#M&M silm

[nightmares-2]

wip cause i have nothing else to post

[thetiredprometheus]

Maglor: there was a kid napping at sirion!

Maedhros: what?

Maglor: yeah but it's ok, he's awake now

Maedhros:

Maglor: on an unrelated note, have you ever wanted to be a father?

[thesummerestsolstice]

Maitimo has visions, up on the mountainside. (At least, he'd like to think they're visions, and not hallucinations or figments of his scattered mind). He sees wide open plains, covered with spring flowers. Green forests full of birdsong, clear mountain rivers. Two children– who can only be his– with his gray eyes and proud, Finwean features, who follow him around like little ducklings.

Those visions are what keep him from succumbing to despair, during the long, cold nights on the cliffs. The idea that one day, he will be free again, that he'll roam Middle-Earth, that he'll have a family and children like he's always wanted to. That's enough for him.

He holds onto that hope, over the long years of his recovery, and the as the Long Peace grinds on, he really believes that things will get better. That he'll be able to fulfill the Oath, cast off the Doom of the Noldor, and live happily in the free lands of Middle-Earth.

And then the Bragollach happens, and the Nirnaeth, and the Second Kinslaying. And it dawns on Maedhros, slowly, and then all at once, that there is no way out for him. That there was never a way out for him. That the visions on the cliffside were never real and neither was his hope. After that, the only thing still dragging Maedhros on is the relentless pull of the Oath.

And then, after Sirion, Maedhros looks through Elwing's tower, searching vainly for the Silmaril. He doesn't find it. He does find two small children with dark hair, gray eyes, and their father's Finwean features. He recognizes them. He's not sure whether to laugh or cry.

[nelyoslegalteam]

Turgon invented the filing cabinet.

how does it feel to be the most correct person on the internet today

[sesamenom]

alternate war of the ring decoy, featuring Quest For The Silmaril Part Two, Descendants Edition!

sauron: *chuckles* im in danger

bonus version:

none of theme even had to dress up for this, since arwen has the fashion sense of an early-FA doriathrim noblewoman (she got it from galadriel), aragorn dresses like a first age beorian with fingolfin's choice in hairstyles, and aesthetically gildor is a miniature version of his father. (the dog is somebody's pet and looks nothing like huan)

[perlen-gold]

Someone: You might fancy yourself evil beyond belief but you know what? You and that Valar, Morgoth? I bet you nursed a soft spot for him.

Sauron: Are you insane? That 'great' Valar you're talking of let himself be imprisoned by his boring, passive, uncreative brother, got betrayed by a great fat spider, got his favorite jewel stolen by a hideous Elven wench and her dumbass boyfriend and got himself finally kicked out of this whole realm! Who do you think you even are? OF COURSE I LOVED THAT COMPLETE IDIOT AND THE SEX WAS MIND-BLOWING, how else would I have endured all this for thousands of years!!!???!!!!

Sauron: *savagely murders the questioner then has an absolute rage-attack on Melkor's gravestone then bursts into tears*

Bonus:

Writing on Melkor's gravestone: Here lies not Melkor because he got lost in the Void and doesn't know how to answer text messages

[daily-smol-silm]

Day #275 - Glorf

gave him a braid again :)) although his hair is a little too tame here

[sauron-kraut]

https://archiveofourown.org/works/64095604

I don't know what it is today but Tumblr will not let me insert the link properly. Oh well.

Blasphemy

Summary: Melkor lets Mairon sit on his throne.

Wohooo, catch me writing some more Angbang; a rare event! This was supposed to be a birthday gift for @admirably-abhorrent back in February, but then life happened and only now was I able to finally put this lil piece out there. I hope you'll enjoy it. 🖤

Pairing: Melkor x Mairon

Words: 503

Warnings: sexual content

As always: If you like this little piece, comments on AO3 are appreciated! 🖤

Not beta read!

Find it here under the cut.

Blasphemy frees.

Laughter tumbles from his wicked mouth and spreads throughout the throne room like beads of red-hot molten glass. It tumbles freely. He has found liberation in serving him, Melkor knows. Piety has always been an ill-fitting, ugly thing on him, rotting away until he shed it like old skin. A blessing. 

Melkor wraps his arms around Mairon’s waist, sits him up where they lay sprawled out on the black marble floor together, Mairon’s hair rivulets of magma upon cold rock and Melkor’s own raven strands. 

Blasphemy when Melkor lifts him up and places him upon his throne like something precious, a Vala’s throne, his, and yet Mairon sits as though it were his very nature to be crowned. To be revered. He sinks back against the stone, lopsided grin on his lips, cheeks rosy with life and lechery. 

Melkor kneels. A smile tugs on the corners of his mouth, a rare little thing. Mairon’s divinity drowns in his monstrous aliveness at times, and the little that is life in Melkor, all of it, will take shape before him. 

He can breathe a god alive.

Mairon’s burgundy robe has ridden up on his smooth thighs. He opens his legs and nonchalantly rests his arms on either side of Melkor’s throne. His grin grows wider, and Melkor moves closer, comes to kneel between Mairon’s thighs. He looks up at Mairon, looks up at him who serves, and Mairon cups Melkor’s cheek. His palm feels exquisitely warm against Melkor’s cool skin. Mairon is breathing heavily with anticipation. 

When he speaks, his voice coats the cold throne room, like something rich, something lascivious and hot. 

“Unnatural, my lord. Unnatural is what we are, Melkor.” Mairon chuckles, a soft, low sound, and Melkor can hear how he savours each vowel, each consonant in perverse pleasure. “A Maia on a Vala’s throne… What would father think? Or your brother, most beloved of his? Mmh?”

Melkor places a kiss above Mairon’s left knee, then on the inside of his thigh. A sharp inhale and graceful fingers twining in his hair, nails scraping Melkor’s scalp.

“And to think you put me here…” A sigh when Melkor’s lips wander higher up. He stops, then speaks.

“Then let us revel in all that is unnatural and all that is not right, Mairon.” Melkor licks a trail up to Mairon’s groin. “I gave you freedom in servitude, sweetling. Freedom to create anew to swallow all that was right in this old world. You serve, and you may decorate my throne uncrowned, and let the crowned one serve in turn, for now.” He gently tugs at the tender skin of Mairon’s inner thigh with his teeth. “You and I, we feast on annihilation.”

Melkor pulls Mairon’s robe aside then, breathes hotly against wet waiting flesh. Mairon’s arousal has leaked onto the black stone of the throne. Alive. With a low hum, Melkor presses his lips against him, licks into his wetness, might lose himself in him, worshipped servant, and pushes his tongue inside.

[winds-of-zephyr416]

Galadriel: Don’t kill your enemies! Galadriel: Read their minds instead and recite their core desires while they sleep Galadriel: It’s much more effective, in my personal opinion.

[lakehelevorn]

do you you think that m&m would give the twins up if morgoth asked for them in exchange for the silmarils

[eri-pl]

Nostos,

or TIL it is a thing, but it explains many things about the Silm.

So. The Ancient Greeks had a word for a very particular kind of returning home. If you don't want to read the whole Wikipedia page, I'll recap: Nostos is

a hero returning (often from a victorious war)

usually by the sea, a long journey with many troubles

focus also on reclaiming his place at home (Odysseus!!!)

also, managing to return = fame and glory

OK, so. Tolkien. I'm sure he knew well and loved this concept.

Earendil is basically this, but split between two/three people: Turgon -[Idril, but she's female, so no cool deeds for her :( ] - Earendil. His journey to Valinor has the exact kind of trials that a nostos should have from what I understand. He's like… this trope but for the whole Noldor nation. In a way. [They do not return after a victorious war, because we're doing a deconstruction of a trope, not just using it straight. Also the Noldor can't look too cool, because of their bad choices.]

Also, this explains why Tolkien didn't let any of the Feanorians return, or anyone important at all, except Galadriel. Because a man returning from a war through the sea = he is cool and heroic. And kinslayers are not cool, and the flight of the Noldor was generally uncool.

I'm sure this is a beloved trope of Númenorean literature at some point BTW (Also, Pharazôn would have an epic of his glorious return written in advance, before he sailed to attack Valinor, he seems like this kind of guy.)

Elendil is like the antithesis of this, but still positive. He does not return home (but he does, Men were never meant to live so far West, tbh nobody was but let's not complain about that here), he is not victorious after a war (but he is, nor all wars are literal), he does reclaim his place in a way. And the sea is there, but the road is quick and dramatic, not meandering. Of course it is, because they get a lift.

A whole book subtitled "there and back again", and I think it checks all of the boxes except "the sea" (well ok, the hero is not very traditional, but still it is a very proper nostos)

Also also I don't really get the appeal of it, maybe that's why I don't vibe with some parts of the Silm (sorry Tuor, you're boring). I like the sea, sailing can be fun, but I don't get the epic mariner idea. I just don't. I guess it's a personal preference thing.

Oh, the tension between "returning home in well-earned glory" and "returning home with an apology", it is very present in the Silm. (Even if usually the return home is via the Halls of Mandos).

The tension between "I deserve the praise, because the road was so twisted and hard", and "I got lost, I'm glad to be back", and all those tensions. And I feel like with the Noldor as a group, Tolkien wanted both (see: Feanor's cool reply to Manwë's messenger, but also all the disasters that come later).

How does this all tie to the Silmarils? I'm sure that what Feanor expected, what his sons expected initially was "we fight a war, we get our jewels, we do a classical nostos [even if we don't know this term]". But also, for me, the Silmarils themselves tie to the concept of home very strongly, and nostalgia— oh, how ironic it is that nostalgia means "pain for returning home", and their nostos was supposed to be brought upon by reclaiming the Silmarils and they brought them only pain, and no clear homecomings.

Also, this is not related etymologically, but I can't avoid thinking of how "nostos" sounds like it was cognate to "nest" and how baby birds are at some point supposed to leave it and never return.

I'm sure there's more to be found in here, and probably some wise people already said more about it.

[@stellavesperis, this is this post that goes earlier]

[thesummerestsolstice]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Several people finally getting to meet their grandchildren

A surprisingly peaceful family lunch in Rivendell's welcoming halls

[sesamenom]

meet again at the end of time

(aka: C&C finally get their own pet edain)

some background:

(for those not following the braywashed saga) the two guys in the middle are (real, entirely human) wrestlers Elton Prince & Kit Wilson of Pretty Deadly, introduced to the silm fandom by @kitwilsonsass, and known for their uncanny resemblance to C&C in both appearance and demeanor.

As Arda is Earth, the Dagorath has not yet happened, and PD are human people who exist, it is entirely canon compliant for them to join C&C in the dagorath. Hence, CCPD alliance.

design notes:

CC

Celegorm's tattoos represent a symbol of devotion to Orome/the Hunt by imitating Orome's vala markings. Given that bows aren't the best weapon for melee fights, his primary weapon here is based on a boar spear, because I imagine similar tactics would be helpful against some of Morgoth's larger creatures. He wears the Feanorian star once on his armband and once painted on his shield (not shown).

Curufin's helm is based off the Silm description of the red-plumed helms of the Host of Feanor. His armor features one Feanorian star and the Trees (telperion not shown), and his shield bears one other star. He wears a dwarven knife (not Angrist since beren broke it) on his belt.

PD

Based on braywashed's assortment of PD outfit posts, they seem to have a light/dark color scheme, reflected here in their armor colors. Their hairstyles are based on what seems like their irl/interview-hair (aka practical hairstyle, because as unnaturally elven as they are they sadly do not have magical hair) (x). Elto's pink arrow fletchings and Kitto's blue mesh cape refer to the pink/blue matching outfit (x), while Elto's bow/quiver harness and both of their shirt colors reference the harness outfit.

Their weapons follow the opposite color scheme as their armor for contrast purposes, and weapon types (double rapiers + bow, double daggers) are based on braywashed's post here.

Both of PD's armor designs draw influence from c. 15th century English armor, seeing as they are British people, and feature a unique half-breastplate evocative of the extremely cropped sleeve shirt things they normally wear when wrestling.

edit: uploaded the wrong version (no tattoos) at first oops

[lordgrimwing]

Ages

(as in: you're how old?!)

Another gala made infinitely better by Elrond’s presence. Gil-galad relaxed in the carriage, legs extended across the slightly bouncing box (he’d never claim it was a great carriage. Whoever made it clearly had more whimsy than sense, which matched his air at parties. It was perfectly serviceable) to the plush bench across from him. 

Elrond (his savior from all things dull and boring and political) looked at his soft, embroidered slippers and shook his head. Clearly, he still thought the footwear choice for the evening was ridiculous despite how Gil-galad displayed himself to his best ability on the dance floor. He, of course, wore practical wood bottomed shoes that wouldn’t have a hole in the heel after a night of stifling reserved and polite revelry—how very Elrond of him. 

Endearing really. At least he’d worn the pair Gil-galad commissioned special for him last year and not the pair he wore to work in the healing halls (very practical, amazingly comfortable, very not suited for someone under his patronage). 

As usual, the evening started with Elrond nearly clinging to his arm as he introduced him as the ‘bright, up and coming physician’s apprentice’ he’d snatched up. They made the rounds, said all the proper ‘how do you does’ to all the right people, avoided the people he really did not want to talk to (they would have wanted to talk politics with him and strategy and career opportunities, which he just wasn’t in to) (was it too much to ask to remain where he was, fair outside of the High Family’s notice?), and ate some truly divine petit fours. Gil-galad had to defend Elrond’s place on his elbow or risk losing the witty commentary on the events to some lord or lady wanting to snatch him off for a dance or three. Made him feel very noble, defending his friends honor from the horrors of the petty nobility who definitely just wanted to know him for his connection to the crown (or to the dispossessed wandering sons of Fëanor who some thought had the greatest claim to the throne and whom Elrond just so happened to be raised by).

Overall, a blinding success yet again.

There was one thing that weighed on his mind. 

Elrond was so charming and graceful despite that wild upbringing with the nomads, it was easy to forget he hadn’t always been connected to Lindon’s lower court. Sometimes things came up that everyone knew about because they were either in the vicinity when it happened or because it came up every few years on polite gossip and reminiscence—everyone, that was, but Elrond. 

This time, it was a joke. Well, not so much a joke and half of story about a certain blond prince and his penchant for unsavory wildlife, but everyone knew the best parts that went without saying (because as it turns out one should generally keep the more lurid details of a minor and hilarious scandal out of everyday chatter when a High Prince was involved, just in case) and found the story perfectly timed and execute and laugh worthy. Gil-galad himself halved until he had tears in his eyes and Elrond had to rescue his drink so he didn’t spill it on the floor, or worse, on his brocade robe (a pain to have cleaned. More reason to keep Elrond all to himself and never lose his sensible head). After that, Elrond turned to him in all seriousness with far more questions that he could answer in a full room.

Because, of course, Elrond hadn’t been here. He hadn’t been in Lindon. He hadn’t been born. Surely his parents (well, the mortal one at least. The elf father (because it was always the elf who sired in these cases. Peculiar and perhaps worthy of later exploration) most likely was traipsing around somewhere) had still been many generations from being born. He didn’t know. 

He was young. All half-elves were, not that Gil-galad had met many others but one did hear about these kinds of things. They were only half elf, after all, and the other half was mortal (humans, almost exclusively, though he heard rumor of a dwarf once), and being half mortal they had a habit of dying like mortals. Unfortunate. He liked not thinking about that.

So, how old was he? 

Gil-galad squinted across the carriage at him, thinking. 

“What?” Elrond asked, staring back at him. “Is there icing in my hair again?”

(The icing incident happened six months ago, and they’d all had a good laugh about it. He wouldn’t be opposed to picking pink icing out of that curly brown hair again).

“How old are you?”

He couldn’t be more than four-hundred years old, maybe as young as three-hundred. His face had some lines but nothing like the older mortal races or even the truly elderly elves (like Círdan, the old gaffer, still insisting he could take his little sailboat out alone like he wasn’t the oldest elf this side of Cuiviénen—wherever that was). A reasonable age. Just a bit younger than him. A good age for dealing with minor nobles. 

“About one-hundred and seventy. Why?”

And living in the middle of nowhere would explain why he missed out on all the good gossip and—wait. 

“What?”

Elrond shrugged his narrow shoulders (but not too narrow. He’d seen how they’d started filling out over the last few years). “Well, I don’t know exactly. Birthdates didn’t seem all that important in the middle of a plague village.” 

“You’re a baby!” The first thing he thought of popped out of his mouth, as sometimes happened when he was relaxed.

“I’m well past elven majority, thank you.” Elrond sounded incensed. “And I’ve seen humans grow up and die, so I’m far from an infant.”

“A hundred and seventy,” Gil-galad repeated, pulling his diverging thoughts back to some semblance of focus. “You’re not even two-hundred and I’ve introduced you to the vices of drink and leaf!”

Elrond snorted. “Dwarven pipeleaf is a superior cultivar, and Maglor gave us rags soaked in aloe liquor to suck whenever we were teething. The only thing you’ve introduced me to is decidedly tame dancing.”

“And the best peaches you’ve ever tried,” Gil-galad insisted, still off balance (he could have done without the reminder that Elrond grew in his teeth all wrong as a child and new ones just kept popping up every few months. At some point he got a whole new set of teeth as a child. Might his body just up and decide that he needed a third set at some point, like some kind of shark? He did not need that kind of body horror in his mind right now).

“And the best peaches,” Elrond agreed. 

Yes, yes, fruit was a topic he could manage.

“Tomorrow,” he announced, stretching his arms and folding them behind his head, “I am going to bring you dewmelon and mulberry in cream and you will never forgive me for not introducing you to it sooner.”

Elrond laughed. “Don’t you have council meetings and work all day tomorrow? That’s all you complained about yesterday.”

Gil-galad sat up, pulled his feet off the seat, and leaned forward. He put a finger to his friend’s lips, hushing him. “Elrond,” he said, “please don’t spoil my imagination with reality.”

He felt Elrond smile under his hand. 

“Okay, but only for tonight.”

[sauron-kraut]

metamorphosis

Summary: Annatar muses about sacrifices, about fitting in. And about Celebrimbor.

A rather quick triple drabble because they've been on my mind and for whatever reason I have never written anything for them before?! Enjoy.

Pairing: Mairon/Annatar x Celebrimbor

Words: 300

Warnings: non-explicit sexual content, a bit of violence

As always: If you like this little piece, comments on AO3 are appreciated! 🖤

Not beta read!

Find it here under the cut.

After changing his skin, Mairon stands bare before a mirror. No, not he, the other. He runs his fingertips over this body (his body?), traces curves and bones unknown. He looks down at his hands. The trembling stops. 

Gone are nails like claws, all sharpness in him trimmed to prudence. 

Gone are the fiery locks, framing him like a radiant mantle. This is no place for vanity. 

Mairon (Annatar) touches his elven ears. Unadorned. His fingers trail over his jaw, now slightly more pronounced. 

In soft waves his white-blonde hair cascades down his shoulders, shoulders that are broader, somewhat. 

Annatar smiles at his reflection. He runs his fingers through his hair, picks up a plain robe folded on a simple chair. 

Do not frighten them with brilliance. Modesty soothes.

He steps closer to the mirror. Pulls the lids of one of his eyes open. 

Gone is their brightness. Smothered serpent. Fire dulled to honey. 

Sweeten their ruin.

Annatar takes root in the city. His new flesh moves among them with ease. The flesh feels different.

When, shrouded in candlelight and wine-drunk nights, at last he lures the elf between his thighs, it feels different. When the elf thrusts inside him, all red-stained lips, grim and proud heart soft from wine, it feels different. How did it feel with Him? It is so long ago. He clutches Celebrimbor to his chest like a dying thing that night. The flesh wants and gasps and pleads.

Stoke his ambition. Sing to his desires.

For centuries, he makes himself a home.

Obsession whips the elf along. For centuries. Grandfather-shadow, some things are inescapable. He forgets his place.

His throat feels good beneath Annatar’s hand.

And when these hands torture, when they maim and when they murder, then, at last, this flesh might become home.