#and it is true! fingon is valiant!

[that-angry-noldo]

do you think it ever haunts Fingon that his title - "the Valiant" - comes from the fact that he aided in kinslaying?...

[melestasflight]

I’m a Russingon girlie at heart and will never miss an opportunity to read into the romanticism of Maedhros’ rescue from Thangorodrim: ancient friends/lovers coming back together, Fingon finding compassion despite betrayal, all that good tear-jerker stuff.

But what makes Fingon’s heroism massive to me has nothing to do with the personal and everything to do with the politics at Mithrim. The fact that had he not gone to Thangorodrim, the Noldor in Beleriand would find themselves at literal war against each other.

This little passage from the Silm really deserves a lot more attention:

No love was there in the hearts of those that followed Fingolfin for the House of Fëanor, for the agony of those that endured the crossing of the Ice had been great, and Fingolfin held the sons the accomplices of their father. Then there was peril of strife between the hosts

Years later, when Fingon decides to look for Maedhros, the conflict between the hosts comes back as a primary reason behind his decision:

Then Fingon the valiant, son of Fingolfin, resolved to heal the feud that divided the Noldor, before their Enemy should be ready for war

This makes me conclude that the three years between Fingolfin’s arrival at Mitrhim (FA 2) to Fingon’s rescue mission (FA 5) must have been a continuous civil crisis. The hosts are in close proximity, a single lake dividing them, Fingolfin on one side, Maglor on the other, and for three years they cannot find a compromise. This crisis must have gotten pretty bad for someone to decide that braving Thangorodrim might be worth it.

And to me, this is Fingon's greatest contribution he ever made, not his battles, not his chasing of dragons, but preventing civil war among his people.

Of all the children of Finwë he is justly most renowned...

Yes, indeed, he is. Because without Fingon’s deed, there would be no victories for the Noldor, no Long Peace, no meeting of the Edain and Eldar. They would have fought each other endlessly until one group obliterated the other, or alternatively, Morgoth used this division (as the book seems to imply) to destroy them all swiftly. 

Fingon effectively accomplishes what Fingolfin and Fëanor never managed: peace, at least for a good while. Maedhros of course contributes in return by giving up the crown. He meets Fingon halfway, and they stay true to this alliance until Fingon’s death. They cross an impossible bridge no matter how you read their relationship. 

I’ll never tire of it. Ever.

[thelien-art]

December; the 24

Yule day 4: Maedhros the tall & Fingon the Valiant

How many colors are used in the glass of the windows?

True blue Pansy; blue Pansy´s symbolize loyalty, honesty, devotion, and trust.

Bluehead Gilia; Bluehead Gilia is an annual herb with a self-supporting growth system. The Gilia has been used to treat blood disease over the years.

Fingon is in the free day clothes Maedhors just came in after some flower picking fully dressed; I also like to headcannon Himring fashion to include a lot of embroidered floral.

[searchingforserendipity25]

Ficlet prompt! Russingon + fairytale AU + “I’ve got you, I’ve got you” for the dialogue, if that catches your fancy ❤️

Thank you so much @theghostinthemargins! This was a very fun exercise, super involving, hope you enjoy it <3

Prompt from this list of AUs, the ask box is always open!

-

The dragon had been a surprise. 

Not a very great surprise, all things considered. Fingon had faced the sheer ravines, with their deep, ragged crevasses scattered with the bones of the valiant; had fought with sword and bold will the giant spider and her entrapping maze of illusions. 

The last of the caves lead him up, up the steep mountainside. There, nestled among the rock, carved out of it, stood a high and narrow and treacherous tower.

And atop that tower glinted a light of steel, and the paleness of bare flesh; and hair like fire burning in a pyre.

 Fingon’s heart, stout in the face of horrible death, and suffering, and eldritch Powers far vaster than him, leap in his chest with fright and joy at the sight, even as the great serpent uncoiled itself from around the tower, slowly, painfully slowly. 

He had not doubted - he had not allowed himself to doubt. But that iron certainty proved true, at last. The prince in the tower was bound, naked and defiant, hanging from the crenelation - but he lived, he lived, he raised up his head and saw him, and the distant voice of his beloved called out -

“Findekáno, Finno, run!”

And, of course, there was the dragon guarding the tower; immense it was, and more frightful even than the great spider, for it breathed a sulphorous steam with every breath, and its wings were very strong, its claws as wide and as tall as him. 

 Fingon had no intentions of running from him. He had come to free his friend - to save his betrothed, to claim the prize of peace between his divided people, to bring back Maitimo, his Russandol. 

Glaurung rained flame upon him. He found he could not look away frm those glittering golden eyes, cat-like and full of malice, and such a vast intelligence it made all the cunning of atisans and all the cleverness of craft, and rhetoric, and ruling, seem pale and petty and clumsy.

“It is no use,” the beast laughed. Its voice was very great, and deceptively soft: it slithered in the air, and the stones, coiled darkly around the nerves of the skull and the courage of the heart. “Deceiver and betrayer, false friend and false leader I name you: cowardly at heart, and evil the courage of your blade. Come not nearer, and I might let you go free, Findekáno Astaldo. It is a mercy I give you, and better than you have earned; the thing you mean to free for yourself would bring you to worse evil than mine own.”

“That may be,” Fingon said. “It likely would be. But I have heard some stories of your kind, worm. And great and mighty as you are, potent as the Doom laid upon my kin, still I say there is a thing that may defeat your evil, and kill the prophecy of evil over the Noldor. Hail, and listen!”

Hail, and listen!, he called in his heart to Maedhros, willing his fiercely to enter into his scheme. Listen, and believe, for I cannot believe enough for both of us -

He could not know whether Maedhros even heard him. All of this journey had been made on cunning and courage and faith, and here was the greatest challenge of all. 

Fingon filled his lungs with air, raised his bow, but he did not take aim. He did something else - wilder, and more foolish, the sort of thing a hero from a tale might do.

He sang. He sang of love lost, and love found; he sang of love that lead to slaughter, of distant fires and insurmountable betrayal. He sang of the Ice, which too was insurmountably, and which he did cross. 

Glaurung stepped back; but Fingon did not pursue. He did not have to. He sang of his sorrow, and his love’s sorrow; and he sang of his long journey. The journey’s end, as well: the curve of the arrow in the sky, the shuddering of the tower-stones as the dragon fell, the warmth of his beloved falling into his arms at last.

This is the thing about songs of love, in great tales. They can break every curse; all of them, all of them, if someone is mad and foolish and valiant enough to believe they might. To know, and make it known into the greater Music - this here is a great deed, a great love, and nothing shall stain it. 

Fingon believed it so, entirely. It filled him up, voice and marrow. It aimed the arrow for him, his faith, and bled his palms for him as he scrambled upwards to meet Maedhros, and pull him up, and up, and into his arms - at last, just as in the song.

Then, he was quiet. He was very tired, gasping; and Maedhros too trembled with terrible weariness. His arm was chained still, and would not be unchained. Great love might end curses, Fingon knew, but it demanded its price.

“Finno,” said Maedhros. His face was stark with bruises, hidden in filth. His eyes shone with a terrible light; he was smiling, and that was a terrible smile as well. “I could not credit it, I very nearly could not believe it - what madness possessed you -”

Maedhros had not hoped from escape, during all his torment, had been quite without hope in all things for to hope would be to imagine any of his kin coming to awful danger - but he had ceased to disbelieve, as Fingon sang. He, too, was a prince of the Noldor, and a scholar and lore-master, a splendid orator in his own right. He knew all the tales, and the laws that governed the world; how very much the boundaries of it were laid upon mad trust, mad belief.

Fingon had needed his faith, for the spell to hold its power against a dragon’s might; and so, for him, for him only, Maedhros had believed. Defiance would have been easier to ask from him; endurance would have been easier. But love demanded much, and Fingon had not climbed terrible cliffs and faced pitiless memories for a small love.

And he had done it.

To hang in estel as Fingon did battle and believe fully in his victory, to lend his faith and press it against thirty years of despair, against chains and torment and Glaurung’s smothering power, had been a very great working of power. Magic, in its truest sense: a spell made up all of will, strong and burning. 

That had always been Maedhros’ strength, the foundation of the skills that had made him mighty in war-magics; and that had been that which his enemies most sought to ruin. He laughed, victorious in survival, uncanny with the last of his power running hot in his veins; and then at last it dimmed, and he wept as he laughed, holding Fingon all the more tightly.

“I have you,” Fingon whispered back, voice torn to shreds, never to be strong enough to sing again. His own price, and gladly given.

He closed his arms around the feverish warmth of his beloved, let go of the bow, did not care to watch it fall unheeded upon the wreck of the dragon beneath. “I knew you could do it. I knew we could - Ai, Maitimo, Marítimo. My Russandol. I have got you, I have got you."

[fuckingfinwions]

Amnesiac Fingon at Sirion

He gave his name at the gate as "a kinsman of Lady Idril," and asked to be directed to her house. It was true (unless he'd been lied to for the last fifty years), and would cause a lot less panic about lost spirits and ghosts than his name. Being Idril's kinsman was also the reason why he had come, rather than one of his law-brothers or a random messenger from their army.

That someone would come to Sirion from the Feanorian host was inevitable. He only hoped that he could be the only one, rather than returning in a year with an army.

Idril's house was easy enough to find, not as grand as the palace but only a short walk away. A servant ushered him in to a sitting room, taking his bag and cloak so politely that he almost missed them carrying off his sword and short-bow as well. He let them, as this meeting would no go any better if Idril thought he was threatening her personal safety. The threat to her people was one he could not avoid.

Once he had no cloak with it's shadowy hood, he turned his face to the paintings on the wall. He was not trying to hide his identity from Idril, but she was the one he wanted to recognize him first. She was the one who had known him as family and mourned his death, and he owed it to her to tell her first of his resurrection, even if he did not remember her. So he had not braided his hair with ribbons as in his the great painting that adorned Maedhros's sitting room, but only pulled it back so it was a mountain of curls on top his head. He looked rather like Anaire, or at least like the wedding portrait that had been in his father's personal effects.

When he heard footsteps enter the room, he turned. First was a man, in middle age perhaps but still hale, blond with a beard trimmed in the Hadorian style. Behind him was an elven lady with skin only a shade darker than Fingon's own, but hair as bright and golden as buttercups.

"Lady Idril," he said as he gave a half-bow, as their respective ranks were hard to calculate given his apparent death and her father's, with none to his knowledge currently claiming the title of King.

"What - but it can't be, you died! My father saw your head cleft in two!"

"I'm sure Turgon thought he did, and indeed Gothmog struck a heavy blow. But I survived, and with the skill of the healers and the grace of Este have recovered. I would have told Turgon, but unfortunately I couldn't reach him."

The man - Tuor - spoke up. "Dear, who is this? I was under the impression all your relatives had either died in battles of renown, or else never set foot in Beleriand."

"I know who he's claiming, but not why someone would make such a bold lie."

"Because it's not a lie. I am Fingon the Valiant, son of Fingolfin Arakano, former high king of the Noldor."

"You say former high king, but I would expect that title to still be yours if you never formally yielded it or died."

"I did yield the throne, due to ill health, and told the largest group of Noldor I could find. I know I cannot claim it again after years away like a discarded instrument."

"Gondolin was the last remaining kingdom of the Noldor. Everyone else died in the Braggollach or the Nirnaeth, save only Nargothrond which fell to dragon fire years ago. I would have heard if you had come to any of them, the great high king alive at last."

"The last kingdom, but not the last fortress. The sons of Feanor still dwell at Amon Ereb along with their followers, and my husband's kin has been very welcoming."

"Your husband?!"

"Maedhros son of Feanor. We were married even before you left for Gondolin, though I'm not surprised your father didn't mention it."

"He did, but I thought it was just because he was angry at his brother. If you're really my uncle, tell me a story about my mother."

"I'm sorry. I know Elenwe died when you were young, and I wish I could share memories of her with you. But the injury that everyone though killed me was a blow to the head, and I recall nothing before it."

"How can you be sure you're Fingon then, rather than a convenient decoy for the throne?"

"If someone wanted to be the power behind the throne, why I have I never acted to take it? But for more concrete proof, I look just as I ever have, and I was already married to Maedhros when I woke up with the healers. If you've heard any rumors of Maedhros having a spouse, or close friend who could have been a secret paramour, who was not Fingon the Valiant, I am very interested."

Idril looked carefully at Fingon as if she could see a lie in his face, but he held his head proud and steady. After a moment, she sighed. "I'm sorry uncle Fingon, it's just been a trying time. I am glad you are alive, truly."

"Thank you."

"If you're not here to claim the kingship, is this a social call then? We have a lot to catch up on, though I suppose you don't know where we left off."

"Well, not really. I would love to get to know you, and your family, whenever you have time! But I didn't think either of us would get much joy out of it, with no common reference to speak of."

The blond man - Tuor - spoke up then. "I suppose you can't tell me about my father then?"

"I know he helped a lot with readying Dor-Lomin for the battle, but Maedhros would be the one to go to for details."

"I don't think Maedhros is welcome in the city."

"Which brings me to the reason I'm here. I would like to speak with your daughter-in-law."

Idril said, "Speak with? Like Maedhros spoke with Dior?"

"Dior never answered any letters we sent - I'm not sure he knew we were serious. Elwing at least knows the stakes, and I'm hopeful negotiation can help everyone."

"I don't think Sirion needs any help from the Feanorians other than them staying out of the way."

"We're not the only threat out there. There are hordes of orcs in Angband."

"And do they listen to you then? Is this another case like Maeglin; has Maedhros been promised the Silmaril if he brings in the last of Doriath and Gondolin?"

"No! Maedhros is no thrall, and hates Morgoth as much as any. But he could help design defenses for the city, like those that protected Himring. The army of Feanor would provide a great number of soldiers to aid you as well, if we were only allowed within the walls."

"You keep saying 'we', but you are the son of my grandfather Nolofinwe, not Feanor."

"My husband's kin are mine as well; you should know this from your own marriage."

"I've never killed an innocent because my husband said to."

"I wasn't at Doriath. I stayed and manned the keep, and my husband came back to say that half his brothers died. I want to keep all my family alive this time."

"And you don't want the burden of shedding more blood, so you come as if it's not a threat."

"It's not! I came alone, I let your servants take my weapons. If Elwing will not see me, or you will not introduce us, or she spends the whole time spewing insults at my husband, I will leave the city peacefully. We will send more letters, and messengers if there's anyone who the Iathrim won't shoot."

"And if the letters fail? If there is nothing that will convince Elwing to give up her birthright to the ones who killed her people?"

"Than the Feanorians will attempt to get it back directly. But warning of an oncoming storm is not a threat, though your ship may be broken all the same if you take no heed."

"Are you really going to make metaphors about ships after what the Feanorians did at Losgar, and what you did at Alqualonde?"

Fingon winced a moment. "Right, I forgot about that. I know the facts, but they don't feel as important as keeping anyone from dying right now."

[ao3feed-tolkien]

In Song Unsung

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

by sabcatt

Fragmentary sections of two poems, dealing with the friendship of Fingon and Maedhros, and a brief scholarly introduction thereto.

From "The Lay of King Nelyafinwë": Fingon the Valiant, in friendship ever true / paused not, nor yielded to prudent counsel.

Words: 435, Chapters: 1/2, Language: English

Fandoms: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Categories: Gen

Characters: Fingon | Findekáno, Maedhros | Maitimo, Unnamed Academic Narrator

Relationships: Fingon | Findekáno & Maedhros | Maitimo

Additional Tags: Poetry, alliterative verse, In-Universe Academia, media fic, (kind of), First Kinslaying (Tolkien), Rescue from Thangorodrim (Tolkien), in which the author apes tolkien by writing in-universe poetry, Whumptober 2022, ....technically.

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

[tanoraqui]

ok I thought about my tags on this post too much, so, new Gil-galad origin drop: Gil-galad son of maybe Fingon, maybe Maedhros; it was a deliberately unclear threesome for the sake of Noldorin unity, very willingly engineered by a(n OC) Falathrin elf-woman named Celechwes.

On Celechwes of the Falas

Her epessë means "swift breeze", from the way she always used to run around as a child (and as a young adult, and as an adult)

She grew up in Falas; for many years she was a traveler and sometimes message-bearer, riding through the lordless wilds. She also loved to wander idly, brushing her hands along the trunks of tall trees or splashing in wild rivers. But her true joy was racing on foot or, faster yet, horseback, with the wind her companion and the landscape flying past yet infinitely wide around, behind, and ahead of her.

As orcs, wargs, and other monsters of shadow began to creep out of the north, she carried more messages, for there was naught she couldn't outride. And she became a scout, a huntress and herb-gatherer, and warrior - every profession aided by the skill of slipping quickly and quietly through the land, by horse or foot. (And everyone was a warrior eventually, as they were forced back and back and back to the shore.)

She was a woman grown when the glimmer of the land across the sea abruptly went dark, but still young as elves went. Her first knowledge of the Noldor was a great fire and clamor in the north, and the miracle of the armies of darkness somehow deciding to stop fighting and head off that way. She was one of the few swift, quiet, and uninjured enough to follow and try to find out why, so she saw the great force of the elves of the West, with their shining blades and even brighter eyes, crash down on the orcs and hunt them mercilessly through the fens

She didn't talk to them at that point. She went back to report to Cīrdan.

Nor was she part of the first careful group to sail up the shore and approach the new encampment around Lake Mithrim, where six Sons of Fëanor clustered without their father or even their eldest brother. But she went up with later missions of mercy (this is how you treat wood to last against true wind and rain, this is how you catch fish when no kindly river spirits whisper them to your line, this is how you navigate when clouds cover the stars...)

She was there when the eagle landed and Fingon the Valiant stumbled off, with Maedhros the No-Longer-Lost limp and bleeding in his arms. She stayed a little to watch the shining elves of the West-no-longer stumble, still seeming to bleed, into cooperation, and she returned gladly for the Feast of Mereth Aderthad, and rejoiced with the rest of Beleriad in the hope of unity, victory, and peace.

Because peace bought Celechwes the one thing she loved best: a return to her days of riding free. As a messenger once again, because there was more need than ever for it, as the lords of the Noldor set their watch. Of course, they had their own messengers, so at first she was mostly just riding inland and back to the shore between her people and others: deep into Doriath, rich with the song of nightingales; fording the Narog, Taeglin and Lithir to course up along bright and rushing Sirion; through the winding, stony paths of the Ered Wethrin to its new "High King."

I don't know when she started riding along the line of the Siege as well - before, I think, it was officially a Siege, but not long before. From the sharp peaks of eastern Ered Wethrin, thin paths with cliffs dropping off to show the whole of Ard-Galen stretched out beside her, to deep blue Lake Helevon on which you can tell the time based on the stretching shadows of the surrounding mountains, and everything in between: the tree-studded hills of Dorthonion and the cold shrub-brush slopes of Himring, the twisting paths of Aglon Pass and the sticky Fens of Siroch. And as peace mounts, the vast, now-flowering plains themselves, where only the wind can match her pace.

(Maglor tried to recruit her at least twice, but not that hard—if the Gap was truly held by skill at horses or hunting, it would’ve been Celegorm in command. Maglor’s cavalry was fine as cavalry go, deadly-skilled from experience as orc raids persist, but the Gap was held by the singers of the Noldor: riders called back and forth as they patrolled and their songs were carried in the wind that swept the plains, laying sleep on the unwary or dread and helplessness on the foe. Celechwes was a tolerable singer, but neither powerful nor loud, as would be required here.)

Never before had she carried messages for so many people who knew each other well but couldn’t, by duty, danger, or half-healed grudge, simply go speak to one another. She found herself carrying more than just letters and small packages - “Your mother also reminds you to keep your ears warm,” she told a cavalry-singer of Lothlann, delivering a scarf from a burly-armed smith in the eastern mountains of Dorthonion. “She looks well,” she assured a farmer of Dor-lómin, of his old comrade in Himlad. From a smirking lady in Menegroth she delivered a kiss on the cheek and a sly whisper to the ear of the young lord of Tor Sirion (young mostly for the way he blushed like a cooked salmon), and just a few years after that she delivered many of their wedding invitations.

She got to know them over time, these bright-eyed self-proclaimed “knowledgeable ones” with their blades as sharp as dwarves’, tales of bliss and honor both lost, and love of stone towers that she didn’t understand but open hills that she did. Mostly she got to know the frequent letter-writers, and letter-receivers - the worried parents, the poets spreading their latest songs, the seneschals of every fortress from Eithel Sirion to Thargelion. She even came to know some of their lords and ladies (though some she liked more than others). Blushing Lord Orodreth and Lady Mithriel who never lost her sly smile, even when round with babe, were true friends who always hosted her well. Curufin Feanorion snapped if anyone touched his mail but himself, his brothers, his son, or, begrudgingly, the mail-carrier herself. Lindwen of Aeluin somehow always found her rather than the other way around, and invited her to supper whether or not Lindwen was expecting or wanted to send anything. Ridhimsîr, Captain of the Gap, kept trying to persuade her that they could teach her to project her voice. And Princess Lalwen wrote a long letter to Lord Cīrdan every other decade like clockwork - Celechwes only carried it every fourth letter or so, but when she did, it was a good reason to return south and visit her mother on the shore. For a week or two, until the open road called her once more.

But when her heart developed favorites, it was these: the valiant prince of Dor-Lómin who always ran down the steps of his tower to fetch his own missives, be they frivolous or deathly-urgent, who smiled with determination even on those days he didn’t smile with joy; and the tall lord of Himring, tragically stern for one so bright-haired and fair yet impossibly spirited for one once chained by the Enemy, who only seemed to smile at letters from his valiant cousin (and oh how it lit up his face).

(They wrote rather a lot of letters to one another.)

[Continued!]

[amethysttribble]

The Fuse of Regret

@feanorianweek Entry 1: Maedhros (Childhood)

Gil-galad remembers his childhood with his fathers very differently than everyone else seems to. Primarily because he remembers there being two fathers.

I’m doing another theme this year, this one being: Six AUs wherein Gil-galad was a grandson of Feanor, and one where he wasn’t. 

Fair Warning for this first one, it can easily be retitled ‘everyone (including Mae) gaslights Gil for 2000 words’. All hurt, no comfort. Forgive Maedhros. His self-loathing is very strong and he thinks its for his son’s own good.

Officially, the last time Ereinion Gil-galad ever spoke to Maedhros, son of Feanor, was when he was still just a boy, shortly before the death of his father. It was when said father, King Fingon the Valiant, son of Fingolfin, and the Lord of Himring were still long in the planning of what would be called the Union of Maedhros.

According to those official tales, during this last meeting, it was less of a conversation and more a symbolic showing of the young prince. Maedhros, son of Feanor, kissed young Ereinion’s hand, and called him, “Your Highness”, and reaffirmed him as heir to all the Noldor.

Then, the prince was given back to his nannies, or perhaps his mother, who must be somewhere in this tale but never seemed to appear, and the grim, grisly form of Maedhros, son of Feanor, stalked away besides the fair, bright form of King Fingon. They returned to their negotiations.

Prince Ereinion, soon King Gil-galad, would never have reason to see the kinslayer again, and therefore did not.

This story was, of course, largely untrue while holding a grain of truth.

As Gil-galad remembered it, Maedhros, father of Ereinion, kissed him on the forehead and called him “my dear,” and reaffirmed that he would be allowed to sleep in the bed beside him and Atya that night. In the morning they would take breakfast, and there would be many more meetings after that, before Maedhros left them again.

The only difference between that visit and many others before it was that Maedhros never came back and then Father died.

It was true, of course, that Gil-galad had not met with Maedhros since that time, but less because he had no reason to see him- Ereinion had many, many reasons- and more because of circumstances and blatant avoidance. He was half convinced it had taken Maedhros so long to return Earendil and Elwing’s little boys because he was avoiding his own son. But now the peredhel twins had been returned, and Ereinion had him.

The night was already late when he left their camp with but one attendant, but he was determined now. And he knew how to find Maedhros. Ereinion knew his movements better than anyone living.

At least, he liked to think that. 

As he rode out into the wilds searching for his father, Ereinion thought of the long, lonely nights spent upon Balar, reading the few letters he still had from Maedhros and the one letter in his possession from Father. 

And when he’d read the letters so thoroughly and so often he knew every word and he’d begun to weather and tear the paper, he asked Cirdan for the letters written to the Lord of Balar from Maedhros and Fingon. And when all those letters were expended, Ereinion studied the speeches and battle-plans and treaties they made, hoping to catch some glimpse of the happy childhood he remembered but seemed to feel more like fantasy and fiction by the second.

He needed this. Ereinion knew his attendants and friends would be angry at him for leaving in the middle of the night, for endangering himself, but they didn’t understand. He needed this. So pervasive had the thoughts and theories of other people become, so upsetting had the evidence against the kinslayer become, Ereinion… He no longer trusted his own memory and that frightened him.

He wanted answers from Maedhros himself.

The red flags were easily distinguishable even in torch and starlight. They snapped in the warm, harsh wind, the golden threads of their rayed star glittering faintly. Ereinion’s own sigil flapped beside him, held aloft by the herald he brought, blue and silver. 

The people of the Feanorion host saw him from leagues away and greeted him stoically. He rode unmolested, though, into their pathetic little camp, harried only by their harsh stares, thin faces, and the occasional lob of spit at his horses feet. Maedhros and Maglor both were waiting for him when he reached the main tent.

Ereinion had met only two of Maedhros’s brothers, Caranthir only in passing, and he could scarcely say he knew Maglor better. And yet, his conflicted gaze and shallow bow- he couldn’t tell if the gesture was mocking or sincere- was a warmer greeting than what he received from Maedhros.

He was stone, unmoving, unfeeling. 

“Hail, Maedhros, son of Feanor,” Gil-galad said, and he feared he was unspeaking as well. Until-

“To think,” Maedhros said, voice flatter than any plain, “we have just lost out hostages and the King Gil-galad seeks to deliver us two more. Henceforth, never let the High King’s generosity be questioned again.”

There was a smattering of laughter, a few scrapes of steel being unsheathed, but notably Maglor neither laughed nor moved. 

Gil-galad just tilted his nose up.

“I would speak with you, Maedhros, son of Feanor. Unless you would refuse me.”

In front of all your people. Refuse me in front of all of them. Deny your chance to negotiate with and swindle the young, fool son of your friend. Deny your chance for food, deny your chance to negotiate to fight.

Ereinion wouldn’t be surprised if these obviously starving people were hungrier for battle than food. They would want a parlay, if only to be allowed back into war meetings.

But Maedhros was a coward and he tried to deny him anyway.

“What possibly do we have to speak of?”

Ereinion smiled, and he knew it was a sweet looking expression though it tasted very bitter behind his teeth. 

“The unsettled accounts of my late father.”

That set their observers whispering, made Maglor give his brother a sharp look. Still, Maedhros resisted for a moment. Then, he gave a nod.

“Well,” he said, holding out an arm to gesture towards the tent. Gil-galad dismounted. “Far be it for me to deny a request from the son of an old friend.”

But it would not be far for you to deny a king, Gil-galad thought as the people jeered behind him. He was almost worried for his herald as he passed under the tent flap. But no. Maglor did not follow them. He would keep the people tame.

There was one lone torch lit in the first room of the tent. It barely illuminated the table, and highlighted all the marks on it. As Maedhros busied himself clinking around with some glasses and drink, Ereinion ran his fingers over the wood grain. Somehow had carved a small depiction of a dog here, at a seat far from the end. Ambarussa, perhaps.

The shifting shadows were the only thing that alerted Ereinion when Maedhros turned to face him. A glass was help out for him, and he couldn’t even see what it was in the dark. Ereinion took the drink- reaching across the table- and sipped it anyway.

Whiskey.

Maedhros was throwing back the whole glass.

Wasn’t a son’s first drink with father supposed to be more special than this?

“Well, boy?” Maedhros said when he came up for air, already turning away to pour another. “What are you here for?”

Ereinion waited until Maedhros looked at him again, leveling those treelight silver eyes on him. He’d been so jealous as a child about how Maedhros and Father’s eyes were the same, ethereal and bright and greater than he ever could be. This creature before him did not look great.

There was a new scar on Maedhros’s cheek. Where did he get it? Doriath or Sirion.

Ereinion’s hand tightened arrow d his glass.

“They were my friends, did you know that?” he said quietly, nearly whispering it at first, but voice growing louder with each word. “Did you know that? That they were my friends, Eanredil and Elwing, my friends! She was my fucking friend! Did you know that?”

Maedhros said nothing.

“If you did, would it have changed anything?” Ereinion hissed, already knowing the answer. When Maedhros kept staring at him impassively, he made an impulsive move and clacked the glass against his teeth. The whiskey burned on the way down and his mouth was vibrating from the impact. It wasn’t enough.

With a ragged breath, Ereinion held out the glass for more.

Maedhros silently made him another drink.

When he was handed more whiskey, their fingers touched briefly, and Ereinion thought little of it as he started downing his drink again, but he saw Maedhros shudder.

When Ereinion slammed the glass onto the table, over that little craved dog, Maedhros shuddered, then finally said, “Is that all you-“

“Father.”

Maedhros looked like someone had slapped and was just as angry as that insult would suggest. His glare was like white fire and it didn’t frighten Ereinion a bit. Nothing was more frightening than the night he realized Maedhros wasn’t coming to bring him home.

The night Gil-galad realized he was an orphan now.

“Does that word mean anything to you?” he hissed. “I call you ‘Father’ because I am your son, or do you deny that?”

“Be careful how you tread, son of Fingon.”

Ereinion scoffed and said, “Oh, I am very careful. ‘Son of Fingon’ you call me, like a curse. Or maybe not, a blessing. A release from bondage. I’ll not bloody hear it from you. I’ve had enough courtiers in my ears trying to tell me who and what I am, when I know. I was there. You and I are now the only ones who were there, and you dare tell me I’m wrong, Father?”

Even around the deep shadows and the scars and the lines of exhaustion, Ereinion could see every movement as Maedhros’s lips formed the words, “You’re wrong.”

“Bullshit!”

Ereinion slammed his hands down. This time, the table shuddered. He was breathing hard.

“Who was it then!” he shouted, “Who was it who picked me up from the rug and brought me to bed! Who guided my fingers through learning Tengwar! Who sang bass to Father’s tenor, and brought me the most finely crafted toys, and kissed me so mournfully every time he had to leave again!”

“I was your father’s friend,” Maedhros said, words very slow and very carefully enunciated, like lines from a script. At least, that’s how Ereinion wanted to think of them- lines, acted lines- as Maedhros stabbed knives into his chest. “A dear friend, and you my friend’s son. Of course I brought gifts and taught you what I could. Of course I paid you some love, Gil-galad-“

“Don’t call me by that name!”

There were tears pricking his eyes, now, and Valar, he didn’t know if he needed more or less whiskey.

“That is my name,” Ereinion cried, “my name, given to me by friends and guardians, that I took on as my mantle when I assumed the throne you abandoned me on. That is my name. Call me by your name, the father-name. The two of you only gave me one, but gave it together. Son of kings. Call me Ereinion because you are my father.”

Maedhros watched him silently for a long time, and then very carefully set down his own glass. His hand was shaking. Ereinion saw it, even in the low-light, he saw how his hand shook and sloshed the whiskey before he set it on the table. He held onto that one sign like a life-line.

But then Maedhros cut him down with the same brutal efficiency as he did everything else.

“Gil-galad.”

Ereinion felt like the air had been punched from his lungs. He doubled over the table in pain, ended up face-to-face with his empty glass. For a second, it occurred to him to throw it at Maedhros’s face.

But no. He had his father’s temper but never Fingon’s temper, which had been slow to come but hot when it arrived. There had been a few terrible evenings in Ereinion’s childhood where things were thrown, not at but certainly near Maedhros. 

Maedhros never responded in kind, and that had always been the worst blow for Fingon.

Gil-galad had his father’s temper.

He stood up straight, towing with the rim of the glass, spinning it. Then he looked up at Maedhros as sneered.

“I see,” Gil-galad said, keeping his voice as calm and kingly as possible, drawing upon all those lessons he got just from watching the two of them. “You have become a fey creature indeed, to not even recognize your own progeny.”

Maedhros let out a stuttering breath and that felt good. But Gil-galad wasn’t done.

“If my father could see you now,” he hissed softly, “he would weep. Now, today, he would give you the pity that he denied you on that mountain, and he would put us all out of your misery. I will not waste your time any longer, my lord.”

Gil-galad left and Maedhros did nothing. There was no move to stop him, no last call to his back, nothing. Nothing except the clink of more whiskey being poured.

This would be the last meeting between King Ereinion Gil-galad and Maedhros, son of Feanor.

[marhelf]

Highborn. 

Fingon the Valiant.

A prince, a king, a warrior, a true friend. Noble and virtuous. One of my favorite lords of Noldor. Watercolor on paper, 2020

[an-eldritch-peredhel]

the prince is dead

…long live the king.

Written for @tolkiengenweek Day 4: Solo | Read on AO3

Fingon muses on his name, on legacy, and on solitude.

Notes: Ok so this fic is set very soon post-Dagor Bragollach and Fingolfin’s challenge to Morgoth (even though they don’t know about that yet). Fingon is not in a very happy place, and this is definitely hurt/ no comfort. This makes full use of the headcanon that lots of the exiled Noldor prefer to use their Sindarin names instead of their given Quenya ones, so if you don’t like that uhhh don’t read this.

He doesn’t know when he stopped being Findekáno. Sometime after Thingol’s ban of Quenya, most likely. Unlike some who have given up their first-names, he doesn’t dislike his on principle, it just doesn’t suit him anymore. It’s a stranger’s name, because surely if he could meet Findekáno, a prince in Valinor where succession barely mattered, they would not be the same person. Perhaps he hasn’t been Findekáno since Alqualonde, he just didn’t have a better name to call himself. He thinks, though, that there isn’t any one moment he could pinpoint, could look back on and say “This is where Findekáno died, and I rose in his place.” He isn’t sure whether it’s better that way. He does know that his father hadn’t called him by his ataressë since- oh centuries ago, probably- when he’d flinched at the sound of it. Findekáno is dead. On his better days recently, Fingon only feels a little like he’s dying.

He’s still Astaldo, ironically. He’d thought he wasn’t, when he was on the Ice, and that was probably true then. He’d just left his mother, who gave him the name, and the Helcaraxë doesn’t lend itself well to bravery, only survival. But he got the name back along with Maedhros on Thangorodrim. There’s no good translation for it from Sindarin, but maybe that’s the point. Mother-names are more personal, it’s only right that it’s in his mother-tongue. Still, there’s always been an interesting contradiction around them, the name being close enough to your heart that only a few speak it breeds a kind of distance, especially if you aren’t called by it for a time. He hasn’t been called Astaldo since Valinor. His father hardly ever used the name, and in the last words his mother said to him she called him Findekáno, instead. Fingon wishes he weren’t quite so bitter about that.

And now he is himself: Fingon, the Crown Prince. High King, really, but there’s still a day left before that’s official. One more day for his father to return from whatever darkness he rode into. Findekáno would have held onto hope, but Fingon cannot. Fingon has lived through roughly four High Kings (counting Maedhros, but not Maglor, as convention dictates) and he can already feel the Doom heavy upon him. With any luck at all he will not be the last Noldorán, but that hardly matters when he will not live to see who will succeed him. Turgon and Aredhel are missing- though possibly still alive, and Arakáno is dead- died before he could change his name, and Ereinion was sent to Círdan the moment his father was reported missing, and Maedhros is on the other side of the continent- for the sake of diplomacy even though Fingon needs him here, and Fingolfin- his father- the High King, has left him alone. Alone to bear the weight of the crown and his people and the full force of the Doom the Noldor brought upon themselves. Fingon will be high king, alone, and he will die, alone, just as those before him. But though Fingon is not Findekáno, he is still Astaldo, so he will live up to his name as best he can. Whatever time he has left, he will be brave, and he will not ride into the darkness of Mandos without a fight. Whoever takes up the crown next will have to do it alone as well, but let history not say that King Fingon the Valiant willed that it be so! Let it say he spat in the face of death and Morgoth’s monsters- they’re the same thing anyway, and let it say he prayed the day would come again, and let it say that he was brave and terrified both, and let it say that he is alone. And let it never call him Findekáno, because Findekáno did not, and was not, and Findekáno is dead. Fingon isn’t- he isn’t even dying yet. He is only alone.

[that-angry-noldo]

Maitimo Nelyafinwe Feanorion

[Character study of Maedhros through the Quenta Silmarillion.]

Someone would describe Maitimo Nelyafinwe Feanorion as hot-headed, loud and merry. It was true; Maitimo was just as reckless as his father and as witty as his mother, silver-tongued and quick to action; Maitimo Nelyafinwe Feanorion was the pride of Curufinwe, the joy of Nerdanel and the headache of his mentors.

Maitimo Nelyafinwe was an only child, and the world was bright and safe, and the Darkness hasn't yet touched his soul.

~

Someone would describe Maitimo Nelyafinwe Feanorion as a fine young lad, helpful in the forge and useful in the archives; a caring brother, a beloved prince, a bright lord. It was true: Maitimo was proud and honest and skilled, both in smithy and in palace.

Maitimo Nelyafinwe was a prince, a devoted son, a loving brother, and there still wasn't any Darkness to bitter his tongue.

~

Someone would describe Maitimo Nelyafinwe Feanorion as a wild card, dangerous in the hands of his wielder. It was true; Maitimo was beloved by his brothers and by his people, and Maitimo knew how to use it to his advantage - Maitimo knew how to bend masses, how to play the cards in the best way.

Maitimo Nelyafinwe was his father's son, and it was bold of the Light to forget it.

~

Someone would describe Maitimo Nelyafinwe Feanorion as a bloodthirsty murderer.

Let them talk. Maitimo Nelyafinwe Feanorion has far more pressing matters to solve.

~

... someone would describe Maedhros the Tall as Maitimo Nelyafinwe Feanorian.

Maedhros the Tall knew it wasn't true. Maitimo Nelyafinwe was dead, chained both deep underground and high over the clouds. Maitimo died there, broken by Darkness, deformed by Dissonanse. Maedhros the Tall was what's left of him.

~

His heart was weeping, his tongue was bitter, and his hands were chained by the Oath.

Someone would describe Maedhros the Tall as the phoenix risen from ashes.

It was true: his crown was back on his head, and his sword was in his hand, and his rage was the one of a man returned from dead. It was true, becuse Maedhros the Tall was his father's son, his brothers' sibling, his cousins' oldest, his uncle's nephew.

But he was bound by the Oath, and it was foolish of the Light to forget that.

~

No one dared to speak about Maedhros the Tall anymore. Not when his grief tasted like wormwood and covered every inch of his dwelling. Not when his eyes were clouded with tears already gone and not yet cried. Not when his clothes were torn and hair covered in ashes.

Not when he buried what's left of Fingon the Valiant.

~

Someone would describe Maedhros the Tall as a man long gone.

It was true.

There was nothing left of Maedhros the Tall, only ash, and smoke, and blood, and steel of a blade. There were no brothers left safe for the second to to him; there was no Light left for those who chose Darkness.

(There were two stars who remembered the kindness of his touch.)

~

Maedhros the Tall was falling, his hands chained by the Oath, his spirit crushed by the Darkness, his eyes looking to Light.

~

Maglor Kanafinwe Feanorian threw the Silmarill and screamed.

[melestasflight]

Writing Year Wrapped (2023)

thanks for the tag @sallysavestheday

3 Favorite Fics You've Written This Year

Red - a return to my favorite relationship of all times, Fingon/Maedhros after a semi-hiatus. I let myself feel more than think while writing this, and let the words turn into a painting. Thanks to @helyannis for making that painting come true (see above).

What Lies Beyond the End - the giving up of the Silmaril by Maglor has been and still is one of the most impactful moments for me in the Silm. The writing of this ficlet was a gloriously cathartic music-high.

To Find a Home in the Twilight - Aredhel! All about Aredhel and her contagious sense of freedom. I went wild with the worldbuilding here and dug into characters that are blank slates in canon. Thanks to @toastedbuckwheat for supplying art inspiration.

3 Fics That Stretched You the Most

Against His Wisdom - this was a personal challenge to convince my brain to accept a topic I found extremely challenging for a long time. I also really got my hands dirty with elven psychology and dug into Fingon and Fingolfin's complicated characters. Thanks to @polutrope and @ettelene for the encouragment.

The Seven Trials of Fingon the Valiant - this was a sweet challenge in learning how to co-write with someone else. I am a chaotic writer, I feel as I go, I let stories write themselves. I learned a thing or two about planning ahead and writing in order with @polutrope.

Character Biography: Húrin Thalion and Part 2 - these are not fics but reference works, but putting them here because it was a long labor. A deep dive into canon to look at the evolution of Húrin's character and a critical analysis of the themes and symbology surrounding his character. (also: 11.5k words for this stingy writer!). Thanks to @dawnfelagund for the support.

3 Favorite Lines You've Written (loosely interpreting "lines")

I'm taking quotes from landscape writing because it was very enjoyable this year.

From Voices That Were Once Ours

The hills of Himring stay to the west, and the plains unfold. Lothlann makes an uncomfortable flatness, naked and exposed. The Iron Mountains rise in the far distance and interrupt the seemingly endless sky. In the light of day, they seem almost fair, and for a brief moment, Finrod believes they are not the work of violence.

From What Lies Beyond the End 

The jewel illuminates the liquid space around it, calling all life to itself. Sea creatures, enormous and minute, come to offer their welcome, spiraling in a meditative dance around its brilliant streaks. Even the seagrasses reach their slim fingers with such longing they all but detach themselves from the corral that nurtures them to grasp but a strand of light. It is a silent spectacle of marvel and dread, like the sight of an erupting mountain seen from a great distance. A convergence that perhaps should never be allowed to happen upon Arda, of Sea and Sky, of profound darkness and starlight. In that fleeting instant, Maglor comes to believe that for this alone, it was all worth it.

From Red 

On the rare occasions when Fingon allows himself to think of Beleriand, one image takes shape in his mind’s eye above all others. The last moments of sunset spilling down the prairies of Ard-galen.  If one was to wait for the exact hour and find just the right angle, its hue matched to perfection the color of Maedhros’ tresses under bright daylight. The dark reds coming alive with the gentle swaying of tall grasses in the breeze, Fingon would wade between them with his palms spread open and believe that a beloved braid was untangling between his fingers.

3 Characters You Enjoyed Writing (that surprised you)

Caranthir in The Seven Trials of Fingon the Valiant 

Galadriel in crowned with the Sun

Zimrahin Meldis in To Find a Home in the Twilight 

3 Unexpected Inspirations

The Left Hand of Darkness by Ursula Le Guin. This book left me reeling. Thanks to @searchingforserendipity25 for convincing me to finally read it. The Helcaraxë will never be the same after this.

Age of Empires, yes, the game. Fantastic outlet to let me plan and imagine all my battle-writing, military formations, units, etc.

Paul M. Barford' The Early Slavs: Culture and Society in Early Medieval Eastern Europe. It helped me think deeply about the relationship between the Edain and the Elven lords in Beleriand.

3 WIPs You're Excited About in the Upcoming Year

Fingon's Kingship long fic - Fingon-centric exploration of the period between Galdor's death and the Union of Maedhros. Focused on Fingon's relationship with Círdan, Húrin, Maedhros, and Maglor.

One Thousand Days - a ficlet for Maedhros & Maglor week exploring their relationship with the Esterlings.

Scion of Kings - looking forward to finishing this Fin-galad story inspired by art pieces by @ruiniel @welcomingdisaster and @searchingforserendipity25

3 People Tagged to Share Theirs

no pressure tag to share if you'd like @searchingforserendipity25 @imakemywings @theghostinthemargins

[galadhremmin]

I can't find anything in the text about the Fëanorions being particularly sorry about Alqualondë, just after the first Kinslaying. They might later have come to regret it, but there’s no indication they didn’t feel justified in their actions at this point. The decision to depart without the rest of the host is not one taken by not just by Fëanor acting as a sort of tyrant either. He; ‘took counsel with his sons; and two courses only they saw to escape from Araman and come into Endor: by the straits or by ship. [...] Therefore it came into the hearts of Fëanor and his sons to seize all the ships and depart suddenly.’ 

Maedhros only objects when he realises no ship will be sent back for Fingon, who was his friend and saved them from the Teleri they were attacking. “But when they were landed, Maedhros the eldest of his sons, and on a time the friend of Fingon ere Morgoth’s lies came between, spoke to Feanor, saying: “Now what ships and rowers will you spare to return, and whom shall they bear hither first? Fingon the valiant?" This is the first time he is called the valiant in the Silmarillion. 

Which brings me to my point; why Fingon might have conflicted feelings about his nickname.

He is calling Fingon ‘the Valiant' before any of the deeds usually acknowledged as heroic take place, but that may not be true from a Fëanorian perspective. In fact, you might interpret it as a reference to how he came to their rescue during the first Kinslaying, not a fight they were winning before he arrived. Maedhros here is arguing with Fëanor. Who would see aiding them in defeating the Teleri/not getting killed as a positive, valiant thing to do, Telerin casualties or no. Maedhros is probably intelligent enough to draw his father’s attention to how he came to their help when trying to convince him. Hence calling Fingon the valiant. There is also nothing to indicate Maedhros thought of Fingon’s actions at  Alqualondë as anything but valiant himself.

Considering Fingon Rushing In (as usual) seems to have been a mistake on his part, I wonder how he would have felt about that epithet if that was the case. Though there is not anything I can think of in the text about Fingon repenting of the first kinslaying, I've always assumed he did simply because 1. Tolkien goes out of his way to paint him as selfless and just 2. it was rushed decision without knowing all the facts. 

In which case I cannot imagine him enjoying his new epessë at all once he arrives in Middle Earth and learns of it, though he obviously earned it through other deeds soon after, like the rescue.

But even so, even after it's mostly associated with his heroic and unlikely rescue of Maedhros-- if you're aware of your nickname was initially given in honour of that one time when you rushed into a massacre-- well! I suppose you might have some mixed feelings about people calling you that.

Of course also possible to say it was a prophetic nickname, or that he somehow acquired 'the valiant' in Valinor. There is nothing in the text to stop anyone from imagining it being a title given in honour of his rock-climbing abilities or some such. Galadriel is also mentioned as standing 'tall and valiant among the contending princes,’ but then the Valiant is not a sort of title for her first mentioned at a significant moment. And I just enjoy things a bit more emotionally conflicted. 

[nikosheba]

If you'd be up for it (and only then!) , I'd like to request Maedhros comforting Finno. Finno is a wonderfully supportive and strong husband, of course, and we love him like that, but occasionally I also imagine he needs support himself! Can be Helcaraxë issues related, or post Bragollach, or something else completely different. Can be angsty of fluffy and any rating whatsoever, whatever you might prefer!

Hello! Yes, I’m totally up for that! <3 This was really lovely to write, I hope it hits what you were looking for. (Feel free to send in more requests!)

~~~

Himring was cold. The icy wind cut and stung, but Fingon hardly felt it, leaning out over the walls. It was not the Helcaraxë, after all.

The messenger bird was swift, his guidance true. Fingon watched it fly away, as trained, in wide looping circles that hid its trail. All of Turgon’s birds were trained in such a way, to preserve the location of Gondolin even from enemies from above.

The letter he’d sent in return, fixed firmly to the hawk’s leg, was not adequate. What could be? He’d said some words of sorrow in the tiny cramped script he could fit on the small scroll. What they were, he couldn’t remember. They didn’t mean much. No words could mean much, in that situation. What could he say?

A heavy cloth settled over his shoulders, making him start. He looked up, and saw Maedhros standing behind him, easing his own cloak over Fingon’s shoulders, draping him in heavy red wool trimmed with black fur. Maedhros gazed into his face, searching, and Fingon turned away, gazing out at the icy plain.

“Come inside.”

“I’m fine out here.”

Maedhros was quiet for a moment, then stepped closer, the warmth of him a comfort. “Do you need to be alone?”

Fingon considered that. There was something seductive about loneliness, just as there was about the ice. By his very presence, Maedhros melted both.

He shook his head, and Maedhros’s arms curled around him from behind, that broad warm chest pressed up against his back. “Did I ever tell you how brave she was on the Ice?” Fingon asked, and heard his own voice as if from very far away. “Half the time, she was leading us. She was so fierce. I thought...as long as she was laughing at the danger, none of us would ever fall. It was her idea to hammer nails into her boots, even if they froze her toes. She never had feeling in them again, but she was fast, so fast. She said she learned it of your brother.”

“They used to climb trees like that,” Maedhros recalled, the memory one that made him smile. “I remember my father telling Turko that if he wanted shoes with studs, he should forge them instead of ruining them. He never did, though. Did she tell you about the time all three of them rode out with Oromë?”

“She spoke of nothing else for years.” Fingon felt his mouth twitch for the first time since he’d heard the news, three days hence. “She used to cover for me, you know. Swore she was with me, when I went out to climb in through your window. I’d do the same for her, when it was her turn to sneak out to Formenos.”

“Is that how you managed it?” Maedhros’s arms squeezed, and a bit more of the ice melted.

“That, and a significant amount of lying,” Fingon admitted. He exhaled deeply, closing his eyes. “Do you think she’s with Aro?”

“For now.” Maedhros kissed his temple. “And soon, they will be with your mother. Perhaps even now, she is looking at Námo himself, insisting that she will only go quickly from the halls to visit her valiant older brother, and will return swiftly.”

Tears pricked at Fingon’s eyes, and he turned, burying his face in Maedhros’s chest. “I hope so. She deserves no less.”

“And,” Maedhros murmured, brushing his hair back from his face, “her feet will be warm.”

Fingon sucked in a breath, and tilted his face up, seeing his own warmth surrounding him. “Yes,” he finally said, and closed his eyes, saying goodbye to his sister at last.

Be warm, Írissë.

[arofili]

Reunions and/or Take Me Instead with Maedhros, Fingon and Gil-Galad/other adoptees?

(I was going to go the angstiest possible route with this but the only context I could think of would’ve taken a thousand words just in setup so I scrapped it and did this instead, lol. Have some probably-unrealistic tooth-rottingly-fluffy Russingon kidfic!)

55. Reunions || 64. Take Me Instead

“Atya!” Gil-galad cried, his little face lighting up as he saw his father striding down the hall. Heedless of proper princely etiquette, he rushed forward and barrelled into Maedhros, grabbing tight at his legs and beaming up at his (very, very) tall father.

Maedhros’ face split into a grin. His son barely reached his waist (they joked he got his height from Fingon’s side of the family, when in reality he got everything from Fingon’s aunt, his birth mother) but he’d grown a few inches since Maedhros had seen him last. Back then he was level with his thighs; now he could reach up to tickle Maedhros’ stomach as his other father was so fond of doing to him.

“Stop that,” Maedhros scolded gently, swatting Gil’s hands away. It wasn’t as if he could feel it beneath his armor, but Gil thought it was hilarious when he pretended to be overcome with fits of giggles. There was no one else, not even Fingon, who could make Maedhros laugh like that.

“Where’s your adar?” he asked, scooping Gil up into his arms.

“Dunno!” Gil shrugged. “Atya, put me on your shoulders?”

Maedhros couldn’t say no, though he worried Gil’s head would brush the ceiling if he did so. “Don’t you think you’re tall enough?” he asked even as he lifted Gil up and settled him on his shoulders.

Gil immediately clapped his hands over Maedhros’ eyes. “Nope!” he exclaimed. “When I’m as tall as you, then I’ll be tall enough!”

“I don’t know,” Maedhros said thoughtfully, squinting through the little gaps between Gil’s fingers and carefully making his way forward. “Your adar is awfully short...what if you only get to his height?”

“But you’re tall, and you’re my Atya,” Gil pointed out. Maedhros sighed: Gil was still too young to really understand the truth of his heritage, even should they explain it to him.

“I suppose,” he said instead of something damning. “And your Uncle Turukáno, your adar’s brother is nearly as tall as I am.”

Gil snorted, moving his hands so they wrapped around Maedhros’ neck. His chin rested on Maedhros’ head, and he felt Gil’s jaw move as he protested, “No way!”

“It’s true,” Maedhros said solemnly, glancing up to see his son staring down at him. “You’ve never met him, but he’s almost as scary as I am.”

Gil scoffed. In the early days, when he’d grown comfortable with Fingon but had just barely met Maedhros, he’d been terrified of him. It broke Maedhros’ heart to see this little child so afraid, flinching back like he was a monster (and you are, some treacherous part of himself whispered, the part that was easier to ignore when Finno and Gil were around), especially when Fingon clearly adored him so and wanted Maedhros to love him too...

Maedhros’ love wasn’t the problem, but his scarred and broken face. In time Gil had come to love him, too—his exuberant welcome and his ease atop Maedhros’ shoulders was proof enough of that—but he still remembered how scary Maedhros had been. Gil probably still thought he was hideous, but good for scaring away real monsters. At least, that’s what Maedhros hoped.

“Who’s scarier than you are?” Fingon asked, rounding the corner. His eyes shone with a joyous light to behold his husband and his son smiling together, and the tenderness in his smile made Maedhros’ chest warm.

“Turno,” Maedhros said. “Don’t you agree?”

“Hmmm...” Fingon made a show of considering, even as Gil-galad wriggled and demanded to get down. Maedhros crouched so Fingon could lift him off his shoulders.

At last Fingon tapped Gil’s nose. “You know what, I think your atya’s right,” he pronounced. “My brother is scarier—if only because he’s so scarily boring!”

“Atya isn’t boring!” Gil agreed. “Atya fights dragons all day and builds castles out of ice and breathes fire into Stinky Man’s face!”

Maedhros winced: “Stinky Man” was Fingon’s playful name for Þauron in Gil’s bedtime stories, where he was a much more comic villain prone to tripping and falling off mountains or wearing false mustaches that get ripped off by a brave Adanic warrior, exposing him as a spy. It took the sting out of the worst of Maedhros’ memories of his torment, which was half the point, but he couldn’t help but wish he was half as valiant as the fiery hero in Gil’s stories.

“And I’m nearly as boring as Uncle Turno,” Fingon sighed. “What do I do but send you off to your nursemaids and write letters to people who hate me?”

“You tell him stories,” Maedhros offered. “You’re always there to tuck him into bed while I’m far away in the east. You give him kisses—”

“Ewww,” Gil groaned, only for both his fathers to descend upon him and kiss him until he squirmed out of Fingon’s hold and ran away.

Before Fingon could chase after him, Maedhros stopped him and took the opportunity to kiss his husband thoroughly on the lips. Fingon gasped and leaned into him, but pulled away all too quickly.

“Not now, love,” he murmured, but the way his eyes shone and the gold in his hair gleamed in the torchlight was all Maedhros could ever ask for.

“Gross,” Gil-galad shouted, then darted around the corner.

“Gil, come back!” Fingon laughed. “We’re going to have dinner as a family, with Haru too, and then I’ll give you a bath—”

“No baths! I hate taking baths!” Gil whined, even as Maedhros strode ahead, catching up quickly thanks to his long legs, and grabbed him firmly by the hand.

“I’ll take you to the baths no matter what, you dirty little elfling!” Fingon scolded. “I know you visited the stables earlier today; I can smell the horse on you!”

“Take me instead, if Gil doesn’t want to,” Maedhros offered, winking at his husband. “I’ve been riding for days, I’m sure I stink worse than Gil does.”

“Not as bad as Stinky Man,” Fingon quipped, but a fire smoldered in his eyes as he brushed Maedhros’ shoulder. I plan on taking you more than just to the baths, he whispered across their bond. It’s been far too long.

Maedhros shivered with anticipation. I look forward to it, he replied.

“How about we talk Haru into bathing you instead?” Maedhros proposed.

Gil considered this. “Only if it’s his bath,” he decided. “It’s huge, like a swimming pool!”

“You have the best ideas, Russo!” Fingon exclaimed. How long do you think we could convince my father to handle him?

Long enough for whatever you’re planning, Maedhros replied, and knew that while he certainly was not the luckiest elf in Beleriand, he was the most blessed when it came to this, his perfect little family.

[smaidjor]

I posted 2,058 times in 2021

564 posts created (27%)

1494 posts reblogged (73%)

For every post I created, I reblogged 2.6 posts.

I added 770 tags in 2021

#fin rambles - 289 posts

#self rb - 93 posts

#last life spoilers - 92 posts

#ok to rb - 81 posts

#fin answers - 54 posts

#empires smp - 42 posts

#scott smajor - 36 posts

#last life smp - 28 posts

#fin rants - 28 posts

#undescribed - 27 posts

Longest Tag: 139 characters

#like ik its due to the fact that its a minecraft rp but the lmanburg system of government is like 'we have a president :) he makes choices'

My Top Posts in 2021

#5

i always know when twitter is being nasty even though i dont have it because my mutuals all start spamming scott appreciation (as they should) and i just join in

350 notes • Posted 2021-09-28 20:13:40 GMT

#4

thinking about how the statue thats supposedly a deer god/protector spirit offered no protection when scott was being chased by xornoth....

thinking about how scott said the guy who he's the reincarnation of combined his powers with aeor....

anyways so who wants to hop on the newest scott headcanon bandwagon: scott is actually just aeor.

that's the reason his kingdom hasn't been protected from xornoth by aeor; aeor has no real power anymore. neither does exor. the reincarnations of their former followers, scott and xornoth, are now the true gods. and xornoth has learned to use their power....while scott hasn't.

366 notes • Posted 2021-08-25 04:42:03 GMT

#3

On Elven Royalty, Hair Ribbons, and the Impact of High King Smajor on Elven Culture (Emptober Day 4: Ribbon)

An essay submitted by a human student in the Cod Empire, many hundreds of years after the death of King Jimmy Solidarity, on the topic of elven culture.

Yes, this is formatted in proper MLA style.

Yes, I hate myself for that as much as you hate me for it.

Wordcount: 912

Content warnings: none.

Actual fic under the cut:

Josh Gelnam

8/4/3021

Professor Culelen

Elven Culture and History

Section 2

On Elven Royalty, Hair Ribbons, and the Impact of High King Smajor on Elven Culture

Hair ribbons are a longstanding elven tradition that has carried through multiple centuries, possibly millennia. Elves will wear hair ribbons to festivals and parties, but also to funerals and even into battle. Though seemingly impractical, the tradition is incredibly significant in elven culture, as it has persisted for generations. (Some scholars even say it began in Valinor, homeland of the elves, though there is no definitive evidence of this.)

Experts are unaware of exactly when or where the tradition of braiding ribbons through hair started, though reports of this have been traced all the way back to King Fingon the Valiant, High King of the Noldor in the First Age of Arda. Though not all elves have always observed this, there are descriptions and records of hair ribbons in some form from every era of the elves, and many different peoples. Noldor, Vanyar, Sindar, and even Silvan elves have been recorded as wearing these adornments, though wood-elves less commonly so than high-elves. In the modern day, both major elven kingdoms retain this tradition.

The ribbons themselves have been crafted from a wide variety of materials, and what is most common varies by the type of elf, their social status/wealth, and the Age they were born in. In the First Age, for example, High King Fingon was observed to wear hair ribbons which had pure gold woven into the fabric. This would be fitting for his status as king, and makes sense for Noldorin culture in that era, which was heavily focused around smithing and other forms of artistry. Noldor royalty would continue to imitate this for some time, but the practice fell out of favor with High King Smajor of Rivendell.

King Smajor was said to be an unusual elvenking in many ways, and his style reflected this. While in the early years of his kingship he wore traditional golden ribbons, in later years he is said to have worn flower crowns and roughly woven brown and green fabrics instead. This seemingly strange choice nonetheless began a trend towards less traditional materials in elven fashion that lasted for centuries afterwards. As a whole, King Smajor was vastly influential in the shift in elven culture in the early Sixth Age.

As the second prince, or ‘spare heir’, King Smajor was not expected to become the High King. However, Prince Xornoth disappeared from public view in 1240 Sixth Age, and their younger twin succeeded the throne instead. At first seen as mannish and incompetent, King Smajor was widely disliked by the elven court when he first ascended. However, as champion of Aeor and the only remaining heir to the house of Elrond Peredhel, he was the only candidate for the throne. Despite the unhappiness of many advisors, he retained the throne for many centuries to come.

Some of the most notable change accomplished during this era includes the end of the Conflict of the Great Stags, the opening of Rivendell’s borders for trade, and the first ever adopted heir of the elves. King Smajor, Champion of Aeor, made peace with Prince Xornoth, Champion of Exor, and ended what was at the time thought to be an eternal cycle of conflict. He also allied with many mortal kingdoms and rulers, including Queen Lizzie Shadowlady of the Ocean Empire, Queen Katherine of the Overgrown, Count Fwhip of the Grimlands, and most notably Codfather Jimmy Solidarity of the Cod Empire. Though the exact nature of his relationship with the Codfather remains unknown, many historians have speculated that they were lovers. The green and brown hair ribbons that King Smajor was fond of (green and brown being thematic colors of the Cod Empire), would seem to support this theory.

Though he was an unusual king, there is no doubt that King Smajor was also an incredibly influential one. Not only did elven fashion change in a direct response to his untraditional choices, the culture of the elves also began a huge shift around this time. Where before, elves had been famously isolationist and kept almost entirely to themselves, during King Smajor’s rein, their trade and interactions with other empires increased drastically. Additionally, elven royalty had long valued blood relation above all other forms, but with the adoption of the future High Queen Mirnen, this began to change.

Today, elven hair ribbons take countless forms, from rough cotton and strings of twine to fine silks and even traditional woven metal. Dyes are made from the many flowers of the Overgrown and even certain kinds of terracotta from Mezalea. Woven copper from Pixandria has become popular in recent years, and the Ocean Empire makes its contribution in tiny pieces of sea glass that are sometimes sewn onto hair ribbons and other elven clothing. Where once, Rivendell had a tradition of blue, white, and gold, there is now a whole rainbow of color, and much of that is due to the un-elven elf king: High King Smajor of Rivendell.

Works Cited:

Falashithiel, Dindraug. Elven Fashion in the Sixth Age . Rivendell Publishing, 2998 Sixth Age.

Silornion, Quentur. “Elven Hair Ribbons: Origins and History.”  Historia Ellon , vol. 14, no. 6, 1581 Fifth Age, pp. 176-180.

Marison, Iaglin. “The Unelven Elf-King: An Exploration of High King Smajor’s Rulership and the Impacts Thereof.” Journal of Interempire Politics , vol. 7, no. 24, 2241 Sixth Age, pp. 34-48.

508 notes • Posted 2021-10-04 21:53:24 GMT

#2

finished scotts episode and immediately knew i HAD to make some rivendell citizen memes

[image description: the woman yelling at cat meme with the text "my cousin demanding to know why the corruption is still in rivendell" over the woman and "elf king scottsmajor building a cute tunnel for his date with the codfather" over the cat. End image description.]

[image description: a car swerving onto an offramp. the main freeway is labelled "doing our work". The offramp is labelled "gossiping about king smajors relationship with the codfather". End ID.]

See the full post

606 notes • Posted 2021-09-26 04:07:35 GMT

#1

ive probably said this before but what the FUCK does the hermitcraft server run on. how is this thing so unkillable i break sugarcane and get lag and fuckin. grian hermitcraft creates a million boats specifically to lag the server and still gets more frames than ive ever had

702 notes • Posted 2021-11-08 18:59:26 GMT

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