fatal attraction

WARNINGS → miscarriage, stillbirth, abandonment

SUMMARY → Their love was as old as the First Song, woven into the music meant only for the purest of creations. But when the darkness crept into the melody, sorrow and grief were stitched into their thread, and their love, though radiant for a time, was destined to end in ruin. Love turned obsession, honesty to deception, and purity to ruin. Love in the hands of the purest beings can blossom, but in the hands of shadow it can be a chain one can never truly escape.

masterlist

When the horns blew, sharp and clear through the misted veil, Mairon was already waiting at the gates of Lauremar, the great city of Laureandor. He received Thingol with the full dignity his station deserved, even if his heart seethed beneath the polished exterior.

Moríel, too weak now to leave her chambers, too heavily burdened with the life growing within her, had entrusted the rule of Lauremar and the realm to Mairon alone. Her faith in him was unshakable. And he would not fail her.

He could not fail her.

Thingol presented his case swiftly: a request for aid, to bolster the fight against the dark forces pushing south into Eastern Beleriand. The plea was almost desperate beneath the pride, and Mairon heard it clearly.

But he knew better. Knew what answering that call would mean. Leaving this place, leaving Morí, especially now, especially when the veil grew thinner with each passing day, would be death. For her. For him. For everything they had bled to build.

And so he refused.

"We wish to keep ourselves out of this conflict," Mairon said calmly, though he could feel the slow boil under his skin. "It is not our way to wage war unless absolutely necessary."

Thingol’s face tightened, pride warring with frustration. "The Queen of this realm would think otherwise," he said sharply. "Or have you sheltered her from that knowledge as well?"

Mairon felt a muscle twitch in his jaw. "My wife," he said, voice even but cold, "is informed on all matters beyond our walls. And she agrees."

Thingol stepped closer, a deliberate challenge. Mairon’s fingers flexed behind his back, tamping down the instinctive urge to let his magic flare in warning. He was too weak for displays. Too much energy was already going into shielding the veil and shielding himself from the constant, gnawing pull of Morgoth’s attention.

"What has you so afraid, sorcerer?" Thingol sneered.

Mairon’s eyes narrowed dangerously. His breathing slowed.

That name.

That dark, filthy word, one once whispered by those who had feared him, by those who had called him corrupter, servant, betrayer. There was no way he knew, only that Melian had merely informed her husband of Mairon's status as a Maia. Because if she had, Thingol would not have come.

The rage simmered, old and thick, clawing at the walls he had built inside himself. Shadows stirred at the edges of his vision. "Nothing that your ears are worthy to hear," Mairon snapped, the edge of a snarl in his voice despite himself.

He was losing control. And he hated it. He needed to stay focused, needed every last thread of himself devoted to Morí and their son. He could not fracture now. Mairon exhaled slowly through his nose and looked away, gathering the shreds of his composure.

"I will give you a few hundred of our finest," he said at last. "Led by one of our Lords."

When he met Thingol’s eyes again, the king looked mollified enough.

"But I will not ride with them. My place is here, with my wife."

Thingol nodded stiffly. "That is fair. May fortune favor your house when the child is born. My queen and I would be honored to celebrate with you when the babe does arrive."

Mairon bowed his head in the shallow nod of diplomacy.

"And she would be honored to have you," he said, though the words tasted bitter on his tongue. He turned sharply and called to one of his heralds. "Gather all willing to ride with the King of Doriath. They leave at once."

The herald bowed and motioned for Thingol to follow him out of the meeting chamber, where they had convened. The doors closed with a final, heavy thud. Only then did Mairon allow the trembling in his hands to show, flexing his fingers as if to bleed out the fury still singing in his bones.

Calandil approached cautiously. "Shall I go with them?" he asked.

Mairon, caught off-guard by the sudden voice, turned. He had not even sensed the elf’s approach, too wrapped in thoughts of Moríel, of the encroaching darkness pressing harder every day.

"No," Mairon said firmly. "Send someone you trust. I need you here." His eyes locked with Calandil’s. "Protect the Queen."

Calandil stiffened, as if the weight of that command landed heavily upon him. "My Lord... is she in danger?"

Mairon hesitated. He wanted to say yes. Wanted to pour out all his fear, all his gnawing terror, that Morgoth’s gaze was ever prowling, that the veil shivered with every breath, that even his own mind felt thinner with each night. But he could not burden them. Could not afford to let panic spread.

"No," Mairon said quietly, a practiced smile curving his lips. "But she is precious beyond words. And I will not risk her. Not for anything."

Calandil bowed. "Then I will protect her with my life."

Mairon nodded once, tight and silent. And as the young lord departed to assist the hearld, Mairon turned and stared out the tall windows of the hall. The stars above Laureandor still shimmered.

But beyond the barrier, the shadows gathered. Waiting. Watching. Hoping, as all shadows do, that their time had come.

Mairon tried to restrain himself, tried to swallow the mounting pressure behind his eyes, the burn coiling in his chest. But it clawed to be freed. The storm of tension within him had built too long. So he let it go. A pulse of energy rippled out from him like a shockwave, invisible but undeniable. Every candle in the throne chamber extinguished at once, smothered by the sudden force of his will. Smoke curled upward in ghostly tendrils, veiling the ceiling.

The chamber fell silent. Hollow. Cold. Only the soft starlight bled through the tall windows, touching the thrones at the head of the room.

And that was when he felt it. A shiver passed through the stone beneath his feet. He’d cracked the seal again. Just enough. The shadows bled in, first in whispers, then in form. His weakened spirit had loosened the gate, and in that fleeting lapse, he arrived. The throne beside Mairon’s own shimmered under the stars, and there, curling from the gloom like smoke into shape, sat a figure of dreadful familiarity.

It was only an illusion. A projection. Mairon knew this. But it did not matter. Because illusion or not, Morgoth’s presence turned the air to ice. He reclined in the gilded chair as if it were his own, fingers dragging along the intricate carvings Mairon had etched by hand. He examined them absently, like one evaluating the worth of a stolen relic.

"This is exquisite craftsmanship," the Vala murmured, voice rich and oozing like tar. "But I should expect no less from you."

Mairon stood still. Breath shallow. Shoulders tense. Morgoth’s dark eyes found him and lingered, amused by the fear he read behind his former servant’s composure. "You defy me. Why?" he asked simply.

Mairon opened his mouth to respond, but Morgoth waved him off like a buzzing insect.

"Ah, yes. Your precious light. The little shard of purity you cling to—Moríel." His voice curled with disdain. The name coming from his mouth sickened Mairon, "The one I sent you to deliver, that I might corrupt her and spit in the face of the One. But instead..." He leaned back, mockery thick in every word. "You fell for her. Believed in her. Chose her."

A sharp laugh cut through the darkness. "You truly think yourself redeemed?"

Mairon’s voice came low, tight. "Yes."

The Vala scoffed. A sharp, ugly sound. "I unmade you, Mairon. Piece by piece. You think this—" he gestured around the room with a sweep of one hand, "—this marble and gold, these stars above your roof, means anything? You think they care?" He leaned forward, eyes gleaming. "You cannot undo what I made you."

Mairon swallowed hard, the words striking deep. Not for their truth—but for the fear they stirred. Because some part of him still wondered.

Would the Valar ever believe his repentance? Would Eru? Or had his crimes carved something permanent in him?

His hands, the ones that had once shaped mountains, had also built prisons. His voice had once sung of flame and ruin. His will had chained thousands.

Could love wash that away? Was light enough?

The silence between them stretched like a blade. Morgoth tilted his head. "You think her love will save you. That her child will redeem you. But all you’ve done is tie yourself to a fate that will break you." He stood now, though he was no more solid than mist. Still, he seemed taller. More real. "You built a barrier. Clever. Wove your light into it. But light fades, Mairon. And when yours is spent, when you collapse into dust like all things born of weakness, I will walk through it. I will take what’s mine."

His eyes flicked to the throne beside him, the one meant for Moríel.

"And I will unmake her."

A growl rose in Mairon’s throat. His fists clenched, magic bristling beneath his skin like a wildfire waiting for spark. "Leave," he hissed.

But Morgoth only smiled.

"You’re already too late," he whispered. "The shadow is in you. And you opened the door."

And with that, the illusion dissolved. The throne stood empty once more. But Mairon remained frozen, chest rising and falling in ragged gasps. Sweat beaded at his brow. And he knew, there was no way he could keep him out now.

Mairon felt the pressure building behind his eyes, but he forced the tears to remain where they were. He could not break, not yet, not when so much depended on his strength. The veil trembled with each passing moment, and the shadows that had once obeyed him now clawed to reclaim what they’d lost.

And then he felt it, Alassëa’s presence approaching from down the corridor. She entered with hesitance, as if sensing the storm still lingering in the air from his unspent magic.

“My lord?” she asked gently.

Mairon turned to face her, forcing calm into his expression. “Yes, Alassëa?” His voice was quiet but edged in urgency. “Has something happened?”

“No,” she said, her arms clasped before her. “My lady wishes to speak with you.”

At that, Mairon let out a slow, relieved breath, his shoulders lowering slightly as tension slipped from him like steam. He nodded and brushed past her, his steps quickening as he moved through the corridor toward their bedchamber.

“She’s very weak,” Alassëa said softly behind him, just loud enough for him to hear. “But she believes… it won’t be long now.”

He didn’t look back, he couldn’t. He just pressed forward, heart pounding harder with every step.

When he opened the door, the scent of lavender and moonblossom greeted him. She was nestled beneath the linens, her form dwarfed by them, her skin pale and drawn. Her once-luminous hair had dulled to a soft black and even the air around her felt thinner. But when she saw him, her face lit up, even if only faintly.

“Mairon,” she whispered, reaching out.

He crossed the room quickly, sinking onto the bed beside her. His hand closed over hers and he kissed her fingers reverently before laying his forehead gently in her palm. “I’m here,” he murmured, voice breaking despite his best effort.

Her thumb traced his cheek, brushing away the tear that had slipped through. “You’re always here,” she said with a ghost of a smile. “But I missed you anyway.”

Mairon chuckled softly, though the sound was strained. He turned his head to kiss the inside of her wrist, grounding himself in the rhythm of her pulse. For a moment, they simply breathed together. And then her body tensed. She winced sharply, sucking in a breath as her hand clenched his.

“Moríel?” he asked quickly, eyes flicking to her face, then to her stomach.

“It’s nothing,” she said between breaths. “Just him moving—”

“You’re lying,” he said gently, but firmly. “I can tell,"

She tried to speak, but another ripple of pain stole her words, her head tipping back with a soft cry.

“Morí…” He moved his hand over her swollen belly, frowning deeply. The child’s fëa was there, but flickering, turbulent. Different. He could feel the strain pulling at her very soul. “How long have you been feeling this?” he asked, his voice low, almost afraid of the answer.

She hesitated. “Since yesterday. I went to look at the stars… Alassëa helped me out. But when I came back inside, they started.” She gritted her teeth as another pang ripped through her. “They’re coming closer now… but it’s too early. I still have—” She cried out again, louder this time, her hand going to her belly as if to hold it all together.

“I’m fetching the healers,” Mairon said, already standing.

“Mairon,” she whimpered, stopping him at the door. He looked back, her eyes shimmering with pain, but clear with intent.

“If it comes to it…” she swallowed hard. “Save him. Let me—”

“No.” His voice cracked as he rushed back to her side, cupping her face and kissing her hard, desperately. “No. Don’t say that,” he whispered when he pulled back. “You’re both going to be fine. You have to be.”

She nodded weakly, tears pooling at the corners of her eyes.

“I’ll be right back,” he promised, brushing her hair from her face.

And then, without another moment’s delay, he slipped out into the corridor, running faster than he ever had before.

When he returned with the healers, Alassëa was already there, supporting Moríel upright as blood soaked through the blue of her nightgown. The sharp, metallic scent of iron filled the air, and Mairon’s breath caught. Her hand was stained red, her eyes wide with pain as tears streamed down her face. The healers moved quickly. One stepped forward to guide her gently back to the bed, but Moríel resisted, her hand stretching blindly toward Mairon.

He shook free of his frozen state and rushed to her, cradling her. “It’s okay,” he whispered, though he knew it wasn’t. Nothing about this was okay.

“My lady,” a healer said in a calm but urgent voice, “you must lie down. You’re losing too much blood.”

Before Moríel could argue again, Mairon lifted her into his arms and gently laid her back among the linen sheets. She cried out, clutching her belly as the contraction passed. The healers moved around them, preparing what they could.

Mairon pressed a kiss to her clammy forehead. “It will be all right. We’ll see him soon, you’ll hold him, and everything will be well.”

She tried to believe him. She tried to smile, but all that came were more tears. Mairon dropped to his knees beside the bed, stroking her hair back with a trembling hand, whispering comfort. Then, softly, he began to hum; no, to sing. Their song. The one born long ago under stars and sorrow, the melody that had first brought them together. His voice trembled, but he held to the tune.

And Moríel, through labored breath and pain, joined him.

Their harmony wrapped around the room, divine and defiant, two souls weaving music as one. She sang through the pain, clutching his hand as another contraction shook her. He leaned his forehead to hers, his voice stronger now, wrapping around hers like a shield of light. As they were always meant to.

Then the moment came. The final cry, the push that left her gasping, her body suddenly her own again and then…

Silence.

Not even a breath. Not even a cry.

The entire room fell still. Even the healers had gone silent, staring down in stunned quiet. Mairon’s head lifted, and his blood ran cold.

No. No.

“Mairon,” Moríel breathed. Her voice trembled. Her eyes searched the room. “Why isn’t he crying? What’s happened?”

The healers quickly wrapped the baby in cloth. Mairon could see from where he sat how small—how still—he was.

“I’ll check,” he whispered. He kissed her hand once, then motioned to Alassëa, who rushed to Moríel’s side and took her trembling fingers in her own.

He crossed the room and looked at the healer’s face. It told him everything.

“We don’t understand it,” she said, voice barely a whisper. “There was nothing wrong until the end. We’re… so sorry, my lord. He was stillborn.”

Mairon stared at the bundle, his son, wrapped and quiet, then closed his eyes as something broke in him. The world tilted. His heart felt torn from his chest. Behind him, Moríel asked again, weakly, “Mairon… is he okay?”

He swallowed hard and turned back to her. She looked so small in that bed, so pale. Hope lingered in her expression.

“He’s not crying… why isn’t he crying?” she whispered, voice breaking.

He knelt beside her, took her face in his hands. “It’s okay,” he said gently, though his voice cracked. “He’s gone.” She stared at him, and then it hit her.

“No…” Her breath hitched. “No. No, I want him—I want him—”

“I know,” he sobbed, pulling her into his arms. “I know, my love.”

Her cries tore through the room, shaking her weakened body, and Mairon held her like she was the last light left in all of Arda. He held her like his world depended on it. Because it did. And nothing, not even the light of Varda, could ease this sorrow. Not now. Probably not ever.

The women had gone. The room was clean, quiet, too quiet. Moríel lay motionless beneath the linens, her skin pale against the pillows, her body emptied and spirit hollowed. Only Mairon remained with her now, the weight of their loss pressing on them both like stone. He sat beside her, the silence ringing louder than any sound. There were no more sobs, no more tears, only stillness. Slowly, he leaned forward and pressed a kiss to her damp forehead.

“Morí,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry. I should’ve protected you… I should’ve protected him.”

Still, she said nothing. She only clutched the pillow against her chest, fingers tight with grief. He combed his fingers gently through her tangled hair, hoping to offer some comfort, however small. But then her voice broke the silence; small, hoarse, and splintered.

“I want him, Mairon.”

“I know you do,” he breathed, his voice cracking against the words.

But to his surprise, she stirred, sitting up suddenly, with fury flashing in her tear-soaked eyes.

“Do you?” she snapped. “Do you truly know what this feels like? To have carried him, to have nurtured him, to have sung to him and felt him.” Her voice broke as a sob tore from her throat. “Only for him to be taken before I ever held him to my heart?”

She stood, shaking, her legs weak. “I feel like I’ve lost a part of myself… a part of us.”

“You have,” Mairon admitted softly. “And I feel it too, Morí. I do. But there is always another chance. You’re strong. We—”

“No,” she cut him off, her voice almost a whisper now. “I can’t, Mairon.” Her knees buckled beneath the weight of her grief, but before she could fall, he was there, catching her. Holding her. She clung to him, eyes wild with pain. Her gaze flicked to the cradle in the corner by the fire, empty, untouched, and then back to him.

“Don’t ask that of me,” she said, barely audible. “Don’t ask me to try again.”

“I won’t,” he promised, the words falling from his lips like ash. “I would never ask this of you again.”

And with her vow, and his own, something inside him gave way. The last barrier broke. The final flicker of light within him dimmed under the weight of the shadow creeping back through the cracks. He could feel it stirring, watching, waiting for him to fall.

She buried herself in his arms, weeping silently as her tears soaked his tunic. He rested his chin against her head, eyes falling to the cradle that mocked them from across the room. And in that moment, Mairon knew. He had to leave. Not now. Not tonight. But soon. Because as long as he remained, she would never be free of the shadow he still carried, no matter how tightly he clung to the light. No matter how deeply he loved her. He could not risk it again. He would not be the cause of her pain.

“Come,” he whispered gently. “Let’s get you back into bed.”

He helped her across the room, every step heavy with sorrow. Once beneath the covers again, she curled toward him, fragile as glass. He climbed in beside her, pulling her close, memorizing the feel of her against him, her warmth, her scent, her heartbeat.

And there, in the quiet aftermath of their greatest joy turned sorrow, they drifted into a fitful, exhausted slumber.

Together, for now.

Though in his heart, he had already begun to say goodbye.

A strange warmth brushed against Moríel’s cheek. She stirred, eyes fluttering open against the unfamiliar glow that poured in through the balcony windows. It was not the cool blue starlight she always knew. No, this was golden, soft, radiant. Like candlelight filtered through crystal, warm and reverent. It filled the chamber, wrapping every edge of stone and silk in a color she had never seen touch these walls before. She reached across the bed instinctively.

Cold.

The sheets, the pillow all untouched. Her hand met nothing but the hollow silence of absence. Moríel sat up slowly, her breath catching in her throat as her eyes swept the room. There was no sign of him. No rustle of robes. No quiet presence watching over her from the shadows. No cradle. The cradle was gone. She lowered her gaze to her belly, flat now. Hollow. A silent space where life once bloomed.

“Mairon?” she called out, weakly at first. Then louder. “Mairon?”

No answer. She pulled herself from the bed too quickly and stumbled, her arm hitting the nightstand.

Tink.

The soft chime of metal against stone. She looked down. There, glinting in the golden light, lay the golden chain he had worn, his gift from her. The ruby pendant pulsed faintly, its warmth gone. Abandoned. Her fingers trembled as she reached down and picked it up. As soon as it touched her palm, her heart knew what her mind could not yet accept.

He had left. Whether by choice or burden or despair, he had left her. And the grief that had hollowed her out now turned jagged and raw. She fled the room. Barefoot, in her nightclothes, the pendant clutched in her hand like a tether. Servants scattered at the sight of her, hollow-eyed, pale, frantic. She stormed through the corridors, calling for him.

But he was nowhere.

She turned a corner and nearly collided with Alassëa. The handmaiden gasped. “My lady! You’re awake?” Her voice was stunned, cautious, as though speaking too loudly might fracture Moríel further.

Moríel grabbed her by the forearms. “Where is he?” she demanded. “Where is Mairon?”

Alassëa's expression faltered. “You… you’ve been asleep, my lady. For days. After the birth, after the loss, your fëa was so strained, the healers feared it might leave your body.”

Moríel blinked. Once. Twice. Her knees wavered beneath her, and she staggered back a step.

Days?

He hadn’t even said goodbye. Her body finally collapsed, and with it the last of her resolve. She sank to the floor of the corridor, the ruby chain clenched so tightly in her fist it bit into her skin.

“He’s gone,” she whispered. “They’re both gone.”

Her words broke into sobs, and she folded in on herself, a goddess undone. Alassëa fell to her knees and caught her, arms wrapping around her queen, her friend, her broken star. “I’m here,” the handmaiden whispered, rocking her gently. But even she knew what this was. A fëa this fractured would never fully mend, not unless what had broken it returned... or the Valar, in their mercy, chose to lift it from this world. And for now, there was only grief. Only the golden light pouring in where once there had only been stars.

A mourning period began, and all of Lauremar fell into quiet reverence. The city of light dimmed beneath veils of grief as its people walked beside their queen through the shadows of loss. In keeping with the old rites of her tribe, rites far older than any written tongue, white petals were released into the Sirion, drifting gently upon the water’s surface.

They were not just offerings. They were tears of the Valar, mourning beside the Incarnate. And now, Moríel stood upon the riverbank, wrapped in the mourning colors of her people: deep blacks woven with threads of silver, the color of wandering and unmoored souls. She held two white lilies, plucked from her private garden. One for her son. One for her beloved.

As she stepped forward, her fëa trembled, emptied, aching, calling into the void where once their light had returned her song. But there was no answer. Only silence.

So she sang.

A sorrowful melody, half lullaby, half lament. The song carried over the water, over the petals, over the hush of the watching crowd. Each note held the weight of a love undone, of promises unfulfilled. The kind of pain no other elf could understand. Her voice wept with every syllable, divine and broken, as if Nienna herself sang through her. And above her, even the stars dimmed in mourning.

When her voice finally faded into the twilight, Alassëa stepped forward and rested a gentle hand on her queen’s shoulder. “They will comfort you, my lady,” she whispered. “As they will comfort us all.”

Moríel nodded weakly. She bent down and set the lilies upon the water’s edge. They floated away, white against the black, carried by the Sirion’s gentle current. Then, as though releasing the last of her strength with them, she collapsed to her knees, sobbing uncontrollably.

Alassëa turned and quietly motioned to Calandil. He gave a solemn nod and led the mourners away from the field. They left their queen to her grief.

“I’ll leave you here,” Alassëa said softly, kneeling beside her. “Come back when you’re ready. His veil still protects this place, it will always protect you.”

Moríel looked up through her veil and gave a nod, too hollow to speak. Alassëa squeezed her hand once, then departed across the flower-covered hillside, leaving her alone.

Alone in mourning.

She sat in the hush of twilight, her veil pulled back from her face, looking up through blurred vision at the dim stars. Her soul, once so full of harmony, now wept quietly, unable to find its rhythm. She touched the ruby pendant left behind, its warmth gone but its memory burning against her palm.

She pressed her fingers to the moonstone at her chest. It pulsed faintly, as though still tied to the veil, still tied to him. A breeze rolled over the hilltop, curling petals past her knees.

Then—

“Child,” a voice breathed.

She turned. No one was there. But she knew that voice. Her heart stilled. A hand touched her shoulder, and when she turned again, there stood Varda. Crown of stars. Eyes deep as the heavens. Her presence carried the warmth of creation itself.

“I’m so sorry,” Moríel sobbed. Tears spilled down her cheeks, and to her awe, Varda knelt beside her, divine robes brushing the grass.

“Do not be sorry,” Varda said gently. “None of this was your failing. This was not meant for you in Eru's design. Take comfort his fëa is with us now, safe, cherished. And you will find him again when it is your time. He will run to you with open arms, and you will know joy once more, joy that only mother's know.”

Varda reached up and wiped Moríel’s tears away, then turned and raised her hand to the sky. A shimmer of starlight burst across the firmament, and two new stars flickered into being. “One for each of them,” Varda said. “They will watch over you as we do. And when you sing, they will shine brightest for you.”

Moríel could hardly breathe. “Thank you,” she whispered. “It is an honor, my lady.”

Varda smiled, cupping her cheek. “You have a choice now, child. You may come now. Join your son with us in Aman. Or stay and the West will call for you when the time is right.”

It would be so easy to say yes. To follow her son’s light, to leave this pain behind. But she looked again toward Lauremar, its towers catching the new starlight. She thought of her people. Of Alassëa. Of Mairon, wherever he was, still grieving as her fëa knew he was.

“I want to stay,” she said, voice breaking.

Varda’s gaze warmed with quiet pride. “Then stay. Your path grows ever winding. Greater things are yet written for you, Ilmarátâ.” She leaned in and kissed Moríel’s brow. “And I will welcome you home, when you are ready.”

Then Varda's touch faded, leaving behind a calm that wrapped around Moríel like a mantle. She lifted her eyes to the new stars. They shone brighter than any in the sky. And for the first time in what felt like an age, she smiled through her tears. She was not alone. Not truly. Not ever again.

They were watching.

And they would guide her home.

[balrogballs]

Hi Balls, I love your writing and I just read your Maglor/Glorfindel story after your latest fic about Feanor. Can I just ask why your Maglor is sometimes, like in that story, kind of rude and sarcastic? Your style keeps me reading, but I’m used to Maglor being more wholesome, or regretful, and I wanted to ask your justification for him being like, kind of mean in his responses. Is it an anti fanon thing or what, because he’s supposed to be the most pentitent brother so it’s interesting to see

continueing here. See him being sarkie about Elrond, or cocky about his looks, when he’s characterized as being repentent and not so confident, because of his trauma? I love your prose and it makes it interesting to read, but maybe explain your justification? Is it that his trauma doesn’t xist in the story,? Has he got over it ooor is he using it as a shield? All 3 sound possible

Hello hello!

So I assume you mean this fic? It was a last minute pinch hit fill for the Slashy Valentine event, more of a short vignette than anything. This question skipped to the top of my queue just so I could make this joke: if I had a nickel for every time someone asked me to justify a fanfic decision in the last week, I’d have two nickels… (just joking, not @-ing you at all!). Sorry about how long this is, I am very insufferable and like to ramble, but yes enjoy some thoughts about my conception of Maglor (and a little bit of Maedhros as well towards the end) across most of my fics.

So two things: firstly, some of the wording in the setup of that Valentine fic is directly drawn from an old fic I had up, in which Maglor was a bird-guy living in a forest near Lindon running a bird conservation project, which I took down after a couple of months and repurposed for other writing ventures.

And in that one, Maglor absolutely is judgy, sarcastic and “lmao memes” about most things, will not hesitate a second to call Elrond out when he’s acting like a dweeb, and some of the most fun I had writing anything was when I was writing the dialogues between him and 4 y/o Baby Arwen (who if you’ve read my earlier LotR stories, you’ll know is extremely spoilt and very much daddy’s little princess).

Reason I mention that fic is because that was the first proper or substantial Maglor-centric bit of writing I’d ever attempted and so that characterisation carries over to other fics of mine to various degrees as well, depending on setting and the role Maglor plays in the fics…

It really isn’t some sort of “anti-fanon” move, whatever that is supposed to mean… I don’t exactly make it a habit to rail against fanon as a rule, the only fic I’d say fulfills that criteria to some extent is that Mae/Elw fic, but even that is just 80% me wanting them to fuck and finding it very hot.

I just like to interpret Maglor in the way I characterise him, as you describe, snarky, judgemental and droll. There are still fanon elements to it: he’s very parental, grandparental as well, he was a very involved parent regardless of what form it takes or effect it has, whether positive or negative. Maglor in my AU also follows along those lines, just in a different context… and his very close relationship with Arwen was a pretty solid thread in some of my older works, iirc The Great Impossible showcases that best… and yes, there too he’s very laid back and honestly can be a bit of a dick, especially with his “naming 3000 generations of cats after Thingol” and “finding a very ugly cat and calling it Teleporno, only to change its name after Teleporno was nice to him”.

I don’t think it’s a beyond-the-pale characterisation, or one that seems incompatible with canon. The guy spent his life in Valinor lauded as the world’s greatest singer and what not, was a professional mummy’s boy and was a prince for most of his life. Him having a stick up his ass wouldn’t really be out of the ordinary: imagine if Beyoncé and Prince Harry were combined into one person. You’d be sitting at court bitching about people’s outfits too if you were Maglor. And then you’re commanding forces in a war, so you still have a level of authority: the Fëanorians in Beleriand weren’t exactly destitute and begging on the street getting whipped by Thingol or whatever, they absolutely had power and wealth.

Maglor was weary of his Oath and heartsick by the end, but he was still a Fëanorian, he was still part of their wider project in Middle-Earth, not only took part in the slayings but composed music about it, etc. I used to have a little joke that Maglor was the Rudyard Kipling of the Noldor and that the Noldolantë was the pointy-eared equivalent to the White Man’s Burden poem but I stopped making it when someone tried to bite my head off for it… 😭 anyway, yes, I did not and don’t write him as someone who was opposed to it from Day One, but someone in whom regret and self-disgust grew as the Noldor-in-ME project continued.

So him not being a perfectly polite and “choose kindness always” uwu bean does track with his character in my view… it’s all just different interpretations, not exactly some act of rebellion against fanon or whatever.

Re: trauma and characterisation, I fielded this same question about Maedhros when writing Cast in Stone, but in that case it was “why is he literally deranged, like person-needing-a-straitjacket deranged instead of having a classic presentation of PTSD and depression?”

I think one thing it’s important to mention when it comes to fandom/fanwork, not just in this fandom but in general, is that trauma presents in many ways, and they’re not all going to be a) relatable b) easily mappable into Anglo DSMV terminology c) palatable. As a general rule, for both personal and literary reasons, I am always keen on exploring “madness” in fantasy. I wasn’t interested in writing Maedhros as a “guy who did big violence and then felt bad about it” neat binary, wanted to show a fractured psyche which, in my writing, presents as outright mental instability.

And yeah it’s clear in Prayers what’s going on in his head, but because Cast in Stone was set in canonverse I had a few questions in about why I did that, to which my answer was: while the story was as a whole an exploration of historiography/who-writes-history-and-how, the emotional climax of it was when Elrond admits to Estel that the reason for all that historical cherrypicking and statue-building was not due to his own personal opinion about either the Fëanorians or his parents or anything like that which you’d expect, but rather the result of a residual, misplaced anger towards Maedhros for taking his own life. And that perspective is absolutely a thing with the immortal Eldar (see: Elwing being put into a fucking tower and having to live apart from the rest of the Eldar??? 😭) but it’s also a prevalent attitude in the real world, the language of blame and accusations of “selfishness”.

And what the fic was doing was also trying to explain Maedhros’ psyche, his own outlook towards his pre-reembodiment actions, even outright telling Elrond that he’d have done it again if he was in that spot with those stakes again. Not a palatable response nor a “mentally well” one, but re-embodiment/immortality =/= cure-all, and Maedhros still being a freak on his second round in ME was just more interesting to me. And personally again, I don’t want to write Maedhros grovelling to Elrond apologising for his suicidality: in CiS he straight up says he won’t apologise, and that’s just my preference and outlook when it comes to something like that. In fact, the only explicit apology I’ve ever written for him across all my fics has been a direct one to Elwing as an individual, which takes various forms in various works, and that is not even for the violence or kinslaying or any of that (because it’s not exactly something you can “apologise” for) but rather for the specific action of driving her to attempt exactly what he later also did.

And it’s a similar sort of view I hold with Maglor, just much less intense: where the child-rearing is genuine, he grows to love them swiftly and he’s good to them, but there’s definitely a sense of atonement to it at the start, a la Kite Runner (🙄 reference, i know sorry). And someone who I write to take that approach and views things through a self-fashioned morality code (which has both good and kind elements but also elements inherited from Fëanor/general Noldor worldviews), I don’t think—again I’m talking about how I write him, not how anyone should, or even talking in canon terms—he necessarily needs to explicitly beg everyone he meets for forgiveness on *their* terms if that makes sense?

I kind of regret pulling that bird-story now because it makes stuff a bit clearer re: what I’m trying to explain here, but yeah that was his and Elrond’s first meeting since the First Age, and it very much operated on a “yeah this happened and it was shit, and you know I regret it and that I’m sorry, but okay let’s solve the problem you have now” basis. And that’s just the approach I took, I have enjoyed reading stuff where there’s an explicit forgiveness narrative especially when it’s not tropey or woobified, but as a writer I chose this other option, that’s all.

Essentially, I don’t think he needs to perform his insecurities and be outwardly self-disgusted until someone tells him he shouldn’t. Insecurity and self-hatred, if present, can manifest in ways other than weeping at Elrond’s feet, I think? Again, there’s works that do that very well and unpick it nicely, it’s just that I didn’t go that route. Especially because I don’t write Elrond as a paragon of virtue whose primary trait is unequivocally-good-despite-trauma, that trait is present yes but I still write him to have flaws, ie historical blindness (interesting in the context of him being a living archive) as well as his own biases that come from his experiences, some inherited and others from serving under Gil-galad in the Second Age… so achieving Elrond’s forgiveness, specifically, isn’t the crux of any of the kidnap-fam related stories I’ve written?

Finally, I also don’t think being someone who is sorrowful/lonely/abject needs to be someone who spends all their time crying (Maedhros in Prayers is a good example of that opinion of mine lol!) and carrying over some personality traits from your Beyonce x Prince Harry era I think is not exactly either a rebellion from fanon or canon, nor a particularly impossible characteristic to have in his circumstances.

So yeah, just my interpretation, which I’ve explained above… I love reading other takes on him and think other readings work well too of course, this was just what I chose.

Hope this all makes sense and sorry for the essay, but hey, you asked! 🤪 I was in the middle of writing some meta re: Prayers (because I’m still very irritated about that one condescending read) when this turned up and distracted me…

[menelvagor]

The elvenking rolled his eyes as the despicable man admitted to the "little" harm in his action and scoffed under his breath, stepping back as the cell door shut and the guards locked Trahaearn inside. His frown deepened as he stared down at him. "Danger it may pose? There is danger only for thee now, as we have the ability to hold thee accountable for harshly treating your charge. I am sure some of thine own would find such actions deplorable."

"Worry not - thou shalt have a trial, but do not hope overmuch. Fair shalt it be, even with mine own confidence. Thy councilors shall be notified and allowed access as they need. Thou, however, may not. Held up in the darkness shalt thou be."

"That horse is not under any of my direction," he replied without emotion. "'Twere but a wild animal acting of its own will, protecting that which he felt was in danger. Farewell."

Elu Thingol turned around and walked gracefully back up the stairs and out of the dungeons.

"Fine. There was a little harm in it," he relented as the cell door was shut and locked. "However, one would not use a switch to discipline a bear, due to the danger it may pose, which is why my methods may seem harsh."

Trahaearn glared at the folded journal within Thingol's hands, furious that it fell into his hands and simultaneously ruined his plans. "It is my right to a trial no matter how you feel it may end. I request that my councilors are given access to your legal libraries so they may understand how to plea my case within your laws."

"I know that," he growled, "That damned horned horse killed my mages the same night your captains were hunting me in the forest."

[menelvagor]

Send me "&" for my muses reaction to yours tracing one of their scars. (Elurín and Thingol) -✧- @promisesofstone

The former King cradled the child in his arms, sitting calmly with his back against a large tree. Like a carbon copy of him the little elfling appeared, in the protective embrace of Elu Thingol. Their bright white hair stood out starkly against the dark trees around them.

The young one had been found out in the wilds, beside a mangled twin and shaking before the threat of large wolves. Yet, fate it seemed had brought the once mighty King and Queen to the confrontation, to save one of them. Now, they traveled the forests with a new companion, not yet privy to their blood relation. Yet, with strong suspicion. Intuition.

The elfling - whom they had barely managed to get a name from; Elurín - suffered injury from the wolf encounter and had scars now, months later. The protection and enchantment once so strong in Doriath was not in these wild lands, and so Thingol allowed his old and new scars come forth, visible to the child. To show that he was not alone. He gently brushed a hand over his head, smoothing his white waves of hair.

"You are not so different from me, gwinig," he said softly.

[alqualonde-s]

thranduil and elrond Do Not Vibe. i think they meet briefly shortly after Elrond leaves the Feanorians and then have to work together when he’s Gil-Galad’s herald. Elrond doesn’t know this but they’ve met before, when Thranduil was at Sirion and his father visited with Elwing. Elrond and Elros were toddlers and Thranduil grudgingly watched them. Ultimately Elrond is a reminder of everything Thranduil lost and why.

Thranduil was raised in Doriath, born around the same time Dior was. They played together when their ages matched, though Dior grew quicker due to his Mannish blood. He met Melian and Thingol briefly as a child and knew Luthien and Beren as Dior’s parents. He remembers when Doriath was sacked, his mother killed, and fleeing with his father to Sirion. He remembers the Feanorians dripping blood down the halls and off their swords as they stalked the halls of Doriath.

Elrond speaks Sindarin with a Feanorian accent and Quenyan, a forbidden language, with his brother. When the accent goes away, the “th” instead of “s” slips in when he’s passionate. He fights like Maedhros, left-handed, at times. He is the spitting image of Luthien and has the light of Melian in his eyes. When he speaks, his voice has the same thread of enchantment in it without even noticing. There’s something strange about him and no one is sure if it’s the man or the Maia. In him, Thranduil both sees people long gone and the reason they are gone. It’s eerie, and he tries to avoid him when possible.

Over the centuries, this leads to a tumultuous, forced relationship. they do figure it out later and have a much better working relationship but it definitely takes a while and thranduil still can’t talk to him tired or drunk or otherwise impaired without seeing luthien instead. mostly they write letters.