#BED FOR ARTANIS

[tetedurfarm]

he's so, so sick and yet all he wants is to be loved on :(

[two-white-butterflies]

CHANGED | part two

Description: You have found that there are different types of love. Self-serving ones who grovel when abandoned in pity for themselves. However, there is another greater form of love, one that creates life. What happens when your husband uses you in the creation of the rings?

Pairing: Annatar/Reader reincarnation trope that i am a sucker for

PART ONE || (graphic depictions of violence warning!)

Halbrand reminds you of a thing that you once knew... "You remind me of something," you suddenly blurt out.

He raises an eyebrow, non-verbally asking you to continue.

It happened thousands of years ago when all you knew were the green fields of Valinor — carefully tucked under the guiding hands of your ruined mother, Iellas.

Mother would accompany you in gathering the flowers near the valley, and songs of life would play in the background...You could only see the water from where you stood.

"Back then, I had never seen a ship before. My mother was a follower of Lord Ulmo, and every day, he would request my presence. He'd tell me to sing so the fishes of Yavanna would appear to him. I'd strike up a conversation and ask him questions about ships. I always wanted to see one." You smile at the faint memory.

Halbrand seems to be flooded with memories of his own.

"This is hardly a ship." Halbrand chuckles.

"It floats," you looked around with a smile.

.

.

.

After hours of silence, your eyes suddenly light up at the sight of land — the statue of Ulmo!

Something truly divine is at play here, from being forced to return to the Grey Havens to being caught in a shipwreck and landing in Numenor with a man named Halbrand.

This must be the work of Lord Ulmo.

"Ulmo," Halbrand muses, able to recognize the statue in front of you.

"They are a proud nation of seafarers; I assume that you are not fond of the lord of the seas?" You look at him with a knowing smirk.

"It is him who is not fond of me," he scowls.

"You cannot always blame the Valar for your suffering, Halbrand." Your voice turns soft again, optimistic, and filled with faith. Faith is the thing of the righteous, the pure, the clean. Faith is not for people like him. The men standing guard wave down their raft.

Halbrand does not doubt the power of your presence — he is sure they can see that you are an elf. One of the most powerful elves.

You cross your arms, staring at him from head to heel.

He looks nothing like the well-groomed elves of Lindon. His hair was brown and dry. His clothes are torn, wet, and smelling like the sea. There were scars all over his forearm, presumably stretching across his chest and littering his body with cuts and bruises. He did not have a slender body; he had a strong shoulder and the body of a bull.

A shiver runs down your spine, flashes of a man with auburn hair and sea-green eyes...you try to forget your dreams. They are merely visions that you can see due to your overactive imagination.

This is the real world that you are living in, Artanis, you sharply remind yourself. "Thank you for saving me, Halbrand." You thanked — and as if automatically, you press a kiss to his cheek.

Halbrand stares blankly at the ceiling. It has been a week, and not once has the encounter evaded his mind. His existence has been nothing but a black dread for millennia, but the feeling of your lips on his cheek... brought him back to memories he's fought to stay hidden.

He closes his eyes.

He cannot remember your face.

He has forced himself to forget about your features, your voice, your scent — because it was the very thing that Morgoth used to ruin him. The Dark Lord would make up visions, scenarios in which you are the subject of torture, and it ruined him a thousand times more. The sound of your voice against grating steel, the sound of your voice writhing in pain as your skin is stripped from your body.

It haunted him. It continues to haunt him. 

.

.

.

"Mairon, our child will surely adore this bed." You place a hand on the wooden crib, it is littered with paintings of flowers, and a bed made of duck feathers makes it comfortable. 

He hears the joy radiating off your voice. You were in the fifth month of your pregnancy, and the child inside of your belly grew by the minute, according to the healers — the child was big and healthy. Growing with all the light that radiated off you and your husband.

"Tell me already. Is it a son or a daughter?" You pleaded, leaning deeper into his embrace.

An amused chuckle escapes his mouth, pressing baby kisses on the crook of your neck. "It does not matter," he whispers.

"Yes, but I have to think of names." You pouted.

He presses a kiss to your lips.

"Artanis or Inglor, whatever shall it be?" He continues to tease.

"Annoying," your eyes narrowed. He laughs again.

He wraps you in a warm embrace, lingering in your presence. He feels utterly blessed to be alive — to have you waiting for him and the promise of a child that shall be a testament to the love you share. Every day is filled with joy and safety, and he knows that tomorrow shall be the same, for today is the same as yesterday.

He takes a deep breath again.

But he feels like something is missing, that life shouldn't be filled with this tranquil feeling of rest — it should have a purpose, should it not? Knowledge, innovation, making things easier.

He breaks free from the embrace.

He looks at you and — he realizes that your face is paler, no longer shining with the light of the two trees.

"Lover," his voice comes out as a whisper. He places both hands on your shoulders; there is no light hidden behind your eyes. "You are Sauron," his ruined name escapes your mouth.

His gaze trails down to your lower body.

Blood pools on the floor, between your thighs.

"...you chose the darkness over your family. You fell into temptation because you are not strong enough to stand against Illuvatar's test." The voice that comes out of your mouth does not sound like your own — your voice sounds like nothing but a cheap impersonation.

"Lover, please." He begged.

"You wish to return to the Grey Havens to seek salvation, but you are not welcome there, you are not welcome anywhere but the dark void that your master is cast-off to." You continued speaking, eyes boring deep into his. "You are ruined, and you will find no salvation."

"Lover," a whisper escapes his mouth before a cacophony of screams leaves him deaf and breathless.

.

.

.

"Halbrand," you place a hand on his sleeping figure, seeing that tears were falling down his irises, staining his cheeks.

He snaps awake — about to hit you, but you stop him with a hand. "Halbrand, are you well?" You asked with a concerned frown.

He looks around in a confused manner, surprised that he was able to sleep, but sleep never does come for a maia like him. It was nothing but a vision, his subconscious fighting against him, eating him alive with guilt. "What are you doing here?" His voice is rough.

"I wanted to speak, the pendant that you were wearing — I remember it to be the emblem of kings," You informed with a gentle gaze.

"It passed down from my father," he looks to the side. He wonders all the ways he can use you to his benefit. "It is a heirloom." Your lips pursed into a thin line. "I am not related to any king," He raises an eyebrow. He wants that idea inside of your head.

"Well, you have the pendant." You made an observation. Your breath is lodged inside of your throat once you realize his...indescribable stare on your face like he wanted to eat you alive or ravage you.

"Even if you are not king, I require a figurehead, a leader that shall guide men." You continued, certain that he'd accept your generous offer. It is not every day that a man becomes King.

"You would make me a King?" He stares again, licking his bottom lips.

"I do not desire to stay here for long. The darkness marches forward, threatening to engulf the realm with rot. Every moon counts, every day that we spend coddled near the fire, their numbers grow. I am asking you to be their leader, my friend. The man that they can look towards as they raise their banners." You carefully honeyed your words.

"My friend?" He opts to focus on the word that you used to describe him. He looks behooved.

"You are my friend now, for you shall help me." You insisted.

He flicks the blanket off his body, rising in his feet, pretending to march in the other direction. "I've found good work here. I'm not returning to that shite sea." Halbrand turns to look away.

His heart stills for a second; there is a small chance that you will deny his offer and find another human to pester. But, he knows that rejection is the best way to strengthen your faith in him — to make his alibi seem believable once cracks of his facade break.

He cannot seem too optimistic. He needs this to be your idea.

"Think about it, Halbrand." You placed a basket on his bed.

Casting him another glance before exiting his chamber.

"Halbrand," your voice floods his senses.

He pretends not to see you, opting to focus on forging a necklace. He had forged this necklace before when he was still in the Grey Havens. Your favorite flowers are roses...he resists the urge to chuckle. He still cannot understand why your favorite flowers are roses.

He finds roses to be boring, but that certainty is also what draws him to you. He used to be certain of your love. He used to be certain that every day would be the same — and that you would choose him regardless of his sins. He thinks about your spirit trapped in another elf's body — or perhaps a human, a hobbit, or a dwarf.

He thinks about you wrapped in the arms of the sun, and suddenly, Sauron turns back into Mairon, and he cannot bear the thought of you in the arms of someone who is not him.

"Halbrand, are you still there?" You wave your hand in front of his face. "What?" His voice comes out harsher than he intended.

You flinch.

"I'm sorry for interrupting you; I was saying that roses are my favorite kind of flowers." You smiled, showing him your dimples.

His grip on the axe loosens. His breath stills, and in this light, your face and smile look much like his wife. He has to manually fight against the urge to reach for your face and litter your lips with kisses.

She is not my wife, he reminds himself. You are merely an elf that he must use to further his position in Middle Earth. "— I'll buy whatever you're crafting, but you must promise to escort me to Middle Earth." You continued once more with your campaign.

A satisfied smile ghosts his face, but it returns to normal before you can notice. "Unless there is someone in Middle Earth that would be greatly offended seeing you in my company," you winked.

A sigh escapes his mouth.

He reminds himself to add more dimension to this Halbrand character. "I have a wife," he looks away, returning to his craft. "All the more reason to return home," you persuaded.

He does not know where home is.

"The gods have taken her." He says, pounding harder on the metal. Your face drops to the floor. You take a step backward. "Oh," your tone sounds apologetic. "I am sorry, Halbrand." You apologized.

A strange feeling enters his heart at the sound of your apology.

You lift your body until you are sitting on the wooden table, feeling the vibrations of the pounding of metals on your thighs. "When I was younger, I used to make up these scenarios inside of my head," you tried to distract him away from the previous subject.

He looks at you, his eyes a little more forgiving, and a smirk is plastered on his face.

"Well, I still make scenarios in my head, but I assure you that they are not as creative as they once were...Remember that story with my aunt and her husband?" You say, avoiding Sauron's name. "Yes," he nods his head, pretending to have no interest in your story.

He grabs one of the fine tools, beginning to create the intricate details of rose petals. "Mother was her closest friend, and she'd tell me stories. She'd say that my aunt is the fairest of Illuvatar's creations because her fea was strong — she was guided by Yavanna. She fell in love with a maia — one of the few of our kind to do so." You smiled, remembering the story of old.

"Mhm," Halbrand continues.

"All was well until Morgoth came and sang discord into Valinor. He took my aunt's husband, tortured him, and taught him the darkest of crafts. Grief made her feel weaker until she could not find happiness even in the Grey Havens." You stared off to the far distance.

As if the scene happened right in front of you.

Halbrand stopped forging in those very seconds, his glare on you was so intense — his eyes were watery with tears, but you were far too carried off in your story to realize.

"Her fea was not enough for her child's spirit to continue...and my cousin faded. My aunt faded, and she begged in the Halls of Mandos to be freed of this world, but she was brought back to us because our souls are chained to this land. Our family came to Lady Yavanna, and she agreed to grant my aunt a new life, so she shall have no memory of her husband — or her child..." Tears fall from your eyes, staining your cheeks.

You turned to look at him, and he looked away, pretending to have been forging the entire time. "You must understand how much this journey means to me, Halbrand. The darkness has already taken too many of my loved ones. It must end," You persuaded.

In your eyes, he knows nothing of the pain that you feel. Your mother, your friends, your aunt...have all been taken by the darkness.

"We are too weak to stop what has been standing for so long," he clears his throat, his emotions seeping deep inside the necklace that he is forging. He caused his own child's demise. 

"It can be vanquished, I promise." You nodded.

"Lady Artanis?" a herald peeks through the closed doors of the forge.

"I shall speak to you again, Halbrand." You placed a hand on his shoulder, walking away once more.

"What is it, herald?" he hears your voice fade away.

Halbrand places the necklace on your palms. "What is this?" Your eyes narrowed, lips forming into a smile. "I liked your story yesterday. You can have the necklace, I've never been fond of sparkly things." Halbrand tries his best to sound like a lowborn human male.

"Thank you!" You beam with happiness, quickly attempting to place the necklace on your neck — but you struggle because of your hair.

"Let me help you," he blurts out.

You hand the necklace to him, turning around and waiting until the cold metal is securely on your neck.

He lays it on there, flicking your hair away, hooking the gold metal loops together. His calloused fingers dance against your nape, and he shivers. "It is beautiful; you should not have." You whispered, staring intently at the beautiful details of your new necklace.

It is beautiful, lover, you should not have, he remembers the words that exited your mouth a dozen lifetimes ago.

"You are truly blessed with the skill of forging. This type of detail, I have only ever seen Lord Celebrimbor do it." You complimented him. "My father was a smith before he died of sickness." He lied. His father is Eru Illuvatar — and he is now a disowned son.

"— your speech yesterday was convincing. I have decided to take up your offer." He agrees to your proposal.

"Really!" You beam with joy again, wrapping him in a warm embrace.

"The best news that I have heard the entire week!" You cheer, and the humans around you begin to look at you with raised eyebrows. "Easy, lass." He pats your back.

"I promise that the seas will be forgiving. No more of that raft." You smiled, dragging him away from the city center, entwining your fingers together as you began to lead him to the castle.

----

Halbrand finds himself marching inside the Numenorian library. He needs to read all books written about being born again...although he doubts that any of these humans could have written anything about such a divine topic.

His hands land on a book, its cover feels different, almost familiar. He takes the book off the shelf, landing it on the table in front of him. 'Reincarnation by ___, wife of Arnaur.' He reads the author's name has been scratched off the leather, and to his surprise, there is no table of contents — he must skim through all these pages.

A reincarnated soul does not lose their true identity. It is their soul that is changed, not their heart, Lady Yavanna says. The body that holds their spirit shall suffer dreams of the past and their loved ones...the Valar says they will dream of them, too, until their identity is made known. My daughter has been suffering from these dreams. I find myself dreaming of you, my friend. 

Halbrand's eyebrows merged, all the other pages past these were tattered, covered by letters that he recognized as dark speech. He clenches his fist — this book is the only one in the entire world written about reincarnation, and it seems to him that Morgoth got his paws on the author before she was able to finish.

He stares at the cover again. "Wife of Arnaur," he mutters under his breath. The name sounds familiar (and he has been saying familiar a thousand times now.) Arnaur, noble fire. He has said that name before... Who are you, Arnaur?

---- 

"Are you ready to leave, Hal?" You asked, and he nodded.

He carries your shared bag on his back, not much to carry when you came here, almost wearing nothing. You offered a handshake before boarding the ship, "To vanquish the darkness?" You smiled.

"To vanquish the darkness," he flashes an indescribable smile.

As you turn your back to him, his eyes turn dark.

Middle Earth shall kneel to the might of its dark king, from the ocean to the land, from the moon and to the stars. All shall fear his name. 

PART THREE >>

@louiselouve @justmasblack @anakinishotdoe

[malkaleh]

fic prompt: for Gold Cages verse, when Sauron decides he’s going to bring back Celeborn (or when he realises he’s falling for Celeborn)

One version of Sauron going from I WANT HIM DEAD to MY SWEET SILVER PRINCE 🫶🏼.

TW: uh Sauron is Sauroning (implied rape, abuse, possessive behaviour)

Sauron doesn’t think of his lady of lights husband and oh how that rankles - a husband, never mentioned - though certainly there are a number of reasons that that lack of mention could be pleasing it still means that he exists between them, in their bed.

Celeborn of Doriath long gone. Lost to water and to war and yet, yet as Sauron has Artanis lay across his chest, gold shining hair and his triumph he knows that the name he knows her as was his.

So. He will find him, if he lives or if he does not and either way Sauron will bring his body to Artanis and there will be an end. She will understand that this Sindar so called husband was never worthy of her, could never understand her greatness and her light - he had constrained her most likely, as so many had done with his darlings (the High King of the Elves will wish for death when Sauron is done with him) and it saddens him that she does not see it yet.

She will. He knows his treasures will see the whole of it - they already are but there are some things Celebrimbor and Artanis cling to out of their fierce stubbornness - he loves them for it even as it pains his heart to see them causing themselves such aching for those who have never deserved it.

So he plans to find Celeborn, expecting to find a corpse. Instead he finds a living elf and a mortal prison. Far far Rhûn, an elf traded for gold and skill with plants it seems. One of his spies, not knowing why Sauron looks brings it to his attention.

So he will go, in Halbrand form to destroy this one. It is a trivial matter, Sauron thinks, this so called husband. He goes as a fellow prisoner and it is easy enough - the sand and grit might stick in this forms throat but it will only get him closer.

Here, says one of the prisoners, who shows him how to make a wrap across his face to keep out the sand and ward off the heat. The prisoner has silver hair, falling into a braid to his waist.

Celeborn of Doriath is beautiful. It annoys Sauron at first that he is - brown skin, broad shoulders for an elf, silver haired and eyed. A strange choice for Saurons golden Artanis, who should not be tempered with such cool metals.

It irks him even more that Celeborn is quietly competent. Efficient even, in his movement and action. And that Sauron cannot stop looking at him - what is it that you have, that you so had my queen first, he thinks silently. It is a puzzle he cannot unravel, not yet.

So he stays his hand and stays and stays, hoping to learn the key. Then he thinks, I will destroy you, Celeborn of the forest beneath the waves.

Except. Except. There is kindness. Celeborn shares water with Sauron, shares a spare blanket and food. It should irk Sauron but it does not. One day one of the other prisoners is beaten and Sauron does not understand his rage at the gentle touches and care that Celeborn gives him.

Until. Until. They drag him back, the drowned prince, bleeding and delirious and all of the others they cringe back and I’ll kill you all, Sauron thinks savagely. After all that he has done for you undeserving scum, you would shy away from him. Your every moment will be agony, he thinks as he gently cradles Celeborn.

“Sweet silver prince” Sauron whispers in his mind. Not Celeborns. Not yet. But soon - he must take his treasure from this place for teasure he is. No unwanted interloper after all.

“My dearest one” he says over and over as he cleans blood from a back marked by lashes and oh, the overseer will scream for this. Sauron wonders if he can arrange to see the mans face when he realises what he has done - it gets him through washing the wounds and careful checking for signs of infection.

He jealously guards Celeborn from the other cringing prisoners but it is no matter to steal bandages and salve. To tend his darling so no more hurt may come to him.

Sauron knows he is possessive in the time between making sure an order is sent to take certain prisoners to his stronghold but how, how can he not when his sweet silver prince is so very easy to love. He must be protected from those who would use him, impose upon him - especially the whining fear of the others in their cell.

Celeborn tends to Sauron but also to the others and every moment he does burns Sauron. He can barely wait for this journey to end so they can end this farce.

@slightnettles @damnyoubishop @themalhambird @theroguedragon @self-destructinganimal @nocompromise-noregrets @seagull-energy @eowyn7023 @plotdesigner

(like this post if you’d like to be on the taglist for gold cages content)

[lendmyboyfriendahand]

Turgon/Maglor marriage of convenience

Fingolfin looked at his second son, full of hopes and dreams for a new kingdom. Petitioning him for his very literal leave as king. “Absolutely not.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean you can’t just vanish with half our people into the wilderness!”

“Lord Ulmo told me it would be perfectly safe.”

“For you perhaps, but what of the rest of us, with so many fewer soldiers?”

“Fingon just achieved a very glorious victory, Morgoth will hide and lick his wounds for a while.”

“Perhaps, but what of when he recovers? You plan no means for me to call on you for aid.”

“Any messengers could be intercepted and reveal the location. As could trained pigeons, not that they’d even live long enough.”

“If you stay close by, I could likely reach out to you with my mind.”

“I’m not going to tell you how far I’m going. That would defeat the point of keeping it secret.”

“Neither you or I are gifted enough in Osanwe to reach across hundreds of miles.”

“Artanis is, but she’s not spending time with either of us.”

“Then my son, I’m sorry but I cannot give this plan my blessing.”

“You are spitting in the advice of the Valar.”

“As we have been since we left Tirion. If you can think of a way to exchange messages if we need aid, I will consider it.”

___

Turgon came in the next week. “I want you to know that I am taking you seriously, but I will not stop my plans. I had an idea, but there were no volunteers.”

“What was your idea, my son?”

“Marriage bonds allow sharing of minds further than normal Osanwe. You were able to hear Mother halfway across the Ice, though I couldn’t.”

Fingolfin is not happy about this line of thought, but it’s important. “I was.”

“I announced to people that you wouldn’t approve of our departure unless you had a way to speak with us. I asked for volunteers of married couples for one to stay and fight, while the other goes into safety. Not surprisingly, I had no takers. Everyone who was willing to be separated from their spouse for safety stayed in Tirion. A few couples did both volunteer to stay in Ethel Sirion though.”

Fingolfin is kind of insulted that Turgon is saying Anaire loved him less than any of Turgon’s subjects love their spouses. “Is there anyone who’d be willing to wed and then immediately separate?”

“I didn’t ask, but I doubt it. You’re losing your chance to ever marry again for all the Ages of the world.”

“True, unless one of them is willing to promise to die and stay dead once we defeat Morgoth.”

“That doesn’t seem likely.”

___

“I’m marrying Maglor. He and his brothers are Doomed to the Void after they die, he won’t get in the way of Elenwe returning. And at the rate his part of the family has been dying, I doubt he’ll survive the next few centuries.”

“Is Maglor aware of this idea?”

“Yes. He says it’s worth some awkwardness to create one safe place the Noldor can thrive for a time, and he’s willing to be message-carrier if you need rescue.”

___

“So, do you want to go to the bed or do this right here?”

“Excuse me?” 

Maglor shrugged where he was sitting in front of the fireplace. “What, we both know that you’re only in my rooms so we can ‘wed’. So, in front of the fire or on the bed?”

“Would it kill you to be a little more romantic?”

“If your proposal hadn’t mentioned my likely death as a selling point, perhaps I’d be inclined to. I could serenade you with tales of love in unlikely places, or of passionate encounters that last only a night but are remembered forever. But you rather brought down the tenor of the whole endeavor.”

“I’m sorry, you’re right it was a poor beginning. Perhaps we can make it better?”

“Nope. One fuck and then you abandon us all to build your fairy tale kingdom where no one ever dies. I’m not getting emotions into this that I’ll have no way to fulfill for decades.”

“Fine, have it your way. Let’s go to the bed.” Turgon pulled his tunic off over his head and set it on a chair. 

Maglor followed, stroking himself at the sight of Turgon’s muscles. He let his own clothes fall to the floor.

Turgon was only half way hard, and well, Maglor did want to achieve this. “Do you want me to suck you off before I fuck you?”

“If you’re offering, yes.”

“I am. Now lay back.”

___

Maglor and Turgon exchanged mostly perfunctory communications for centuries. Maglor shared family news, such as when Finrod moved south, or when Orodreth married. Turgon kept to a strict schedule, mediating every second new moon and opening his mind to his husband. He would assure Maglor that Gondolin was still safe, and every decade would give a census that Maglor dutifully passed along to Fingolfin.

It wasn’t purely due to lack of affection that Turgon contacted Maglor so rarely; it was also practical. Though Turgon was a king, he dealt with no matters where a split second lapse of attention would men the difference between life and death. He could simply ask the petitioner to repeat themselves, or have his face clouded for a moment at a banquet. Few knew of his marriage to Maglor, but his council did know that King Turgon was still in contact with King Fingolfin. A moment of distraction would be easily explained, or politely ignored.

Maglor by contrast was often in combat, and even more often riding over difficult terrain. His mare would keep her footing just fine, but Maglor could fall if startled, and far worse could happen if Turgon reached out when Maglor needed to dodge a blade. Maglor camped early on the night of planned communications, and set extra guards. 

So Gondolin was not completely cut off, and news passed slowly but reliably.

Until one day when Turgon reached out in the middle of the afternoon, only five weeks since their last discussion. “Maglor! I must speak with you.”

Maglor was sitting on a log tuning his harp outside his tent, and nearly dropped it. He was tempted to ignore Turgon; being king had made his husband incredibly bossy, and Maglor owed him no allegiance. But in truth Maglor wasn’t busy, merely waiting for scouts to rejoin the rest of the cavalry. Better to get this out of the way now, rather than be distracted from their report later.

Maglor sent back, “Just a minute.” He put one of his archers on watch who had been about to take a break; she had only ridden four hours and was fresh enough. Maglor certainly couldn’t both pay enough attention to threats and carry on a conversation in his mind with someone dozens or hundreds of miles away. 

“Okay Turgon, I’m ready. What couldn’t wait three weeks?”

“I need you to check that Aredhel is alright.”

“What? She went to Gondolin with you, have you just been assuming she’d with us for these past centuries?!”

“Of course not! She left the city to visit my father, and now her guards have returned alone. They say she detoured to Himlad, of all places, and I’d be comforted to know she arrived.”

“I can ask, next time I ride out that way.”

“I need to know sooner.”

“Unlike some people, I don’t have a whole city waiting on my beck and call.”

“No, you just have the entire Noldorin cavalry.”

“I will send out a rider once I can do so safely, and will see if I can reach Celegorm by mind tonight. He may not answer though; we’re generally skeptical of unplanned calls asking for military secrets.”

“I suppose that will have to work.”

“Given that Aredhel’s guards abandoned her, I don’t think I’m the one you should be angry at.”

“They aren’t cowards! But the Ungoliant-spawn attacked them, and drew them away one by one.”

Maglor knew well how long it took to ride to anywhere in Beleriand. He had never pressed Turgon for details of Gondolin’s location, but this couldn’t be ignored. “Turgon, how long have the guards been travelling?”

“That’s not relevant.”

“Knowing when Aredhel disappeared is very relevant to finding her.”

“Not if she’s drinking wine with your little brothers.”

“Turgon, the Spider Forest is two weeks ride from Himlad, and just as far from Ethel Sirion. How long has Aredhel been missing? And was her trip planned last time we talked?”

“It’s been less than a month since her guards last saw her. And I don’t see how her trip would have been any of your business, had it gone well.”

“It’s your father’s business, at minimum.”

“He would learn of her visit when she arrived, and Ethel Sirion is big enough by far to host four guests.”

“Four - that is far too small a party to travel alone!”

“They weren’t going to raid orc dens or anything, and wanted to travel fast.”

“They wouldn’t have been able to defend themselves against an attack. And apparently couldn’t outrun spiders, which don’t plan or devise clever traps.”

Maglor is offended and insulted that Turgon didn’t trust him enough to tell him about Ardehel’s rip in advance, but he tries not to bring it up. After a bit more arguing, they agree to check in nightly until they learn more. Maglor won’t know much tomorrow, but he might in a few days.

Celegorm does listen to Maglor, at least enough to finish up his hunting trip quickly, and return to Himlad. He was hunting with only bow and arrow though, not bringing a horse that needed a wider path. By the time he reaches Himlad, Aredhel is gone. 

___

At the Bragollach, the Gap burns first. Fingolfin can see that even from Ethel Sirion. He assumes Maglor is dead and Turgon unreachable. Fingolfin rides out to his doom

Maglor reaches out during the Bragollach as “look what shit you left us to deal with.”

Turgon does reach back a few weeks later to say Fingolfin is dead, his body brought by Eagles to be buried. Turgon acknowledges Fingon as king.

__

At the Niraneth

Turgon has not said anything about how many soldiers he’ll bring, or for what front of the battle field, or whether he’ll come at all.

He and Maglor still have their check ins, but he gives even less information than normal. 

Fingon is fine™ with this

His only living sibling is barely exchanging proof of life communications

He is trying to save the world and might die doing so, but Turgon won’t help.

Won’t even agree to send a messenger with letters, or come out himself, so the brothers could talk without Maglor having to repeat both halves of the conversation.

Fingon’s kingdom burned, and he had werewolves a few leagues from his capital.

He is king in the midst of a great crisis, and would appreciate advice on how to rule from someone with centuries of experience.

But he’s not going to pressure Turgon.

Everyone grieves differently. Fingon is focused on vengeance, but Turgon is keeping those safe that he can.

Fingon doesn’t hate Turgon, because he doesn’t have enough family left to cut any off for grudges and anger.

(If Fingon tells himself that enough, perhaps he might believe it.)

Anyway, no one is expecting Turgon to show up.

Maglor told Turgon the date and place as a challenge, and the broad plan because all Turgon would do with it is sit on the secret anyway.

Maglor is not expecting to hear from Turgon for a few more weeks

But after Uldor’s betrayal, Maglor feels a knock at the door of his mind. From far closer than he’s used to, not since Turgon left Ethel Sirion after their wedding.

Maglor signals to his soldiers to cover him while he’s distracted.

Turgon opens with “Where are you? You’re late.”

Maglor is not in a good mood. He replies. “Delayed and betrayed. Did you actually decide to care for once?”

Maglor is kind of disgusted when Turgon retreats to his city forever after one (1) battle goes poorly, but relays it to Maedhros.

Maglor doesn’t deliberately share attacking Doriath, but Turgon has been at least doing a heartbeat check in annually, and noticed Maglor was tense last time. Maglor says that three of his brothers are dead, no new action by Morgoth. Turgon is disgusted.

Turgon reaches out in a panic when his city is being sacked by someone with inside knowledge. There’s nothing Maglor can do in time even if he wanted to. He feels the tower collapse on Turgon as if it fell on himself.

__

Maglor accepted Galadriel’s hand off the ship. He wasn’t as seasick as he had been last time he crossed the Sea, but the dock still felt like it rolled for a moment. And he hoped he would be more welcome in Alqualonde holding the hand of their princess - at least no one would shoot for fear of hitting her.

Maglor was feeling rather smug about this when someone punched him in the belly. He looked over and was surprised to see a family member. “Idril?”

“You deserve that.”

“Probably, but what for specifically?”

“For surviving! All the rest of your family died, why couldn’t you?”

“Congratulations, you found the one thing I have no inclination to make amends for. Besides, Galadriel is right here, and she didn’t die either!”

“Nice to see you again Cousin Galadriel,” Idril said. “I have no grudge against you because you haven’t been keeping my parents trapped for the last six thousand years.”

“What - I haven’t even seen Turgon since before you went to Gondolin! How am I meant to be harming a dead man?”

“Exactly. Not since your wedding. And then my father died, and has not been permitted out of the halls of Mandos.”

“Have you tried petitioning Lord Namo to find out why?”

“I did, and he said that the Statute of Finwe and Miriel still stands; no one may have two living spouses. My mother could return if she was willing to confine my father to the halls for all time. Or my father could return, and until the breaking of the world I wouldn’t meet my mother as an adult.”

“Ah, that does sound difficult.”

“That’s an understatement. Neither of them will leave the other trapped, and so I am bereft of both my parents. I was hoping you’d choke on a fishbone or something, and fulfill your bargain.”

“I didn’t promise my own death. I am truly sorry to hear that Turgon is still dead though, he doesn’t deserve that.”

“How could you believe him alive? You two are married, despite the poor wisdom of it.”

“I felt silence from the bond, but that happened often even when we were alive and on the same continent. I assumed he simply had nothing to say to me, after Sirion.”

“And you never once tried to reach back?”

“Oh, I did once or twice, but I wouldn’t have expected him to hear even if he were alive. After all, not even the echoes of my lamentations shall reach Valinor.”

“My father had no hand in your Doom.”

“No, but I am under it just the say. I cannot say that I would have killed myself if I knew Turgon was still dead, especially without assurance that I was the one keeping him so. But I did not know, and so would ask that this crime, at least, be counted only from today.”

_____

Two possible scenarios with Elrond

All Maglor ever told Elrond about his spouse was that it was a marriage of convenience, but they had died before Elrond was born. All Maglor told Elrond about Turgon is what’s in the history books, and a few anecdotes from Valinor about the grandfather Elrond never met. 

Elrond didn’t actually find Maglor and bring him to Imladris. Cirdan knew roughly where Maglor was and made him sail so that Cirdan could finally get to go to Valinor soon, as the last elf to sail.

Elrond finds out when his grandmother who he’s never met punches Maglor.

2.

Maglor telling the twins that he just took from Sirion that he’s their grandpa. Okay, technically, step-great-grandpa, but that’s rather long it? So let’s just go with Grandpa Maglor, and he’ll take good care of them. He admittedly didn’t get to spend much time with their father or grandmother, but he’s sure he’ll be a wonderful grandfather anyway! He’ll keep them safe, and tell them all about Grandpa Turgon, both in Valinor and in Gondolin.

Elros and Elrond don’t really believe Maglor was married to Turgon, but that is not in the top twenty things to object to about being kidnapped by the ones who took them from their home. 

Elrond mentions “Maglor’s funny story” to Galadriel in the second age, after all the bright and strange warriors from Valinor have left, and hopefully she won’t be insulted by him impugning Turgon’s honor in a joke. He’s very surprised when she confirms it. (Turgon had told Finrod before leaving, and Finrod told Galadriel.)

[myfavouritelunatic]

Penumbra - Chapter Eight

“My task here is complete, Fëanor. I have nothing more to offer either you. I feel as if I would only serve as a stone wall blocking your path.” “I disagree.” Fëanor stated again, stepping towards Mairon. “I know what you truly seek. You have spoken quite plainly. And I know Artanis’ heart, as well as you. I would ask that you lay with us still. You have given her to me and for that, you have my gratitude. It would please me to grant you this moment to share with us, to see the fruits of your labours. Then upon conclusion, you may do what you will. But I would also ask that you remain here. You are capable of many things, Mairon, but there is no wall of stone you could build that would divide us.” “Are you certain, my lord?” Mairon gazed across at the elf with endearing eyes. Fëanor simply nodded in response. “Then I shall retire for the evening, make myself prepared to enter your bed.” “That will not be necessary tonight. Artanis has informed me what her father decreed. I cannot see her outside of this forge.” Mairon couldn’t help but scoff. He had not expected Fëanor to adhere to Finarfin’s command. “But, Fëanor, this is your domain, a kingdom of your own as it were. Surely you would not yield to the words of your foolish brother?’ “No, but I yield to Artanis. She wishes to obey. So shall I.” Fëanor took hold of Mairon’s hand, and he did not retreat. Then the elf let their lips meet softly, affectionately, a kiss filled with great promise. “Come back here… tomorrow. You will have me, Artanis, and I… will have you both.”

Word Count: 3.4k

Warnings: None really, this is all just foreplay hehe. The main event is about to commence...

Thanks to the lovely @klynnvakarian for her amazing art as always!

🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤

[queerofthedagger]

we could be kings

[Fingon/Maedhros | T+ | 1.6k | ao3]

Written for @russingon-week Day 1: Valinor/Princes and Exiles

The copper circlet Maitimo is crowned with is a work of art. He finds that he likes it much better on another's brow.

---

The ceremony is splendid.

Findekáno would have expected nothing less, of course; it is a feast of Finwë, for one. For the other, it is Fëanáro’s moment of triumph.

Findekáno does not begrudge it as much as perhaps he should. Maitimo outshines even the gems and lights, the crowd of beautiful Ñoldor, all the magnificence of a coronation little more than a backdrop to him.

His white robes are simple, beset with silver thread and pearls. They shimmer in the light, are mirrored in the long waves of his hair, and stand out against the dark-threaded embroidery that adorns the sleeves and collar.

There is a thin thread of gold, woven in his hair, almost invisible. Findekáno knows it is there, though—after all, he had braided it in himself this morning, in the early hours of dawn.

Maitimo had allowed it, his eyes dark and knowing, even as it was a gamble. There is only one person who is known to wear gold in their hair like this; there is only one thing that wearing someone’s token means.

Much the same way that a crown signifies allegiance, Findekáno thinks, as Maitimo kneels in front of their grandfather’s throne.

Knowing his own mark to be there soothes the sting a little, if only for Findekáno. Beside him, his father’s face is impassive. Turukáno is less successful in hiding his indignation, as is, unsurprisingly, Artanis.

After all, this is nothing but a blatant show of power, of influence. King Finwë already has an heir, a crown prince. To crown Fëanáro’s eldest son as such as well, when there are two more sons in line, is little but sharp-edged provocation.

At least it is from Fëanáro. As always, it is impossible to tell how aware Finwë is of the implied insult, the sign it sends. As always, Maitimo is caught in the crossfire.

Findekáno shakes himself; it does not do to think of these things now, here. It is not, after all, as if matters of succession matter greatly beyond the symbolism.

The copper circlet that Finwë sets on Maitimo’s brow reflects the light and nestles into place as if it belongs there.

When Maitimo rises, turns, and meets Findekáno’s eye, he still cannot quite find it within himself to be as annoyed by it all as he ought to be.

---

He makes sure to enjoy his fill of the food and wine, to stay long enough for it not to be perceived as an insult but not so long that it could be read as endorsement, and, last but not least, to let his father see him make his way home.

Once he is out of sight, he takes the familiar paths through back streets and narrow alleys towards the Fëanorian residence. Telperion washes the city in glazed silver, the shadows long and a friend to those who want to avoid being seen.

Findekáno has long practice in such avoidance, and once he slips into the gardens of his destination, he climbs the steel grid that supports the clematis running wild along the white-washed wall of the house, red and violet like gems.

The window is ajar, even as the room is still empty. Findekáno takes a moment to listen to the silence of the house. When nothing stirs, he lights the lamp on the desk and finds a book to occupy himself with while he waits.

It is only another hour until he catches the familiar footsteps up the stairs. There are no voices, but he moves behind the door just in case; as a general rule, their parents seem to—grudgingly—accept their closeness, but today is not the day to test their luck.

It is only Maitimo who enters, though. It speaks to his exhaustion, the amount of wine he had, or both, that he does not immediately notice Findekáno.

Findekáno grins. “Hello, lover.”

He has all of one moment to be gratified by the way Maitimo jumps before he is tackled to the bed, his own shout utterly undignified.

“Is that a way to greet me,” he complains, once Maitimo has both his hands pressed into the sheets above Findekáno’s head and is grinning down at him with evident self-satisfaction. “I could have been a burglar.”

“A burglar who waited for me to arrive home and greet me as his lover?”

“One with bad intentions, then?”

“Hence the bodily attack. Obviously.”

“Obviously,” Findekáno echoes, and all the day’s tension is already melting out of him, Maitimo’s weight familiar and grounding. “Do you invite all burglars to your bed, then?”

“Only the ones I find particularly pleasing,” Maitimo says. Before Findekáno can come up with a smart retort, Maitimo kisses him, open-mouthed and hungry.

Findekáno does not mind the distraction; Maitimo kisses as he does most things—deliberate and thorough, its devastation fuelled by the fire just beneath. He licks into Findekáno’s mouth, bites his bottom lip; draws back again, his eyes dark and untangling their hands so that he can touch Findekáno’s jaw.

“It suits you, you know,” Findekáno says, when the silence drags. It is not uncomfortable, rarely ever is, but this—this day, this coronation, this circlet—has been hollowing a space between them for a while, and this, at least, is true.

Winding his fingers through Maitimo’s hair, he tugs lightly. Finds his own ribbon and smiles, before tapping the circlet, and then pressing a kiss to Maitimo’s forehead. “Just do not tell anyone that I said so; we will cause a diplomatic incident to rival our fathers.”

It is never an easy topic. For the most part, they try to avoid it, keep it out of those pockets of time that they carve out for themselves.

Tonight, though, Maitimo laughs. He is loose-limbed and easy, as if some weight has been lifted from him, rather than added. It is as good to see as it is a little unsettling.

Flipping them over, Fingon hovers over him; presses another kiss to his forehead, the bridge of his nose, his jaw. “Tell me what you are thinking.”

Maitimo hums, watching him. “You like it?”

“Would I tell you so if I did not?”

Slowly, carefully, Maitimo lifts the circlet from his head, turning it between his fingers. “So pretty and so useless, and yet causing so much strife.”

Then he looks up, considering Findekáno through long lashes. Mischief sparks in his eyes—the quiet kind, too often carefully banked. Too often only there for Findekáno to see, and he should mind it—does. Too often, he also revels in being the only one allowed to see it, to share in the small escapes that Maitimo allows himself.

The copper circlet up close is an unmistakable work of art. From any other than Fëanáro, it might have been a lifework. Countless, hair-thin strands of gleaming copper are braided together, braids winding around each other, dipping low in the centre. Minuscule stones of dark red and banked orange sit in between the gossamer wires.

Maitimo is still looking at him, as if considering one of those theorems he likes to sit over for hours.

“What?” Findekáno finally asks, lifting a brow. He crosses his arms over Maitimo’s chest, settling his chin on them. “You look like the time you decided that Tirion needed a Masquerade Ball, just so that we could go out together in public with none the wiser.”

“And everyone loved it,” Maitimo says, mouth quirking at the corners. Then he lifts the circlet and sets it on top of Findekáno’s head. He rights it with care, tugs lightly at strands of hair until he is satisfied.

Findekáno stopped breathing the moment he realised what Maitimo was about to do.

“It suits you,” Maitimo says, eyes fond and sparkling. As if he had not just set the Crown Prince’s crown on Findekáno’s head, Fëanáro’s work in so many ways beyond the mere forging of it. “Perhaps they should crown you next, all of Finwë’s princes adorned in copper and gems.”

“Maitimo—“ His voice comes out unsteady.

“I know,” he says, and he does—he always does, is the thing, and Findekáno loves him so much that it aches.

Maitimo kisses him again, fingers slipping into his hair, pulling him close. He is mindful of the circlet, of the way Findekáno’s heart is still hammering in his chest, of all the things he is not saying. That neither of them can say, beyond ribbons woven into hidden braids, and circlets bestowed in the sanctuary of twilit rooms.

“I would crown you in all the jewels of Valinor, lover,” Maitimo finally says, pressing another kiss to the corner of Findekáno’s mouth.

“I know,” Findekáno echoes, and kisses him again. It is easier than rehearsing all the reasons why it will only ever be a possibility behind closed doors.

---

Fingon thinks of that night, its edges hazy in memory, when he kneels before what was not long ago his father’s throne. When the silver coronet is set atop his head by one of his father’s councillors, its weight oppressive where the copper had been light. When he rises, despite the grief dragging at his limbs, and faces his people.

He thinks of it, too, when that same night Maedhros slips into his room, hugs him close. Kisses his brow, his voice rough and sad and still, still, still so full of affection, and says, “I did always say that it would suit you better, did I not?”

Fingon leans into him, and wishes, just for one moment, that their world was still polished copper and dark-red clematis gleaming in the glittering light of Telperion.

[actual-bill-potts]

(Continued from this post)

After breakfast, Earwen cleared the plates away. Finrod had attacked his food like one who was starving - and Finarfin supposed he had been, long ago and far away, when he had fallen in the dark - and had seemed a little in shock afterwards. Perhaps it was the absence of the desperation he had felt in his last weeks - Finarfin shuddered again at the borrowed memory - or the ease with which what he wanted could be obtained. Or perhaps he was merely still unused to eating, after so many years without a body. Finarfin had heard that it could be so.

Still, his son leapt to his feet and offered to help. “Please,” he said, “I have done nothing to help you, all yesterday and today.”

Earwen shook her head and clapped him companionably on the shoulder. “You have been back for so little time that I keep stumbling over the sight of you. I insist you let yourself rest, and do nothing for at least one six-day.”

When Finrod still looked doubtful, she had looked over at Finarfin and laughed. “Besides, your father would never speak to me again if I assigned you such a menial duty, when he is looking at you like you hung the Valacirca and set Tilion’s course yourself.”

Finrod met Finarfin’s gaze, startled, and Finarfin blinked back. He realized belatedly that he had indeed been staring at Finrod for far too long. It was just that he was so familiar! So familiar, and so dear! How - how - how had he gone an Age without seeing his children? He did not know. The grief for his other dear ones warred in his heart with the rising crest of joy that would not be denied: his eldest was home! Home, and safe, and himself. It was nearly unbelievable.

Finrod looked as if he were about to say something; but after a moment he dropped his gaze. His eyes so often fell away from Finarfin’s face, as if afraid of a blow, or a rejection. As if there could be one, as if Finarfin would be capable - !

He wanted to explain, to take Finrod by the shoulders and tell him of all the messages he had choked down within himself for years uncounted: for him, for all their children. In the early days he had wandered about the rooms of their old family home like one whose fëa had departed, thinking, my children, my children, I am sorry if I ever said you were too loud; come back, for this house sounds like my father who is dead. 

He had sat upon Ingoldo’s bed and thought, my eldest, my son, what will I do without your laugh; had wandered in upon a half-finished painting of Artaresto’s and felt all the colors run together in his mind; tripped blindly over Angaráto’s hunting bow and Aikanáro’s bangle of necklaces, tangled together in the hallway; come upon a little mirror that Artanis had crafted at but twenty years of age and stared into it for an afternoon as if her face would suddenly swim into being, laughing: see, Atar, I have hidden from you again! You are not very good at finding me.

And then the many years after, holding messages for his children that would never - as he thought - be delivered. For Findaráto, it had most often been stories of the court: little exasperations, or funny moments that he thought his eldest would like. For so long, he had turned automatically to Findaráto with little observations or the beginnings of ideas, for his son had a gift for spinning out his tangled thoughts into a beautiful weft and then handing it back to him all shimmering. It had taken him so long, nearly a hundred years into his long exile - for it was an exile, sealed away from his family as much as they were trapped away from him - to break himself of the habit. 

But now Finrod was here.

Finarfin shook himself; mustered all the gentleness that was left inside him after forty years of war; smoothed away the lingering frustration and grief that Finrod could not trust him; and said, “Shall we find you a comb?”

Finrod laughed suddenly, and Finarfin nearly jumped. That sound - he had not heard it in so long! The clearness of it!

Finrod laughed again, and said, “I suppose my hair must be a sight. Yes, let us - and help would be most welcome, if you are still willing.”

“Of course,” said Finarfin, and led Finrod up the stairs. He made his way to the chambers he shared with Eärwen and rummaged about for a little before finding what he sought. Then he bustled out again, meeting Finrod, who again was hovering uncertainly in the doorway.

“Let us go to your room,” said Finarfin, brandishing his prize. “There is a new style of brush which is all the fashion in Tirion now. Rather than being sung or carved into shape from wood, it is made of goats’ hair. One rubs a little oil into the bristles before brushing. I have found that it does wonders for how my hair lays, and it makes the braiding much less painful later.”

Finrod’s eyes lit up. “I have seen this before!” he exclaimed. “Well - not this exact comb - but the Dwarves used a very similar implement to care for their beards. I believe it was made of boar-bristles. I wonder that we never thought to use it on our own hair!” His smile turned wistful. “But then, perhaps it is not so surprising. Relations could be - difficult, and there was much else to think about.”

Finarfin thought of the Great War, ended not four hundred years past. He remembered how the dirt and the blood and the filth had worked their way into every crevice he possessed, caking his hair and face - how he had wanted to cut it short, and only kept it long thanks to the advice of his Sindar advisors. He remembered the tiring dull periods between battles, and how there were always warring factions to be kept in check, commanders to be pacified, supply lines to organize, little squabbles to calm, and of course his appearance desired everywhere, for all wanted to know that the king was there, and that he had heard their grievances, and was confident the war was not going ill…

“Not surprising at all,” he agreed at last, softly. “War is - terrible, and tedious, and all-consuming. And you were fighting for a very long time.”

The smile dropped from Finrod’s face. “How easy it is to forget,” he murmured, “that you too went to battle. My gentle father! I am sorry. All our effort, all that pain, and in the end it was - useless.” He looked up at Finarfin, eyes pleading. “I really believed it, you know,” he said. “I believed it, when we set out on the road. That we stood a chance. That we could defeat the Moringotto, or at least hold him back from our home. That I could build a safe place for our people. Yet all was in vain, and you were wiser than I.”

Finarfin stood in the hallway, brush in hand, and felt the words strike to the heart of him. How he had longed to hear that, from anyone! For years uncounted as he had labored alone to build anew the trust between Noldor and Teleri, as Eärwen had looked coldly at him and then turned her face away, as his father was silent in Mandos and his mother retreated from him in grief. He had longed, in anger and then in despair, for someone - anyone - to come back, and say, You were right. I was wrong. I am sorry.

But now it rang hollow. Finarfin did not want that. Not if it came from his son, standing before him tired and in disarray. Not if it was paired with yet all was in vain. Not if it came at the price of Finrod’s tired eyes and hollow cheeks.

And besides -

Finarfin brushed past I am sorry with barely a thought, and said, “You shall not stand before me and name your efforts useless.”

This was another thing he had wanted to say to Finrod, and there was nothing now preventing him.

“Do you know,” he said, “have you thought - how terrible was the onslaught of the Valar in Beleriand! How bright the armor of the Maiar, how shining the eyes of my mother’s people! Círdan trusted us, for Ulmo’s sake; but even Gil-Galad was wary. How much more so the Noldor who were Doomed, the Sindar who refused the call West - to say nothing of Dwarves and Men! We very nearly found ourselves arrayed against an alliance of mortals and Avari before we could strike a single blow against Morgoth. And I do not blame them! How could they trust us, who were so tall and so strange, and came dressed for war?”

He paused to breathe, chest tight. Finrod was staring at him transfixed.

“And then,” Finarfin continued. “They saw me. Or rather - they saw you. They saw you in my face. And at once they laid down their arms.”

He stopped again. The moment was graven in fire on his heart: stepping out bareheaded and pleading in front of a crowd of shaking and dirty Beleriandrim, hoping they would just listen. The utter silence that had fallen. The clatter of falling weapons his son’s epitaph.

“Everywhere I went, I heard the whispers. Felagund. Atandil, Edennil, Friend-of-Men. Angolodh. You came before me and smoothed the way, as a father should do for his son - not a son for his father! There was not a place I could go where I was not gathered close to the hearts of the people. From everyone, I heard of you; by everyone, I was asked about you. Do you know - did you know - how you were loved?”

“Yes,” said Finrod. His breathing was ragged, and grief had settled upon his shoulders like the heavy mantle of his House: proudly worn yet wearying. “Yes. It was the greatest gift I have ever been given.”

“Then - then do not say useless!” said Finarfin. “For it was not. You were not forgotten. The Dwarves of Nogrod allied with us for love of Felagund; the Men of Brethil, for love of Nóm; the Sindar for Finrod the Beloved. I was - I am - so proud. My son! My son, who has surpassed his father!”

Finrod was looking at him with wet eyes. He did not move. 

“I did not expect this!” he said at last. “I expected - I do not know. Fury, perhaps. We parted in such anger; and if, as you say, our efforts were not vain, they yet led to pain and death.” His eyes were distant. “My little brothers! Yet you are kind.”

Finarfin, still clutching the comb, crossed the distance between them and gathered the other in his arms. Finrod’s chest rose and fell against his own; his golden head was laid upon Finarfin’s shoulder.

“If you think,” Finarfin said, “that I could ever love you any less, or welcome you with any feeling other than joy, then I think that you have not been paying attention.”

Finrod was still; and after a moment Finarfin stroked his son’s bright head, and said gently, “Come, hinya - let me at least take care of your hair.”

[polutrope]

six(ish) sentence sunday

It's Sunday again! Thank you @vidumavi and @swanmaids for the tag. Keeping these going has actually been great for keeping me motivated (and getting excited about others' WiPs).

This time it's a Years of the Trees R-rated sitcom for @silmsmutweek!

“Ingo!” the woman’s voice called. Ai! Findaráto cursed himself for not speaking to Artanis after the last incident with the wax ‘body painting’. "You have to draw a boundary," echoed Turukáno’s wisdom from the recesses of his memory. Too late now. “Quick!” He squirmed out from under Macalaurë’s embrace. “It’s Artanis! Under the cover!” Findaráto sprung up to tug at the blanket bunched at the foot of the bed, but with a flash of skin Macalaurë was out of the bed and— “NO!” cried Findaráto. —out the window.

Tagging @cuarthol @swanhild @maglors-anion-gap @ettelene @melestasflight @searchingforserendipity25 @welcomingdisaster @zealouswerewolfcollector if you'd like to share or share again!

[aotearoa20]

Foresight

Fated.

//1//2//3//4//5//6//7//

Fëanáro gazed out at the inky black canvas of the Sea. A deep pool of darkness save where the Silmarils on his brow threw light on the seafoam-tipped waves. The steady drawing and sighing brought some order to his crowded mind even as the obnoxious chatter of the party filtered up to him. He’d dragged his entire family down here for Artanis’ nameday, at his brother’s request no less. It was absolute chaos down there but tonight he had no interest enjoying it.

A dread he could not shake since they twins were born trembled at the edge of his fingers. He almost wished they would show so he need not sit sick with anticipation anymore. This was the last time, he could not do this again. He shook his head and peered back at the waves as if they could grant him some reprieve. Though he was loath to admit it he did not wish to cause a scene while he was in Arafinwë’s house. His remedies had not worked and even so he’d felt indebted to him.

Ever since he’d told him of his dreams, he had been noticing his half brother more. It is a difficult thing to do if one is not trying. Even now, as he hovered in the stairway behind, Fëanáro did his best to curb his already frayed temper. His face is lit strangely as he turned.

“You needn’t fuss like some mother hen,” he murmured, lips twisting into a puppet grin, “Have I not been on my best behaviour?”

“Nerdanel told me so before I left,” he replied, “I was looking for Ñolofinwe.”

It might have hurt if that is what he had meant by it. But always it is half-words with this one, meaning and purpose washed away with soft tone. Fëanáro sighed, it’s exhausting sometimes and he was so very tired.

“Peace,” he tutted, “He’s very fond of you and so has been keeping distance from me.”

Arafinwë had come to his side, resting his arms on the window sill. The sea breeze tugs at his golden hair and even Feanaro can’t deny how it suits him. He looked him over, wondering as he often did when he was near, if they shared any blood at all. Then something in the distance caught his eye.

Where the beach ended at the treeline began, flashes of red. He leaned across and see what could be a pair of dark figures disappear under the leaves. That fear that simmered in the back of his mind surged forward with no warning. Not tonight, surely?

“Nerdanel was with you, you say?” he said, voice steady even as his heart skipped a beat.

“Yes?”

“Who’s watching the children?“

“Maitimo was putting them to bed – “

“Maitimo is hiding under the stairs with Findekáno!” Fëanáro hissed as he stormed passed him.

The twins were put to bed in the same nursery as Artanis, only half a year older. Every step towards it felt like a running a mile. He could hear Ara’s footsteps behind him, though he had not the presence of mind to send him off. Perhaps, if he was here, they would not come. He was always alone when they come. Perhaps, he thinks desperately, he will ward them off.

He burst into the room, drawing a startled squeal for his niece. For a moment he can breath again. The little girl looked up at him with big blue eyes. Her little arm reached out of the crib in the direction of where the other two ought to have been.

His head turned almost against his own will. It is as though the ground disappeared from beneath him but still he stood, unable look away. Two empty beds and a cool, salt stained breeze pulling at the curtains by the open window. Not in all the nightmares he’d been enduring had he thought…

Ara joined them. A selfish, viscous part of him wanted to slap him for the relief on his face at the sight of his own daughter. But almost immeadialty he grew grave.

“I will gather some people to search,” he said infuriatingly calm, “they can’t be far.”

“No,” he gasped, “no, I must be alone.”

He raced through the house, paying no heed to any around him. Down the footpath at the back of the gardens and plunged into the forest. The light of the stones kept him from stumbling but he fears it shows him up like a beacon.

“Ambarussa,” he called out over and over until his voice was raw. But he could not stop. They were his children. They took his children. Soon the words lose any sort of coherency. Fëanáro ran haphazard through the trees until he couldn’t get a word passed his own ragged breaths.

He snapped around at the sound of footsteps. Arafinwë emerges from the undergrowth and he very nearly snarled. What was he doing here, why was he always here?!?

“I said to Get Away!” He cried out, though the words flailed with no bite or direction.

“You need help.”

“You can’t help me!” He backed away from him only to ram into the rough bark of a tree. The forest seemed to close in around him and he find it so hard to even breathe. Suddenly he felt warm arms wrap around him.

“I have to- I must go…” he snapped and tried to push them away to no avail, “I must find them”

“You will not find them like this!” Arafinwë shouted over his racing thoughts.

That was strange. He hadn’t known he could do that. Suddenly he was so very aware of Arafinwe’s deep soft heartbeat. He focused on nothing else until he could match in in time. The sea hummed faintly in the back of his mind and he shuddered. There was movement in the boughs above them.

“Damn you,” came a voice from the dark, “And you’re damned jewels.”

“Ambarussa,” Feanaro untangled himself and stepped forward only to be cut off by an arrow landing less than half an inch from his foot.

“No further.”

“Or what? You would maim me.”

In the shadows he saw him pass the child to his brother. Then he slipped onto the ground without a sound. The boy shyed away from the light as though it burnt but even so he would not flee.

“I shall send you to your mother in the halls so that we may all be spared the grief.” he said in a hollow voice.

“Pityo,” the other whispered but was answered with a hiss. Fëanáro’s heart lurched as he heard one of the little ones mumbling in his arms.

“Come now, let us not - ”

“Now you have something to say, Finarfin?” Amras said with more than enough venom to silence him. It was a strange comfort though, to know he saw them too. No small part of him had wondered if he was simply going mad.

“Return the children to us, Pityafinwë,” he tried to put some sterness into his tone but knew he fell short. If he could only stop shaking. Drawing near again the night is cut by the ringing of a sword. Fëanáro would laugh, it is difficult to tell in the half-light but the sword may well be one of his own.

“No further.” The boy shook his head. Tears spill across his cheeks but his expression doesn’t change, “I won’t let you near him again.”

“Pityo,” comes the voice from the shadows again.

“You will not remain here,” Fëanáro spoke softly. This is his son. “None of you have. You will strand them in the wilds, they will die.”

A pained look flickered acros Amras’ face.

“A better fate,” he said finally, and then more softly, “I, at least, would deserve it.”

“And your brother?”

He strode forward at that. Fëanáro is surprised to see Arafinwë start at his side as the blade hovered by his own neck. Pityafinwë’s face is still turned away but his eyes burn with a terrible fury.

“Don’t you dare! You killed him.”

Fëanáro looked down the blade. The boy’s hand was shaking. A strange peace settled against his chest that, suddenly, made him feel quite out of place in this dark forest. He can hear the boys argue but it is as though they are somewhere else entirely, like a memory or a dream.

“Pityo, he didn’t know,” he heard Telufinwë say. He has joined them on the ground. There are terrible burn scars that spread up one of his arms, along his neck and the side of his face. One of his eyes is a dead milky white, “You said he didn’t know”

“It doesn’t matter, It wouldn’t have mattered if he did! He - “

“No.” He said was found that it was enough to cut him off, so he continued, “I would never do anything to hurt any of you.”

He knew it. He knew it like he knew Teleprion’s light would wan soon and Laurëlin would peer just enough over the ridges of the Pelori, and bathe the sea in gold. He knew it like he knew Nõlo was less than a day from saying something stupid. Like he knew Arafinwë would hover and he snap and Nerdanel would sigh and usher him away. He knew it like he knew Maitimo was under the stairs with Findekáno right now and would sulk the entire way home. Some things just were.

“I would never hurt any of you,” he said again and sagged in relief. Whatever happened, whatever was coming he understood now, it wouldn’t be this. It simply couldn’t be, “I love you more than anything.”

“Anything?”

He heard the edge in the single word. Telvo turned to him and he did not flinch. A feral, hungry shadow seemed cast on his face, that though it pained him Fëanáro was coming to recognise. And he realised, after a moment that he was not looking at him at all. His hand moved to the gems entangled in his hair. Telvo’s gaze moved back down to him, his offer clear.

There is a moment of fear and pride and something unnamed but ugly that wrapped around his fëa and made his hands clench around his greatest creations. There would be no others like it, it whispered, if you lose it now, you will lose it forever

But it is gone as soon as it comes. He made them for his children after all. The circlet on his head was always heavy but it felt as if it bore twice it weight as he lifted it off his head.

“Arafinwë.” He asked, never taking his eyes off the boys. Arafinwë’s presence is like a steady anchor, so dependable that it is difficult to notice most of the time. Fëanaro leaned into it now as the Silmarils glow in his hand.

Arafinwë stepped forward to take the children.

“Wait.” Pityafinwë looked between the twins and the Silmaril taut as a bow string until at last he screamed. He threw his sword to the ground and strode away but could not break past the circle of light. His brother offered him not comfort or admonition. He just waited.

“I won’t hurt them, Pityo.” Fëanáro said gently, “I won’t hurt him, I swear.”

The boy shuddered. Out of the corner eye he saw Telvo return the children to Arafinwë. He took a step forward. The boy’s copper curls shiver, he knew he was crying and had long gotten used to not understanding why. When he placed his free hand on his shoulder, he froze.

“Take them, it’s alright. They are yours.”

Pityafinwë turned sharply. His hand closed around gems. He winced but no sound escaped his lips. Suddenly and with agonising clarity Fëanáro’s mind flew back to his first child. His scarred hand. His heart leapt in his mouth

“Let it go!”

“I will not,” Pityafinwë stared down at his hand. Oh Valar, his could smell it. His expression shuddered for a moment, “I… I cannot.”

“You can,” Fëanáro insisted, grabbing ahold of his wrist, “you can put it down, they are yours, didn’t I say so.”

“You meant that.” His voice was thin and watery

“Pityo, my little one, didn’t I say so, whatever I can give you is yours,” he tried to pry his fingers away, “please ”

Pityo fell forward into his father’s arms and Fëanáro did not hesitate to pull him close.

“I want to go home.”

The coronet was dropped somewhere between them. He did not care, just nodded into his hair.

“Whatever you want.”

He did not move from where they sat, save to pull the other hanging a little away down also into his embrace. He wept and let them weep onto his shoulders. Soft apologies and comforts he whispered between the two of them, until Laurëlin light began to swell over the mountains.

And then they were gone.

Arafinwë came beside him and after a long moment he rose and took one of the children from his arms. Telvo, stirred a little, warm in a way that could have only been possible with enchantment and the last of he fear melts away. They walked in a silence Fëanáro would usually despise out of the trees and along the beach.

His brother stopped after a while and looked out at the waves. Fëanáro hung back beside him, but his impatience returned with the son. He is about to urge them on when Arafinwë speaks.

“In my dreams, my sons burn.” He said, eye fixed on the ever-dark horizon, “I don’t know how it happens, I just know I’m not there.”

Fëanáro takes a deep breath but whatever twisted thing that had made his home in his chest for Varda knows how long seems to have dislodged itself entirely. “It will not happen.”

“How can you be so sure - “

“You don’t know that.”

“Because you would not leave them alone, not knowing what you know now.”

“I know you. Well, better than I used to.” Fëanáro sighed and turned on his heel to start back toward the house, “Besides, should some time come where you cannot be there, I will watch over them.”

“Truly?”

“Yes, now stop fussing.”

They walk back up to the house in a silence that for once Fëanáro finds he doesnt mind.

[echo-bleu]

WIP Ask game. I am wildly curious about werewolf-Finrod. Yes please, I am sold, please tell me all the things. I also feel this way about the X-Men AU, so take your pick!

Both? Both is good.

Werewolf!Finrod is what it says on the tin, Finrod is re-embodied in Aman as a werewolf. I think I said before that some of it was inspired by your Host of the West. He Returns not long before Elwing's arrival, and of course if the Valar weren't going to forbid him from going back to Middle-Earth to fight, the fact that he turns into a clawed monster every time he has a strong emotion surely does it.

He's having a really hard time. It does get better, and I want to keep writing until he makes his peace with it (the whole thing sprung from an image I had of Finrod pouncing on a very confused just-Returned Celegorm) and even perhaps gets a couple of tiny wolf cubs to raise...

Here's a snippet:

Was the werewolf that ate him an elf once? Is that what Finrod is destined to become? “Why did you let me out?” he murmurs at the wall – at Mandos in his Halls. “If I’m a monster, if I’m a danger to everyone – why let me out? There long shall ye abide, you promised us, and yet here I am. Little pity shall they find –is this your version of little pity? That living again should be worse even than being dead?” “Oh, Findaráto,” someone murmurs behind him. Arafinwë doesn’t flinch when Finrod turns around on his bed, still naked and covered in scratches. Their eyes meet, and there is no fear in his father’s gaze. He comes to sit close to Finrod, on the edge of the mattress, and holds out his hand, not quite touching him. Even as he turns back to the wall, finding the world too overwhelming still to face, Finrod grabs that hand in a bruising grip.

The X-Men AU that I started yesterday is (presumably) more light-hearted! I've been sick with Covid all week and mostly unable to write, but had a lot of time for vaguely feverish daydreaming, some of which somehow coalesced into this:

Dynamics-wise (shipping aside), Fëanor and Fingolfin make wonderful Magneto and Prof X

Mutation-wise, Fëanor has something like energy manipulation, Fingolfin something to do with ice, while Arafinwë is a ProfX-level telepath (he gets the disability as well because I can)

Finwë built a school for mutants with his sons, but Fëanor broke off from them because of ahem political differences and made his own faction

Now Fingolfin is head of the school slash vigilante headquarters, with his adult children as the men, uh, F-Men? (I haven't actually settled on a name lmao)

I am very fond of mutant AUs, and I'm specifically fond of mutation-as-disability takes

Fingon is Cyclops. But Cyclops before anyone figured out how to block his blasts, so he's also functionally blind.

That makes Maedhros Jean Grey, though his power is fire-based. They also have Cherik vibes, being on competing/opposing sides. (Artanis is kind of the other side of Jean Grey, with the uncontrollable psychic powers)

About two years ago, Maedhros was captured by Morgoth Corp's Head of R&D Mairon, and experimented on for months until Fingon broke into their headquarters and blasted them to smithereens to free him (he also blasted Maedhros's hand off in the process)

I have powers figured out for most of the Finwëans but it would be too long to go into details here, so i'll only share the fun ones: Lalwen is Mystique, Ambarussa have super-speed, Irissë is Havok. Finrod is Rogue. Kinda.

I shared a little snippet last night, I don't have a lot more writing than that at this point but it's very fun so far.

Thank you for the ask!!

From this WIP ask game.

[berrysphase]

tagged by @lazaefair and @astrabear. Thank you! I have been absolutely steamrollered by work recently, and it is nice to know that people still remember I occasionally write fic.

Rules: Pick any ten of your fics, scroll roughly to the midpoint, pick a line (or three) and share it. Then tag ten people.

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness (The Old Guard, Joe/Nicky, Quynh, Andy)

"You didn't like the chestnuts," Nicolò murmured later. He was solid and warm against Yusuf, and their blankets were cozy, and Yusuf was starting to feel less grouchy about the lurking prospect of winter.

In some coming wind (The Old Guard, Joe/Nicky)

(I don't know why but this one has always been so hard to pick lines from. they all look flat to me when taken out. idk. this is from pretty close to halfway through chapter two)

"Sawda," Nicolò said, with the kind of relentless gentleness it was hard to turn aside, and Yusuf said, "We spent six weeks on the road because you asked for help. Don't tell us we cannot help you now."

cardinality (The Old Guard, ensemble gen)

"It's how I do, anyway," Josef said, bright eyes very sincere in the fading light. "Life by life, how else would you make the measure of man?"

How else? How else -- Sebastien knew plenty of safe, everyday ways to measure men. His -- he didn't know what to call them, his comrades in arms, he supposed -- they did not do too badly for dinner companions, now that they weren't awkwardly shifting around in their chairs and avoiding his wife's eyes.

A friend indeed (Silmarillion, Fingon/Maedhros)

"Oh -- politics!" Findekáno said, frustrated and dismayed. It was an unexpected sting, that Maitimo still felt the need to walk so carefully around their grandfather with him. "I came to you as a friend, I absolve you of politics."

Where there's smoke (The Old Guard meets Cadfael)

Startled, Cadfael glanced up, and was taken aback by the sheer fury in Nicolò's face.

"Ah," said Cadfael, and shifted Wadih so that his full weight fell onto Nicolò.

Across so wide a sea (Silmarillion, Finrod & Galadriel)

It was a perilous vision and very fair, and it had pulled at him, as if Artanis had caught his own breath up in it; and he did not know whether this was part of her art, or because he too had dreamt, from time to time, of greater glories than what might come to him in gentle summer days. But those were dreams, and he had never once thought of leaving.

A story for twilight (Silmarillion, Maedhros & Finarfin)

"Since we find," he was saying, "that this is the only way we can give our swords to their cause, which yet was first our own."

Fimbulwinter (Der Ring Das Nibelungen, Sieglinde)

"Traveller, I have not met your like," said the giantess. "You are dead, but not newly; you are mortal, but you stink of the gods."

"I had not thought," Sieglinde said, "that your mistress was choosy."

"It is true: death, fast or slow, is remorseless, and gods fall even as mortals do. Yet those whom the gods love seldom come up this road. State your name and business, or linger until you can."

The veins of a leaf (Les Mis, Grantaire & Combeferre, very very AU)

Sunlight woke her. She made a noise and rolled away, and sat up abruptly when she remembered it was not her bed. Sun streamed in through the open window, sun and with it the scent of grass, and the noisy morning argument of birds asserting their territory to the far corners of the world. Hyeon-su had already gone, and the duvet on his side of the bed was pulled neatly up.

A previous near-miss with history (Les Mis, Marius & Courfeyrac)

"Mmm," said Marius, with muddy, uncharitable reluctance. Prouvaire carelessly threw out in conversation the kind of lines that Marius had to stay up late at night to assemble painstakingly from pieces, and glowed with purpose besides; talking to him left Marius feeling wan and clumsy. Marius touched the coins in his pocket again, thinking, this, this is mine, I earned this with the fruit of my own thought; and said, impulsively, "But, Bossuet, Courfeyrac, forgive me, I couldn't help overhearing -- were you in need of money?"

As usual I am doing memes late and am not sure who would like to be tagged who hasn't been: here are some tags, if you want to play @robertawickham @circumference-pie @artificialities @undercat-overdog @clothonono

[superloves4]

I still taste the past - Chapter 9

Relationships: Curufin/Finrod, Celegorm/Aredhel (background) Summary: Finrod wanted to see Curufin, get his closure after all they had gone through, end things once and for all. What he gets is a journey through the memory of where they've been and the choice of where they will go. TW: none. A/N: Enjoy!

Masterlist - Also on AO3

He supposed he should be glad of something, at least no one had followed them and spread around the events of that fight. He didn't think he had it in him to answer any probing question at the moment.

Finrod returned to the party, his family was worried and Amarië had searched for him, he didn't want to disappoint them but he was too emotionally drained from his fight with Atarinkë to continue with the festivities, thankfully his dirty clothes and a sudden head ache gave him the perfect excuses to leave early and just throw himself into his bed, dirty clothes and all.

Tomorrow, he told himself, I will deal with this tomorrow, I just need some rest, I can fix this, tomorrow.

Tomorrow did arrive and Finrod decided to wait for Atarinkë in their usual spot where so long ago he'd first invited Atarinkë for a game of chess, it had always been their ritual, Atarinkë had never been late for one of their games. So he waited. And waited. And waited.

"Findaràto," someone was shaking him "Findaràto."

When his brain finally connect he jumped, hoping to find Atarinkë there, late and remorseful, or angry, or even happy, he didn't care, he just needed to talk with Atarinkë. Only it wasn't him.

"Disappointed?" Aikanàro asked with a chuckle.

Finrod looked around but there was no sign Atarinkë had even been there that day "Sorry, I was waiting for someone, didn't think I'd fall asleep, do you need anything?"

Aikanàro shrugged and they spent the rest of the time talking. Atarinkë never came.

He then waited the next day and again he waited on nothing. It would only be on the fourth day that he would discover Atarinkë had pulled away from the project and all the Fëanorians had decided, not to return to Formenos where Finrod would have followed him, but to travel again, no particular destination in mind.

The message was clear, Atarinkë had said his goodbyes and this time he'd been serious, time to move on now. Then why did it feel like Finrod was falling with nothing to hold on to? Why eating felt as if it had lost all flavor? He'd never felt so utterly helpless before.

His parents thought it was due to Amarië return to the vanyar and he didn't have the heart to correct them, let them believe in that love they'd made up if it made them happier, maybe Atarinkë had been correct about their parents. He tried to continue his duties but trying to complete the pavilion on his own was not a viable option anymore so he pulled away from the project, he'd been so happy about it, all the little things they had made, even as Atarinkë fought him all the way, was theirs, this project was supposed to be for them to be together, there was no reason for him to stay without him.

He continued to trudge along, he finished his studies and his apprenticeship, he left Tirion for the sandy shores of Alqualondë, he had fun playing games with his siblings, he'd swim at the beach, dug a way out of the feeling of helplessness and found some more meanings outside of Atarinkë. His heart could bleed but the world had not stopped yet. Finrod continued.

One day, months after Atarinkë had left, Finrod felt that his brothers were laughing at him, Artanis tried to shush them, a look of boredom on her face, and he raised an eyebrow at her.

"Ammë and Atya have prepared something, but you will not learn it from me" she answered, chin up.

He tried everything, her favorite sweets, owed favors, saying he'd owe her a favor, alas, his sister resisted every bribery and he'd spent the rest of the week figuring out what it could be. It wasn't a new project, he'd been clear he was not ready for that yet, it couldn't be another sibling... could it? No, if it was so he would not have been the last to know. Besides the family was already excited enough with the news of Angaràto being the first of them to beget a child, no need for another one just yet.

He should've figured out it was Amarië long before he set foot in the parlor.

She smiled prettily at him and Finrod remembered Atarinkë screaming that she was in love with him, but he looked at Amarië and all he could think was the black pit inside of him that missed Atarinkë.

"Your parents invited me," she explained "I thought it was from you at first, if it's a bother I'll leave, no need to feel obligated."

Amarië was sweet and kind and she wanted to love him. Finrod was tired of dark corners and picking out thorns.

"No, please, I'd love to be your host for the time being."

And for that month, Finrod felt like a person for the first time since he and Atarinkë started to truly fight, he and Amarië had fun, walks around the beach, exploring the city, they had several conversations about their people, what their families expected of them and what they'd become without those expectations. Every passing day he could feel his parents hopeful gaze and his inescapable doubt.

"You know you do not owe me anything, right?" Amarië asked him one day when they were, oh, so cleverly, left alone.

Finrod flushed, pricking himself with the needle of the embroidery  he'd been doing on a handkerchief and Amarië calmly passed him, her own more scruffy work.

"I'm not doing anything outside my will," he finally answered, head down.

Amarië smiled "No, but it's not what your heart wants either."

Finrod stared in distress into her kind face, he wanted to love her so much, he had wanted that their moments together had meant something different but as it always did, their time together had only reinforced what he already knew. He and Amarië were friends.

"It doesn't matter what my heart wants," Finrod got up so he could kneel to Amarië "I want to love and I want to be loved, and my love for you goes deep Amarië but you are correct there is someone else I love, it is not someone I can be with and I don't want to deceive you or give you any false promises."

"But if you are still willing to take me as I am I can at least promise to treat you with all the kindness and respect you deserve, love can always bloom when two people care for each other and I will always care for you."

Amarië smiled, tears of joy streaming down her face "May I be selfish?"

Finrod smiled back and took her hand in his "I certainly hope so."

Finally, after many years, his parents dreams were realized and a party was quickly organized at the news, everyone around him commemorated and messages were being sent to Tirion right as he sat in the settee, watching everyone's reaction to his betrothal. Finrod was happy. Finrod had to be happy.

Not everyone shared the cheerful surrounding however, instead Artanis seemed to frown the more time passed and now sat on the opposite settee, glaring at him.

He chuckled "Something wrong? I thought you'd like for another woman to be in the house."

Artanis stared at him and Finrod would grow uncomfortable under her scrutiny before she finally replied "You don't love Amarië."

"And she knows that," he defended himself "But love is an amazing thing and can always grow later."

Her frown, however, deepened "It won't."

Artanis left and Finrod remained, alone, to ponder those words.

[malkaleh]

Have the Gold Cages bit of Saurons journey re Celeborn from I WANT HIM DEAD to MY LOVE.

TW: Sauron is Sauroning.

He goes among the prisoners as Halbrand, so he might better twist the knife into the unworthy elf who had held Saurons Lady of Light in his hands. And what he finds - it is at first, an annoyance.

Celeborn. He is tall, broad shouldered and seems solid - silver haired of course, that much he knew from the glimpses in Artanis memories and brown skinned. Beautiful, a part of Sauron thinks with contempt.

Celeborn speaks quietly but well - he is steady, it seems and cares for his fellow prisoners, makes sure they all have enough to eat and at first it irritates Sauron more but soon, soon it changes.

The prisoners to be taken to Mordor are allowed to wash and Celeborn, ah Sauron thinks when he sees him - shining silver hair and as beautiful as a silver tree. He is the beauty of the order that is in Middle Earth.

Sauron knows he is one of his treasures by the end of the journey - his sweet silver prince is a balm against the mewling of the other captives - quietly efficient and practical but there is a sharp wit to him that surprises Sauron. That makes him laugh even as he is so very sweet - what a lovely thing, a Prince of a drowned realm who still lives, silver to Galadriels gold. Their hair would look beautiful together, one on either side of Sauron in his bed.

He hates every single moment of imposition from the other insignificant ones and he will make sure they pay for it.

@conundrumoftime @nocompromise-noregrets @plotdesigner @themalhambird

[elentarial]

Thanks @skaelds

General:

Rate the Ship -   Awful | Ew | No pics pls | I’m not comfortable | Alright | I like it! | Got Pics? | Let’s do it! | Why is this not getting more attention?! | The OTP to rule all other OTPs

How long will they last? - Until Felagund’s death; up in the air if they’ll pick back up after reembodiment

How quickly did/will they fall in love? - They were an enemies to lovers situation. Finrod could always appreciate Curufin’s skill abs beauty, but it took Curvo muuuuuch longer to tolerate love Finrod.

How was their first kiss? - Drunken on a blanket along the Narog river

Wedding:

Who proposed? - Curufin officially, but Finrod’s has been talking about it for years at Caranthir’s recommendation

Who is the best man/men? - Celegorm

Who is the braid’s maid(s)? - Edrahil

Who did the most planning? - Finrod, of course

Who stressed the most? - Curufin-their rings were not going to be done on time if he has to keep talking about hors d’oeuvres

How fancy was the ceremony? - Back of a pickup truck | 2 | 3 | 4 | Normal Church Wedding | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | Kate and William wish they were this big.

Who was specifically not invited to the wedding? - Finrod invited everyone, although Artanis declined to attend; Melkor and Sauron were naturally excluded

Sex:

Who is on top? - They switch

Who is the one to instigate things? - usually Finrod, but Curufin on occasion

How healthy is their sex life? - Barely touch themselves let alone each other | 2 | 3 | 4 | Once a couple weeks, nothing overboard | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | They are humping each other on the couch right now

How kinky are they? - Straight missionary with the lights off | 2 | 3 | 4 | Might try some kinky stuff and toys | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | Don’t go into the sex dungeon without a horse’s head

How long do they normally last? - Finrod falls asleep after a round or two

Do they make sure each person gets an equal amount of orgasms? - yes, Finrod is extremely conscientious

How rough are they in bed? - Softer than a butterfly on the back of a bunny | 2 | 3 | 4 | The bed’s shaking and squeaking every time | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | Their dirty talk is so vulgar it’d make Dwayne Johnson blush. Also, the wall’s so weak it could collapse the next time they do it.

How much cuddling/snuggling do they do? - No touching after sex | 2 | 3 | 4 | A little spooning at night, or on the couch, but not in public | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | They snuggle and kiss more often than a teen couple on their fifth date to a pillow factory.

Children:

How many children will they have naturally? - 

How many children will they adopt? -

Who gets stuck with the most diapers? - 

Who is the stricter parent? -

Who stops the kid(s) from doing dangerous stunts after school? -

Who remembers to pack the lunch(es)? -

Who is the more loved parent? -

Who is more likely to attend the PTA meetings?

Who cried the most at graduation? - 

Who is more likely to bail the child(ren) out of trouble with the law? - 

Cooking: 

Who does the most cooking? - Finrod

Who is the most picky in their food choice? - Curufin

Who does the grocery shopping? - Finrod

How often do they bake desserts? - Finrod lives for anything decadent, so he likes to test recipes on Curufin

Are they more of a meat lover or a salad eater? - salads, although Finrod is very fond of fish

Who is more likely to surprise the other(s) with an anniversary dinner? - Finrod

Who is more likely to suggest going out? - Finrod

Who is more likely to burn the house down accidently while cooking? - Finrod, Curufin is extremely careful about fire safety

Chores: 

Who cleans the room? - Curufin

Who is really against chores? - Finrod

Who cleans up after the pets? - the servants

Who is more likely to sweep everything under the rug? - Finrod

Who stresses the most when guests are coming over? - Curufin

Who found a dollar between the couch cushions while cleaning? - Curufin

Misc:

Who takes the longer showers/baths? - Finrod, he’s got to soak away the stresses of being king

Who takes the dog out for a walk? - the servants turn the horses out

How often do they decorate the room/house for the holidays? - Finrod decorates for basically every occasion

What are their goals for the relationship? - Finrod: not lose the kingdom to the High King’s tax collectors and maybe get a little loving in Curufin: avenge his father, craft as many jewels as possible for Finrod, retrieve a Silmaril of there’s time

Who is most likely to sleep till noon? - Finrod

Who plays the most pranks? - Finrod

[iriysse]

FMK: Celeborn, Eöl, Beleg

OOOOH OOOH

"Oh... this is interesting. Hmm. Well artanis might kill me but I'll fuck her husband. Celeborn has to be good in bed, given he snagged her and it would be fun. Eol and Beleg... the sindar wall of sexiness." She sighs and hums. "So I've already been Married to Eöl, I know what happens. So I'll kiss him, and marry Beleg." She snorts. "Though I doubt he'd be interested, since he said he's not interested in marriage."

[ao3feed-tolkien]

this is not a come-on *in any way, shape, or form

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/BJlkA7I

by ophidion

"Hal was still a total asshole. Fortunately, she was a bitch, and they both liked to say fuck every fifth word."

  They’d known each other for 14 years and 10 months. Rivals for almost three. Reluctant allies for just shy of a year. Ruthless partners and near-inseparable best friends for the rest.

  They’d shared beds across the country, beverages that they didn’t bother to label, and even a few ex-boyfriends. But, Halbrand and Galadriel had never even shared so much as a peck on the cheek.

  Yet, here they were, discussing sharing a baby, based on a drunken pact they’d made when they were barely best friends.

 However, their baby-making methodology is currently up for debate. And... well how far does the definition of a 'Platonic Pregnancy Pact' go when you ditch the baster?

----------------

OR: The When Harry Met Sally AU

Words: 8294, Chapters: 1/20, Language: English

Fandoms: The Lord of the Rings: The Rings of Power (TV 2022), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: F/M

Characters: Galadriel | Artanis, Halbrand (The Rings of Power), Sauron | Mairon, Isildur (Tolkien), Eärien (The Rings of Power), Eärwen (Tolkien), Finarfin | Arafinwë, Finrod Felagund | Findaráto, Aegnor | Ambaráto, Angrod | Angaráto, Yavanna Kementári, Aulë | Mahal, Eru Ilúvatar, Celeborn (Tolkien), Teleporno, Celebrimbor | Telperinquar, Adar (The Rings of Power), Tar-Míriel

Relationships: Galadriel | Artanis/Halbrand (The Rings of Power), Galadriel | Artanis/Sauron | Mairon

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - When Harry Met Sally (1989) Fusion, Inspired by When Harry Met Sally (1989), Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Slow Burn of the Friends to Lovers thing lasts while they're fucking 'platonically', Idiots in Love, Romantic Comedy, Pregnancy, Galadriel had a crush on Halbrand about a decade ago and got politely rejected, Hal didn't think he felt that way about Gal even after he proposed a 'Platonic Pregnancy Pact', Ensemble Cast, Alternate Universe - Politics, in the vein of Harry Burns being a lawyer and political consultant...., Halbrand Mairon is an asshole lawyer and political guru, Galadriel commands a Twitter army as a comms and socmed analytics strategist, Isildur and Earien are not Related, (Isildur and Earien as Marie and Jess.), Dysfunctional Family, But in the Jewish Way, (Have to get the Sally Albright Neuroticism in Gal somewhere)

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/BJlkA7I