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[melestasflight]

A Tale That Wasn't Right

Belated entry for @silmarillionepistolary

2406 words, M, Maedhros/Fingon

Warnings: violence but not very graphic

On Ao3

NOLDÓRAN ARCHIVES PROJECT

MANUSCRIPT 26328-lambe

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

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

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

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

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

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

Present at the meeting

Finwë Noldóran

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

Finwë Noldóran’s humble scribe

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

Tavernkeeper: Where should I begin, lord?

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

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

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

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

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

Noldóran: How so?

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

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

Noldóran: Could you perhaps hear parts of their conversation?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Noldóran: Do go on! What happened then?

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

Noldóran: Nevertheless, I would hear it.

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

Noldóran: Struck him?

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

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

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

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

Noldóran: Please continue. Spare no detail.

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

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

Noldóran: What then?

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

Noldóran: Did they?

Tavernkeeper: No… They did something else.

Noldóran: …what was it?

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

Noldóran: A kiss between friends?

Tavernkeeper: I would not say so.

Scribe’s note: This does sound like N.

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

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

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

Scribe: As you command, Noldóran.

Tavernkeeper: No word shall leave my lips, lord.

Noldóran: You have my gratitude.

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

***

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

“Who could have guessed?” Findekáno says dryly.

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

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

“Does it hurt?” he asks.

“Yes.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Wait,” he says.

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

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

“Who would do this?” he asks.

Findekáno draws back.

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

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

Maitimo sits before him.

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

Findekáno is silent for a moment.

“You cannot either,” he says then.

“No.”

“It is not right.”

“No.”

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

“You should leave,” Findekáno says.

“I should.”

“So should I.”

“Yes.”

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

[melestasflight]

'This is sharper than thy tongue, half-brother!'

Do not use without my permission, please

[melestasflight]

For the kiss prompt, if the fancy strikes.

Fingon/Maglor... on a scar. The scar is Fingon's

hi hi melesta!! have this quick little thing! <3

“I am writing a ballad,” Maglor says, tracing Fingon’s palm with his index finger, “since I have found no such works, or at least none particularly inspired. Of things left behind, I should say, in the ice and fire.” 

“I would not imagine five fingerbreadths of skin to have much of a poetic ring,” Fingon says, “as a phrase.” 

They sit together on the hastily-built pier, watching the huge dark catfish of Lake Mithrim pass beneath them. The lake is cold, far too cold to swim in, but Fingon has kicked off his boots, and dangles his feet into the water. Maglor shivers looking at it for too long. But the sun is warm, overhead, and he lets his mink cloak drop down to the wood below him, pooling by their hips. 

“Ah, but it may be that sort of ballad, bloody, visceral,” Maglor says, “a bear, you say?” 

“Ice-bear,” Fingon says, “as a regular bear, but worse. It caught a flap of my skin under its claw, yanked down, and tore. It hung off for some time and I think we tried to put it back on, but my whole hand swelled twice its size, and the skin turned black and smelled of rot. How is that, for poetry?” 

“It is pretty now,” Maglor says, tracing the shape of the scar, raised and pale against Fingon’s dark skin, “quite as a flower-petal, or a dew-drop. Certainly there is poetry in that.” 

Before he can think better of it he takes up Fingon’s hand, and brings it to his mouth, pressing his lips against the edges of the scar. Breathes in deeply the scent of magnolia flowers, dabbed onto Fingon’s wrists. 

Fingon’s hand jerks, ticklish. There is laughter in his voice. “What now?” 

“I study my subject, as any scholar ought,” Maglor says, “I see here your skin tastes no different, healed over.” 

“Shameless,” Fingon says, “bold as fire, cousin.” But he does not draw away, not as Maglor closes his lips around his fingers and sucks. Not even after that. 

[melestasflight]

Asphodel

On AO3

The field upon which their last great blow against Morgoth had been turned aside was a barren expanse of sunbaked mud. Dust blew up from the cracks in the earth and whipped through the air in a thousand tiny storms; heaps of remains, of armor, of weapons, dotted the landscape, and reigning over all, the putrid Haudh-en-Nirnaeth.

Daeron had heard already of the fate of the high king of the Noldor, and he knew this wasteland had nothing for him, yet he came, unable to sever the cord of destiny around his throat. He trudged across the desolate land and each rusting trinket he passed stabbed at his heart, for it seemed to him that the fate of Middle-earth was now written, and no hope remained to them.

Because there was nothing to find, there was nowhere to stop; he only came as close as he dared to the Hill and sank down onto his knees, the gritty breeze stinging his dark cheeks. Had it been here, he wondered? Was this his resting place? It might as well have been.

Daeron had never seen a skull split with a single blow, but his imagination worked wonders in this regard: of splintered bones and rent muscles and ruptured organs, of blood pouring forth onto thirsty soil, of the obliteration of a person.

Daeron bent forward until his forehead touched the desecrated ground and a low moan trailed from his throat; he tried to subordinate these thoughts to the memory of Fingon as he had been at the Mereth Aderthad, how he had allowed Daeron to coax smiles and laughter from a heart wearied of tragedy, but he could not do it. The only other thing on which his mind would focus was his own desperate pleading just before battle: at the edge of the woods he had relinquished any remaining shreds of dignity to grasp at Fingon’s doublet, begging him to forget it, to forget his kingship and his kin and Morgoth most of all, and come into the wood with Daeron, and leave the rest behind.

In a tiny pocket Daeron had sewn inside his tunic, over the left side of his breast, was a loop of wavy black hair which Fingon had given him when he said goodbye in favor of his duty. This Daeron could still remember: How Fingon had smiled when he pressed it into Daeron’s hand, assuring him that all would be well, and when they met again, it would be under a sun which shone not upon the Enemy, and then Fingon would take Daeron to Hithlum that he might partake in the grand celebrations of the Noldor.

Seeing that Fingon could not be turned from his course, Daeron had said no more of it, and allowed Fingon to make his promises and embrace him that he might go to his end at least assured of Daeron’s affections. Now was come the shadow Daeron had foreseen, and there was nothing left over which he might mourn; there was not even a suggestion of the final resting place of Fingon Fingolfinion, prince from across the great wide sea. Once again, Daeron found himself merely tangential to another’s tale, sitting in the ruins of all that had been at the start of the tale and now was no more.

Sitting back on his heels, Daeron turned his face up to the sky, and his tears ran back into his braids.

“What I have done to make you so despise me, I repent of it,” he said to the merciless sky. “I would that you might tell me my proper penance, for I cannot bear this endless sorrow. You made me not with such strength to endure.”

The battlefield was silent; not even the buzzards lingered there.

There was nothing for Daeron in the Anfauglith, it was true: but it was the last place he had hoped to find something. In absence of meaning, of purpose, of comfort, he tore a strip of one of the banners of the Noldor, and told himself it had been the one Fingon had carried, and tucked the scrap into his pocket with the hair.

Where Daeron went when he drifted from Anfauglith none could say, for he vanished then into complete obscurity and the tales tell no more of the loremaster of Doriath and his silent flute, nor does his name cross the memorials of Fingon son of Fingolfin, the shortest-reigning of the high kings of the Noldor.

[melestasflight]

originally this was pretty nice,but for some reason the app deleted like four capes of the drawing😩... So,this is what remains,and I doesnt have any intention of finished it😔👋.

Anyways here's Mae and Finno after a party in Tirion,in the good times.

Bonos mini comic

[melestasflight]

@thelegolashairappreciationclub you're so correct on all accounts!

[melestasflight]

NEW DRAWING! but this time is High King of the Noldor Fingon.🦅🏹

[melestasflight]

Prompt: In a spring mood!! Put a flower in the comments or ask box and I’ll write about where it grows in Beleriand, and its symbology and usage!

First set of flowers!! I’ll get to the others as soon as I can over the next few days and weeks!

Daisies requested by @senalishia, clover requested by @carinatae! I put these two together because they’re widespread flowers growing in open spaces

Daisies grow throughout Beleriand in open spaces including Estolad, Himlad, Ard Galen, the Talath Dirnen, the open spaces of Dor-lómin, and the open places south of Gondolin.

Though they are not the primary element on heraldic devices, they often appear in borders and as smaller elements including in some Noldorin families in Estolad.

Daisies are used as garnishes by the people of Marach. Hadorian children are often given crowns of daisies during the summer festivals and daisies appear on blankets, aprons and dresses. Dyers woad is used for the yellow parts.

Daisies have astringent properties and have been used by both elven and human cultures in Hithlum for minor cuts and insect bites.

(I thought a lot about Aerin while writing this post but I’ll spare you that ramble)

Clover

Many species of clover grow throughout Beleriand including white clover in most open areas except Dorthonion, the Gap and other northern regions. Red and meadow clover grows in northern Beleriand including parts of Dorthonion, the March of Maedhros, the Gap and Ard Galen.

It is used as a fodder crop by many cultures who raise horses or cows including the cavalry.

Clover is often depicted with bees of various species and elven writings on pollination have been based on observations of clover ☘️.

Clover is used to make honey by the green elves of Ossiriand and this process was later taught to various human groups.

[melestasflight]

Tolkien started rewriting the Hobbit in the style of LotR, but what I really want is the Silmarillion in the style of the Hobbit. 

[melestasflight]

Actually the root of Finrod and Turgon’s friendship is their shared love for botany.

[melestasflight]

Throwback Thursday

summoned by the lovely @sallysavestheday. Here's a throwback to Elrond the poet, Elrond the besotted, Elrond who comes home, at last.

On this day, a day he had not dared dream in his long winter, Elrond finds himself in Celebrían’s home. She had not waited for him upon the docks of Tol Eressëa with Elwing, nor welcomed him with fresh bread and sweet water beside Idril. He stands now in Celebrían’s small house, a green-roofed cabin between the trunks of ancient trees. All windows and doors are open wide as if inviting any beast of the wood to dwell as a guest here. There are few things but the house does not feel empty. A neatly folded piece of paper sits on the small table in the only room. It is for him, Elrond knows. Winters and summers Will come and go but      You will come to me. The world shall change And the roads curve but      You will come to me. None shall remember The people we were but      You will come to me. Tho Tilion descends With Arien from the skies      You will come to me. His hands shake by the time he reads the last verse. And when he looks up from the paper, she stands there watching him, renewed and more beautiful than in any of Elrond’s memories. I have no poem for you, he wants to say but does not dare speak, afraid that he shall shatter this moment and never regain it again. ‘I knew you would come to me,’ his beloved says and spreads her arms wide. Elrond lets his heart open and be slowly filled with wonder and delight as he steps forward to fall into Celebrían’s embrace. They do not need words for this.

For more Celrond poetry: filled with wonder and delight

@polutrope @elentarial @eilinelsghost if you'd like, give a snippet of something that's been standing on the shelves

[melestasflight]

Throwback Thursday!

I've been in a Maglor mood this week, so here's a little one-two tragedy-comedy punch of him from September 2022.

From 4'33":

His great works are lost to him, after the fall, after his long, dreamlike submersion. For what felt an endless time, he floated like waterweed at Ossë’s whim, his body just one more strange calcified structure in Uinen’s halls. But the sea spat him out, eventually, the cool depths fundamentally unwelcoming to one who has touched fire.

And the B side (Avant Garde):

“I’m here, if here is anywhere, really.” Makalaurë is puddled on the floor in a shadowy alcove off the main walkway, blinking miserably up at Findaráto from within a welter of scarlet robes. His jeweled circlet is askew, and his braids have begun to unravel. The smoky eyes he affects for triumphant premieres have made their way damply down to his chin, and he reeks of 100-proof despair.

Something for everyone! Enjoy :)

@a-tehta @thescrapwitch @starspray @melestasflight @tilion-writes feel like sharing something from your dustier old parchment piles? Show a little love for those fics that are old.

[melestasflight]

WIP Whatever Day

thanks for the tag @thelordofgifs we're clawing our way back through the ongoing Thing

When the heavy doors finally close behind them, there are no words. They do not speak, they do not move, eyes only fixed at each other. The music from the reception hall can still be heard distantly, its merry notes finding their way between the stone hallways of Barad Eithel and bouncing from wall to wall all the way to the king’s chambers. The king has no thought for the music, no mind for anything at all other than the elf who now stands before him. It is somewhat bizarre to see Maedhros like this, here. The years are not so long since they last saw one another, yet so much has changed, things that they held true for centuries are now uprooted from the depths of the earth, never to be the same again no matter how great the labor in replanting them and growing them anew.

@sallysavestheday @queerofthedagger @dalliansss care to share what you're up to?

[melestasflight]

Please read Kaleidoscope it is very, very good

Vote for Fingon/Celegorm

This is propaganda for Fingon/Celegorm in @melestasflight's Best Fingon Ship (No Russingon) poll.

Why you should vote for this ship? It can offer so much! They are similar, yet different. They can be Rivals to Lovers, Lovers to Enemies, Cousins with Benefits. They can have Hate Sex.

If you need a more convincing argument, here is the Celegorm/Fingon part from my Fingon/Sons of Fëanor fic (M-rated) under the cut. We can have more if the ship wins the poll ;)

Since childhood, Celegorm has been at odds with Fingon. Every little disagreement was a reason for a squabble. Every squabble a reason for a shouting match. Every shouting match a reason for a fistfight. No one else has given Fingon as many bruised eyes, cut lips and head bumps as his fair cousin. Celegorm won't admit it, but the same is true for him.

Not much has changed since then. Only the fight is in the bedroom now.

Sometimes it's playful - grappling, nibbling, tickling, Celegorm - beautiful, striking Celegorm - laughing loudly and freely. 

Sometimes their competitive spirit rears its head, and they wrestle, stubborn hands pushing, sweat-soaked bodies sliding against each other, Celegorm's smile like the Moon's silver crescent as he pins Fingon under the weight of his body, Celegorm's smile like the poisoned knife strapped to his thigh as Fingon tackles him and grasps his wrists. 

Sometimes, especially when Fingon comes to Celegorm after fucking Curufin, their fight turns nasty - grabbing, biting, slapping, scratching, driving into barely prepared bodies, Celegorm - Fingon's oldest rival, Fingon's first kiss - spitting the most hateful words to Fingon's face and laughing - bitter, poisonous - as Fingon replies in kind. 

The last time Fingon sees Celegorm, he smiles his mocking, challenging, you-are-not-better-than-me smile. Fingon punches him and receives no answer.

[melestasflight]

I may write the winning ship, let's see how this goes

[melestasflight]

Fingon does not play often anymore. Rarely does the mood strike him, and mostly when he is alone, his heart is sorrowful. But at the Mereth Aderthad some merriness of the crowd strikes him, some warmth of the liquor, and he picks up the harp and plays, unthinking, a drinking-song from bygone days. Around him elves laugh and dance, an ocean of swirling silk, and he hears little his own music. 

“You have lost the touch,” Maglor says, “you were better.” 

Fingon looks down at the joints of his fingers, where feeling has not returned since the ice, and says naught. 

[melestasflight]

And to be clear, in case it wasn’t obvious, I’m a feanorian fan, specifically a Maedhros fan, but it’s startling to me how quick a lot of his fans are to excuse his actions. They aren’t excusable. MAYBE Alqualonde can be attributed to to naïveté, but he knew what he was doing in doriath and in the sirions, “he was in despair” no shit! That’s the point! He lost hope and began directing his oath toward his kin instead of Morgoth, it’s tragic and awful. He does deeds of surpassing valor and downward spirals into deeds of horrific evil. I’ve said this before with almost every male character I’ve ever liked: if you’re going to like a character, LIKE THE CHARACTWR! Don’t change the character around to become a more acceptable or palatable character that bares no resemblance to the ACTUAL character. By the end of the silm, Maedhros is a monster. A tragic one? Yes. A sympathetic one? I think so. But he’s a monster, and he tormented Elwing and he is responsible for her brothers deaths and her fathers death and the deaths of those at Alqualonde, I don’t think you have to ignore that in order to like this character