#and make this a fingon month

[sakasakiii]

ohhHHHh brother,,, is this another sketch dump after an undisclosed number of weeks of absence and online inactivity? yessir it sure is but i sure hope it won't stay that way 🤞 apologies again for disappearing, but im on break for the next couple of months for the summer so i have a lot planned and im hoping to catch up with... everything!

i put a little status update under the cut but feel free to skip that cuz its just me explaining some things ive had on my mind hoho 😙😙 happy 1st of june everyone!!!

a lot of things have been happening irl that im still getting used to, but thank you for always being very patient 🙇‍♀️ i apologise for disappearing again after i promised id start being more active again in... januARY??? man oh man the year is passing by tooooo fast holy smokes

i havent had much time to be on social media since then, but ive gotten some email notifs from ppl sending in such kind messages via inbox, and its really made me go AUGHHHHH in the midst of whatever im doing cuz it means the world to me 🥺❤️ if youre someone who's sent in something over the past year since i started hiatus in march 2023, IM REALLY SORRY AGAIN 😭😭 i always try to keep up with my policy of one-art-piece-per-ask, but because of that sometimes i just procrastinate a lot or get stuck on finding relevant things to draw as thanks. ive been brainstorming some ideas, though, and its my goal to get through a hefty sum of em before things get real busy again in a few months 😤

im really sorry again for being so inconsistent this past year, but im gonna do my best! i hope everyone on here's been doing good and im raring to see everything new with silm tumblr ❤️❤️ also if anyone has any recs for any new content pls feed me for i am starvedddd

[doodle-pops]

Think You Can Warm Me Up

[Elves and Cockwarming x reader]

Request: What elves do you think would like cock-warming? - anon

A/N: This was a lot of elves to think for since I've added more over the months gone by. Enjoy!!!

Warning: smut, cockwarming

More: Brat Taming

Loves it – sometimes when they’re too busy to have sex with you but you want to feel them, they’ll suggest you sit on their lap, only to feel them raising your body slightly to slide themselves into you. When you lift your hips to move, their hands will be planted firmly on your waist with a stern look on their faces warning you to stay still. They’ll keep their hands on your waist, using it to pull you closer to rest against their chest and hold you down. Some use it for punishment when your bratty side comes out. They’ll rile you up by making out with you, having you grind on them feeling as though you two are about to have sex, but then when you’re about to ride them, they’ll lean in to whisper, “Not so fast love, no moving, sit right there and stay still or I’ll leave you empty. You thought I’d just give in and give you what you wanted, my poor confused little one” Other times, they’d use it to literally warm themselves up. When you two are relaxing as such, they’d throw the suggestion out to you and once you agree, the two of you will just be lounging about with their cock buried in you, staying warm. There are times you’ve fallen asleep with them buried in you. “You feel so warm and tight love, stop shifting so much, just stay still. This feels good, now we can cuddle.”

MAEDHROS, Maglor, CELEBRIMBOR, FINGOLFIN, FINGON, Finarfin, FINROD, AEGNOR, GLORFINDEL, GALDOR, BELEG, Rog, Elrond

Hates it – the first time you suggest the act, they were down to try it, but once you sank your warm hole onto their cock, it was over for them. Their hands would immediately shoot out to grab your waist, urging you to move but you’ll simply push it away and lean into their chest informing them that you’re not supposed to move. “It’s called cockwarming for a reason. Now stay still. Don’t get mad, remember you agreed to this, so sit and enjoy it.” This was absolute torture for them, they couldn’t take it anymore. Knowing that if they moved their hips right then, you’d probably hop off and that wasn’t part of their plan. Waiting till you were settled in and comfortable, with ease, their hands would sneak around your waist holding you firmly to their chest and without any warning, begin thrusting into you. You’d admit that this was not how you planned the session to go but with the way the tip of their cock was brushing against your soft spot, your moans gave it away. Now whenever you suggest it to them, they’d smile at you saying that they’ll behave, only to abuse your heat as soon as you sink down on their cock. The longest they’ve ever lasted was five seconds. “If you really thought I’d sit through all that torture, you’re absolutely wrong. Now be a good girl/boy and enjoy my cock.”

FEANOR, CELEGORM, Curufin, Turgon, ARGON, ANGROD, EGALMOTH, ECTHELION, MAEGLIN, ELLADAN

Mixed feelings – one minute it’s torture for them the other it’s blissful. It just all depends on their mood not so much yours. If they’re tired and just want to be warmed or you want to feel them, they’d let you go ahead without interrupting you. They’d simply wrap their arms around you and pull you in closer, pressing a kiss to your forehead and drifting off to sleep. Other times it’s when they’re busy doing paperwork and could do with a little relief. Letting you sit on their lap with the table hiding their cock buried deep in your heat, they’d let you lean into them so they could continue their work. “This feels good, didn’t think I’d be needing this, but after I’m finished here, I’d bend you over this table for a good fuck, hmm.” When you’re teasing them all day and acting up and then decide it’s time to kick it up a notch by making them feel you were about to ride them after your tedious torture only to sit still on their cock, now you’re just asking for it. They’d be grinding their teeth the entire time when you tell them not to move while pretending to do something important, informing them that when you’re finished then you two can go at it, they’re not going to listen, not when you were suffocating their cock. They wouldn’t care at that point, so say goodbye to whatever it was that you were doing. “Don’t you think this is a little too much love, don’t you think this has gone on for too long because I think so as well. How about we change that by having me fuck you, now.”

Maedhros, MAGLOR, CARANTHIR, Amrod, Fingolfin, FINGON, TURGON, FINARFIN, Finrod, AEGNOR, Glorfindel, GALDOR, Egalmoth, ROG, ERESTOR

Masterlist

Taglist: @spidergirla5 @eunoiaastralwings @mysticmoomin @aconstructofamind @lilmelily

[junk-whunk-punk]

Danggg slowly returning to filthy artist routine after my insane month heehee sorrey babos🫡💋

I SAID ONCE I ADORE RUSSINGON!!!! BUT I FELT SHAME FOR NOT DRAWING THEM!!!!! NOW I DRAW THEM!!!! THAT!!!!

some hc if u wanna: after being imprisoned in Angband Maedhros became INCREDIBLY sensitive to any kind words and good treatment of him from others. this can make him burst into tears, and Fingon knows about it, but it doesn't stop him from inundating Maitimo with compliments and care. Also Curvo made a skillful prosthesis for Mae, but bitstill considers himself a cripple, kinda ugly one, unnecessary anymore, but never begs for pity. YET Finyo still loves every, LITERALLY EVERY part of his ✨honeypie✨ even when Maitimo shakes his head in modesty and asks not to say so🥺 uweeee🥺💖💖💖💖

[dfwbwfbbwfbwf]

What did it cost?

Maitimo believed they could win once. Despite enduring the loss of his father, three decades of torture, hanging from Thangorodrim's smoggy cliffside, losing his hand, and losing his kingship, he thought they had a chance.

The best strategy was to wait, he figured. Wear Morgoth out. The Dark Foe rarely sent more than the occasional raiding party out; he must've been scared.

Morgoth had not been scared. He was scouting.

Maeðros wanted to do things the right way. He wasn't the King of Beleriand - there was no true King of Beleriand, no matter what Thingollo claimed while hiding in his halls - or even King of the Noldor, but he desired safety and peace for the Eldar and Atani and Casallië behind his lines. He wished to give them the security he'd grown up with.

They would take down Morgoth, and when they did, his family would have the Silmarils back. The blood and pain of thousands, hundreds of thousands even, would be avenged. His father and grandfather would receive the justice the Valar refused to give.

Then came the Dagor Bragollach.

In a matter of weeks, the Noldor lost nearly everything. His cousins, dead. His uncle, lost. The Bëorians, missing. The Hadorians, fled. His brothers were scattered across Beleriand - he worried for Celegorm and Curufin and Celebrimbor the most, as they could easily end up sandwiched between Doriath and Nan Dungortheb. He couldn't breathe easily until he finally had all six brothers and one nephew accounted for in the spring.

Fingon was king now.

The loss of manpower and land was a devastating blow, and Thingollo refused to provide any sort of aid aside from offering refuge to the Thindar and Laiquendi - many refused to go, for they had grown to love the Noldor who defended them, and Maeðros was touched by their loyalty, if not saddened by their stubborn refusal to leave for safety he could no longer guarantee.

Years passed in a new stalemate with Morgoth, for while the Gap was gone, Himring stood tall. Maeðros did everything in his power to guard the pass to what had once been Himlad - even if Thingollo deserved every orc that reached Doriath, the people outside the Girdle didn't. His once bright optimism faded to a gray haze over his mind.

When he heard of Beren and Lúthien, Maeðros felt hope like he hadn't felt in years. He went to work doing what he did best: strategizing.

More letters leave Himring in the next week than in the last year.

Thingollo and Artaresto refuse to get involved.

"You're as treacherous as your brothers," Artaresto wrote.

"You're a murderer," Thingollo scorned.

Maeðros nearly tore a chunk of hair out in frustration. How myopic could they be? Was this a Teleri trait, to remain unconcerned about events until they directly threatened you? Olwë had been the same, even before the Darkening. Could these kings not see that all of Beleriand was at stake? Could they not see that, if they didn't stand together, they'd fall alone?

.... No matter. Maeðros would make it work. Bór mentioned his sister's husband led a sizable force, and Caranthir had a fondness for Men. Perhaps Caranthir could speak with this ... this Ulfang.

.........

Maeðros could not make it work.

Fingon was dead.

Turgon was gone.

Gil-Galad was too young to rule.

The Noldor were scattered.

Himring was lost. His followers wandered Ossiriand, dwelling among the Laiquendi, but Morgoth's influence only grew. Every month, there was less land, less food.

There was no chance to retrieve the Silmarils.

Maeðros had tried to do the right thing, and it all amounted to nothing.

What did it cost?

Everything.

[melestasflight]

In the Silmarillion fandom, we enjoy grabbing the trope of “Nolofinwëan recklessness” and running wild with it. 

The most common victims of this are Fingon the Rash Prince and Fingolfin the Impulsive King, who rushes into suicidal combat. Both father and son daring death within Morgoth’s domain. 

It’s fun to write and exciting to imagine, no doubt, but I’d like to offer a different take. In fact, what makes Fingon and Fingolfin (and the rest of that family) compelling to me is their patience and endurance.

Yes, I’m aware Fingon rushes to battle at Alqualondë, but that’s a world-altering event. The light of the world has literally gone out, murder has happened in Valinor, Finwë is dead. Most of the Noldor are up on their feet and ready to depart. Everyone is rushing.

But this is not always the case with Fingon. Most significantly, the rescue of Maedhros is NOT an impulsive decision. The published Silmarillion offers no timeline on this, but in The Grey Annals, five entire years pass between the arrival of Fingolfin’s host to Beleriand and Fingon’s decision to look for Maedhros. 

Five years in which the two hosts are quite literally on the verge of civil war because, let’s not forget:

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. 

Diplomacy is a painfully slow (and absolutely frustrating!) ordeal. Fingon’s decision is born from this strife, from thirty years on the Helcaraxë, and five years of civil restlessness, not to mention the clear signs that Morgoth is ready to attack them at any moment:

Then Fingon the valiant, son of Fingolfin, resolved to heal the feud that divided the Noldor, before their Enemy should be ready for war; for the earth trembled in the Northlands with the thunder of the forges of Morgoth underground. 

This is not rashness. This is the sacrifice of a captain who is willing to make the best of what time is left before full-out destruction begins. It would be rashness if Fingon got his company and crossed Mithrim to wage battle on the Fëanorians. Instead, he chooses differently for the sake of peace, stability, and renewed friendship.

The trek from Lake Mithrim to Thangorodrim could be estimated at around 150 miles, depending on the map we follow, and there are grasslands and two sets of mountains to cross, not to mention the horror of Thangorodrim. Fingon travels on foot. It would take him weeks, maybe even months, to find Maedhros. Plenty of time for the fire of rashness to cool down if that was the case. But he persists because he has no other choice.

Similarly, I often see takes on Fingolfin that he rushes to pointless combat with Morgoth in the same manner as Fëanor had done. Yet again, the timeline is crucial here. The published Silmarillion has the battle lasting at least several months. Bragollach starts in F.A. 455 during winter time: 

There came a time of winter, when night was dark and without moon

The battle slows down presumably a few months later:

but the Battle of Sudden Flame is held to have ended with the coming of spring, when the onslaught of Morgoth grew less.

The onslaught grows less, but it doesn’t fully cease. Morgoth and Sauron reissue their attacks early into Fingon’s kingship.

In the Grey Annals, the timeline  is stretched further out:

Year 455:

The Fell Year. Here came an end of peace and mirth. In the winter, at the year's beginning, Morgoth unloosed at last his long-gathered strength

Year 456:

Now Fingolfin, King of the Noldor, beheld (as it seemed to him) the utter ruin of his people, and the defeat beyond redress of all their houses, and he was filled with wrath and despair.

The fighting goes on actively anywhere from a season to a full year! Fingolfin tries to hold his kingdom together for a full year despite an absolute, unquestionable disaster. I mean, look at this description of the battle:

In the front of that fire came Glaurung the golden, father of dragons, in his full might; and in his train were Balrogs, and behind them came the black armies of the Orcs in multitudes such as the Noldor had never before seen or imagined. And they assaulted the fortresses of the Noldor, and broke the leaguer about Angband, and slew wherever they found them the Noldor and their allies, Grey elves and Men. Many of the stoutest of the foes of Morgoth were destroyed in the first days of that war, bewildered and dispersed and unable to muster their strength. War ceased not wholly ever again in Beleriand

Fingolfin’s decision to ride out, again, is not out of recklessness or a spur-of-the-moment decision. It’s everything but that. He has given everything and truly believes it’s all lost: “the utter ruin of his people, and the defeat beyond redress of all their houses.” (!!!) 

This is a final stand, the King’s duty to stand by his people, even in death.

[eldal0te]

He plans on building himself a cabin in the woods, away from civilization and regaining the contact with others slowly. 

If it were his decision, Maedhros would probably go on and start appearing publicly again, but it might be kinder on other people not to. He’s relearning self-control and respecting boundaries, he’s not going to leap into politics immediately. (He will get into politics again soon, that much he is sure of, just not perhaps this soon.)

The cabin in the woods sound more appalling every time he thinks about it. Too far away from people, how is he meant to re-accustom others to his presence when there are no others around?

He mentions so much to Caranthir the next time he ends up laying on his brother’s couch, smoking some suspicious leaves Amrod apparently dropped of a few weeks earlier and Moryo just laughs. 

„We have a house on Tol Eressea. My wife hates the island, but the taxes for selling property there are horrendous.”

„You’re offering I could stay there?”

„Transferring property to family is free. Promise to reimburse us sensibly once you are able and it’s yours.”

„Your wife won’t mind?”

„She’s been offering the house to every reasonable relative, you’re the first who even considers it. Trust me, she’ll be delighted”

„You know, you were always my favorite brother”

(In a hindsight, he should have probably asked why does his sister in law hate this house so much.)

The first time he saw her, Maedhros was convinced he had seen a ghost.

(She lives on this island, it’s the newest, biggest market they just opened. Why should she not be there?)

(If only he haven’t seen her on bloody a marketplace before.)

The second time it happens, Elwing sees him too and freezes. He considers approaching and apologizing, but Fingon keeps giving him the talks about giving people space, so instead he just nods and gets out of there.

(He considers mentioning that meeting to Fingon, but decides against it. They are only starting to be at ease with one another again and that would worry him too much.)

They keep running at one-another and he knows she’s uncomfortable. He is too. For a brief moment, he plans on giving up this doubtful pleasure (really, new market or not, why are there so many people there, all buying spices?) and going back to shopping on a smaller, local market but then she deliberately snatches the last pink melon from the stand after seeing him reach for it and that really pisses him off. 

(Fingon was going to visit, and considering how one flavor he always adored was that of pink Vanyarin melons, Maedhros really doesn’t think he can be blamed for his later actions.)

A week later, he overhears her talking to a woman he can only assume to be Galadriel’s daughter about needing to buy cloves for Earendil’s favorite dish and promptly makes sure to purchase all the remaining ones.

It’s a war now and there’s no knowing who will break down first.

Afterwards, it would be foolish not to expect a retaliation, so the next time Fingon visits he makes sure to get to the market extra early. He reaches the melon-seller, just to be informed that all of the fruits have already been sold out.

A seagull laughs at him.

Better person would have given in. Luckily, he really doubts that Elwing sees him as a better person.

He persuades Caranthir to help him bribe the vendor into sending the next month’s delivery of cloves directly to his house.

(In a hindsight, the unfortunate chain of the house’s ownership is to be blamed on birds. They shit on the porch constantly. Elwing really does not control the local pigeons (but will not, under any condition, ask them to stop, not while he is holding the cloves hostage). It’s not her fault he moved into this neighborhood. They even exchange a couple of semi-polite letters on this matter.)

A couple of years latter, Elrond almost gets an aneurysm after coming across his mother and Maedhros shopping together and discussing which of the vendors has the best tomatoes. 

[polutrope]

Just pure headcanons, what do you think happened during Maglor's reign as a king? I don't know if his reign was short or something but I remember it took some time before Fingon was able to save Maedhros and unite the noldor and there was still some division between the host of nolofinweans and feanorians. I wonder if he considered himself a placeholder until Maedhros returned or was he a reluctant king? Did the host respect him as a king, did his own brothers respect him as a king? I am so intrigued because, aside from Maedhros, I think Maglor deserved some shoutout lmao (No, this isn't a maglor-obsession-spree that I have been on, nu uh). Also, I feel like he would have some cordial relationship with Fingolfin, they could bond as the second sons having to take leadership because the eldest died/was abducted idk.

Oh no, starlitelwing. I hope you know the Pandora's Box you've just opened. King Maglor is one of my all-time favourite things to think about.

First of all: there's actually no canonical information on Maglor's position after the capture of Maedhros (in fact, we don't even know what Maedhros' title/position was after Feanor's death; all we know is that Feanor "claimed now the kingship of all the Noldor" in Tirion. Contested leadership is SO GOOD isn't it? anyway...).

The published Silmarillion glosses right over the question of who's in charge during the time between Feanor's death and Fingolfin's official assumption of the Kingship of the Noldor (which, if you ask me, Fingolfin effectively had been King since the time of Feanor's exile, and he was in any case Regent at the time of Finwe's death... he said he'd follow Feanor but the people following him were calling him Finwe Nolofinwe soooo... aiee, I digress again). The book gallops at such a breakneck speed that you don't really notice the gap in leadership. Or, I didn't.

But then you look at the Grey Annals (where Tolkien Gateway gets most of its First Age dates) and you see that there are 2-3 Tree Years and 5 Sun Years between Maedhros' capture and his rescue. Now, however you imagine time works in Tree Years when there are no Trees, that's still a long time. Maedhros was gone at a minimum 6-7 years, more likely closer to the equivalent of 30 "regular" years. (That's way longer, by the way, than the time between Feanor's death and Maedhros' capture, which was like, a day to a month, at most. Maedhros, if he even was King, was King for way less time than whoever followed him. And he sucked at the job, btw. But I digress. Again.)

So someone had to be in charge for those 6 to 30 years, but whomst? That the leadership would pass after Feanor's death to the eldest son is logical, and that it would then pass to the next eldest is also logical. I see no reason to refute that, but note: it would not be uncanonical to have someone other than Maedhros or Maglor in charge at this time. You can make King Celegorm a thing and still be canon-compliant!

This passage in the published Silm is basically the extent of the activities of the sons of Feanor during Maedhros' absence:

Then the brothers of Maedhros drew back, and fortified a great camp in Hithlum; but Morgoth held Maedhros as hostage, and sent word that he would not release him unless the Noldor would forsake their war, returning into the West, or else departing far from Beleriand into the South of the world. But the sons of Feanor knew that Morgoth would betray them, and would not release Maedhros, whatsoever they might do; and they were constrained also by their oath, and might not for any cause forsake the war against their Enemy.

The sense here is that all six sons acted as a unit. But in the 1937 Quenta Silmarillion, the text on which this passage is drawn:

Morgoth held [Maedhros] as hostage and sent word to Maglor that he would only release his brother if …

To Maglor! Excellent evidence that Tolkien was also making the logical conclusion that Maglor, the eldest, was in charge. (My best theory for why Christopher Tolkien took that out is Too Many Names, but it's an odd decision.)

All that was to say: We don't know, canonically, that Maglor was in charge at Mithrim. But it makes a lot of sense, and it's my headcanon that he was.

Now. More interesting headcanons.

I don't think Maglor was called King until it was politically necessary.

I see him as someone who is comfortable in command (one meaning of Cano is "commander", after all) but who likes to command collaboratively. Double-edged sword: he values the input of others (admirable quality) and he does not like being fully responsible for the outcomes of a decision (less admirable).

Unlike much fanon I've come across, I don't think Maglor was a particularly reluctant or incompetent leader or that he hated it. He was miserable, yes, because his father just died and his brother was just captured, and he wasn't thrilled to become a leader on top of that, but he keeps it together.

So how do I imagine it all went down?

The problem with Maglor being in command is that his "collaborative" style of leadership is not appropriate for a time of crisis or for his family. While the Silm often talks about "the sons of a Feanor" as a unit, I do not think they were of the same mind on everything. At all. They need a firm hand, and Maglor does not have that.

But who does have a firm hand? Who would be a more martial ruler, someone who could get people in order during a crisis? Celegorm. And he knows it.

So why did the Feanorians "get nothing done" during those 6-30 years (sidenote: I don't actually think they got nothing done, but it does seem they didn't get anything BIG done)? Well, for one, they were fighting amongst themselves.

Maglor could not get his brothers to agree on anything, and yet he did not know any other way of commanding, and over time he becomes more and more miserable as a leader.

Celegorm, meanwhile, is chomping at the bit to "relieve him" of the burden.

Around them, everyone else is picking sides.

Curufin is an interesting case. I headcanon he actually was fully behind Maglor at the beginning, because he respects the orderliness of succession. But as Maglor proves himself unsuitable for the role, he aligns with Celegorm.

Outside the family, I headcanon that the Mithrim Elves were actually quite taken with Maglor, the poet-king. Their alliance hinges on him. But the Noldor, especially the army, would rather follow Celegorm.

As everyone knows, a rival for leadership with the army's support is Bad News. And yet Maglor manages to hold on. He should definitely get credit for that.

But why hold on? If he is hating this ruler job, why not just let Celegorm have it? Couple reasons:

It's Celegorm. He may be able to perform well, but Maglor knows he's the most like Feanor in temperament and, well, Feanor's kingship didn't end well.

If Maglor gives up that crown, he will have admitted to himself that Maedhros is not coming back. This is the same reason he doesn't give it over to Fingolfin when Uncle Nolvo shows up. He is hanging onto that thing for dear life because, to him, it belongs to Maedhros and only Maedhros. He is the crown's custodian, never its rightful owner (this bleeds into my headcanon that Maglor does not "in his heart" agree with Maedhros' decision to cede the kingship — he'll never be as vocal about it as the others, though).

Now we come to another piece. What did Maglor call himself? Like I said up top, I don't think he initially called himself King. He was "head of his House", or maybe, "Lord of Hithlum," or maybe King Regent, but never King. If one of the Mithrim got mixed up and called him that, he would always correct them.

That changes when Fingolfin shows up. Now there's another claimant to the title of King. Possibly a more legitimate one than even Maedhros (as Maedhros later says himself).

By that time, Maglor has been keeping that crown out of Celegorm's hands for years; he is not giving it up now. And Fingolfin is less likely to challenge his leadership if he offers no room for ambiguity. If he dons the mantle of kingship and pretends Maedhros is dead.

So that is what he does... Does Fingolfin accept it? Well: "Then there was peril of strife between the hosts."

For three years, on opposite sides of the Lake, they're at an impasse. Fingon doesn't go looking for Maedhros because he thinks Maedhros is dead (and other reasons: the mission is insane and desperate not the least, and contrary to popular opinion Fingon is not a rash idiot).

How does Fingon eventually learn the truth? You'll have to wait and read what @melestasflight and I are cooking up for Silm Epistolary Week ;)

ETA: Despite this, I do think you're right that Maglor and Fingolfin could have bonded over their similar experiences! There's the personal and there's the political, and I love the idea of the tension between these straining what could be an emotionally supportive familial friendship between Maglor and Fingolfin.

[echo-bleu]

Noldor hair headcanons (1/4)

With AO3 down, it seems like a good time for some good old tumblr bullet-point pseudo-fic (I'll post it on AO3 eventually).

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | On AO3

Note: Inspiration for some parts of this came from @mynameisjessejk's wonderful Otter Mayhem series which you should go read when it's possible again.

The Noldor wear their hair in elaborate braids.

Hairstyle is a status thing, so noble Noldor have the most complex styles. They’re meant to show off craft, so there’s a lot of jewellery and gemstones involved, and the nobles’ hairstyles purposefully can’t be self-braided.

But touching hair is a very intimate thing and it’s never done by servants, always by family (spouse, siblings, parents or children). It’s a show of love and respect, if someone has a particularly complex hairstyle it’s supposed to mean that they’re well-loved.

Now Finwë as the king must have the most complex hairstyle of all. Míriel was of course very good at it, she’d weave and sew beads into his hair every morning, making each hairstyle a work of art.

When she fades, Fëanor is still really young, and he has to learn real quick to do his father’s hair, which he of course takes as a challenge. He starts making all of Finwë’s hair jewellery himself, he experiments with dozens of braiding styles. In the early months/years of their grief Finwë finds a lot of comfort in having his hair braided and they’ll both spend entire days beside Míriel’s body, with Fëanor braiding his father’s hair over and over.

Then Indis comes along, and hair braiding is traditionally the spouse’s work. It’s very hard for Fëanor not to feel like he’s been replaced (and not just his mother), especially since Indis has zero interest in it and Finwë’s hairstyles grow markedly simpler. Which is also not great for his reputation.

Nerdanel and Fëanor, once they marry, are extremely competitive and keep trying to outdo each other’s braids. It’s highly entertaining to outsiders, especially since it’s the only remnant of the Crown Prince’s more playful side. When little Maitimo comes out with red hair like Nerdanel’s, Fëanor bitches about having to make even more copper jewellery (he’s secretly overjoyed because he loves Nerdanel’s hair).

Fëanor is also careful to always have better braids than his half brothers, though Findis starts braiding Fingolfin and Finarfin’s hair as soon as she’s old enough, and she’s pretty good at it, unlike Indis.

Anairë’s hair texture is very different from anyone Fingolfin knows. He’s never been that into hair before, but he learns to do her braids with his tongue poking out. Once she figures out what to do with straight hair, she braids his into brand new styles that Fëanor is terribly jealous of.

Fingon has extremely thick kinky hair that takes a ridiculously long time to braid, and he’s very proud of it, thank you very much.

Thankfully for Fingolfin and Anairë, none of their other children have hair quite as thick.

Eärwen is Teleri and keeps her hair mostly loose. She wants none of that nonsense, especially not gems in her hair, come on. If she puts anything in her hair it’s gonna be pearls. She’ll do Finarfin’s hair if he really insists on it but if he wants the children to follow Noldor rites so much, he’ll have to take care of it himself. (He’s pretty good at it, actually.)

Maedhros and Fingon start doing each other’s hair in secret before Fëanor’s exile.

Celegorm switches from Noldor style to hunting braids when he joins Oromë’s hunt. They’re more practical and involve a lot less metal.

People have whole legends about how great it must be to braid Artanis’s hair, but it’s actually really fine and fragile and a nightmare. She insists that the only one who can do it right is Finrod. He tries to foist that chore on others a lot.

Aredhel and Curufin bond over hating to have their hair touched (sensory issues). Eventually they start doing each other’s hair because they know what to avoid.

Fëanor asking Galadriel for her hair is an Actual Taboo given that they’re not close (by the time Gimli asks, Galadriel has adopted Sindarin hair practices, but it’s also a fuck-you to Fëanor that she accepts).

At Losgar, (lightly-toasted) Amrod has part of his hair burned off. He is, after that, the very first elf to sport a side-cut, as hair won’t grow back over the scars. He never let anyone but his twin do his hair again.

Crossing the Helcaraxë, Fingolfin’s people try to keep up with tradition, but hair-braiding is hard when your fingers are constantly frozen stiff.

Still, Fingon insists on doing his father’s hair every day, even when he nearly loses fingers to frostbite.

He refuses to let anyone do the same for him, though, and he’s the first to start braiding his own hair. That’s when he starts braiding in golden ribbons, because they’re easier to do than beads, and frozen metal can burn skin.

Gradually they move away from long flowing braids and start making up crown-braid styles that protect their ears. As they progress, braiding becomes less and less about status and more and more practical.

Turgon and Elenwë (who adopted the Noldor style upon marrying) still keep to the tradition and braid each other’s hair and Idril’s right up until Elenwë dies. After that Turgon doesn’t let anyone touch his hair again until Gondolin (and then only Idril).

Finrod and Galadriel do each other’s hair. Galadriel’s fine, brittle hair suffers a lot in the cold, and for a long time she’s afraid that it will never go back to its former glory. It does eventually, but it takes decades.

In Beleriand, Maglor’s main contribution as King Regent is the invention of Mourning Braids (and also a slightly unhealthy number of laments).

Let’s be honest, he’s wearing them more for Maedhros than for Fëanor or Finwë, even though Maedhros is demonstrably still alive.

(No one thinks that will last.)

(Maglor can’t go save his brother and the guilt is staggering.)

(For some reason, Curufin is the one who does Maglor’s impossibly complex Kingly Mourning Braids.)

Then Helcaraxë Team arrives with their frozen fingers and their crown braids and It’s A Mess, Actually.

The Sun has just risen and Fingon’s golden ribbons are really blinding, no one can even look at him.

Listen, they haven’t had proper light in about forty years, they’re really light-sensitive now.

Everyone argues, Fingon makes at least two attempts to sneak out to Thangorodrim but he’s caught because he’s just way too shiny.

Third time’s the charm.

The only reason Maedhros doesn’t see him before he hears him is that he’s even more light-sensitive and just keeps his eyes closed. Also he’s tired. So very tired.

In Angband, Sauron took great pleasure in hacking Maedhros’s hair off and messing with it. When he’s rescued, what has regrown is a tangled, discoloured mess and they have to cut it all off.

Fingon stays with Maedhros a lot throughout his (physical) recovery, which in my mind takes at least the 55 years between his rescue and Dagor Aglareb, and he braids Maedhros’s hair every day, even at the start when it’s barely past his ear. Eventually Maedhros stops fighting and crying when someone touches his hair.

Mostly.

Fingon does tone down the golden ribbons eventually. Mostly because he runs out of Valinorian gold and has to do with Beleriand gold, which just isn’t the same.

To be continued.

[zealouswerewolfcollector]

To Evil End

Written for a prompt at @silmkinkmeme. Also inspired by homelikecatastrophe's O softly tread.

T, 2883 words, Maedhros/Fingon, warning for muddled consent lines and implied/referenced character death

On Ao3

It is Celegorm’s people who find him wandering in northern Ossiriand twenty-five years after the battle. Wearing rags, bearing scars, he doesn’t answer to his name or title but walks with them when prompted.

He looks through Celegorm and doesn’t speak to him. When Celegorm sleeps, he tries to leave the tent, but the soldiers catch him again. Dazed, he returns. Celegorm ties him up and sends for Curufin.

---

“Do you believe he is in thrall to the Enemy?” Curufin asks.

“He would not be the first one,” Celegorm answers. “We might not find out until it is too late.”

“What should we do with him then?”

“Killing him might be for the best.”

“What shall we tell Nelyo?”

“Nothing. Few know that he lives. My people will keep silent.”

“Can you be certain? Your people betrayed you in Nargothrond. What if Nelyo finds out? He might have forgiven us Ingoldo’s death, but he will not forgive Findekáno’s. Even if we can be certain he will never find out, will you do it? Kill him with your own hands?”

“It will not be too difficult. He can hardly put up a fight in this state.”

“You know that is not what I mean.”

“Does Russandol live?”

The hoarse voice startles the brothers, and they turn to meet Fingon’s suddenly alert gaze.

"He does," says Curufin, the first to compose himself.

A distant smile breaks upon Fingon’s face. He stands, his hands still tied to the pole.

“Take me to him.”

---

They catch up with Maedhros not too far from Amon Ereb. Fingon’s hair and most of his face are hidden, but Maedhros almost tumbles off his horse when his look falls upon the mysterious rider.

He stands still while they approach. Fingon dismounts, walks to Maedhros, grabs him by the shoulders and kisses him on the lips.

---

“How did you survive?” Maedhros asks over supper – the best meat and wine Amon Ereb has to offer. “We were told of your death.”

“It was a near thing,” Fingon says. His smile is almost wistful. “I was taken captive instead.”

“Were you brought to him?”

“Yes.”

“Did he personally interrogate you?”

“He did.”

Maedhros doesn’t ask what Fingon told him.

“Were you put to work?”

“Yes, in the mines.”

“Did you escape?”

“I must have. I cannot remember.”

A muscle strains in Maedhros’s jaw.

“Why did you kiss me?” he asks. “We had never kissed before with others present.”

Fingon smiles at him.

“We have been apart for decades. I escaped thralldom. I missed you. Things that mattered before matter less now.”

Maedhros’s eyes narrow.

“And I did kiss you once before others,” Fingon adds. “Back home when Ango dared me. Remember?”

“Yes,” Maedhros says.

The lines on his forehead smooth over.

“You will be under guard,” he says. “You will not leave the walls of Amon Ereb. You will not carry weapons.”

Fingon gives a placid nod. “For how long?” he asks.

“Until I can be sure.”

“We never did it to you,” Fingon says, still smiling.

“You made a mistake.”

---

Fingon earns his freedom piece by piece over the years. The number of his guards is reduced to one and only when Maedhros isn’t with him. Sometimes, he goes for walks with Maedhros or his guard. At some point, Maedhros stops locking Fingon in his chamber when he is away. And then he stops going away, even though he never spent much time in Amon Ereb before. He preferred patrolling and hunting, returning to the fortress a few times a year. Now, he never leaves it.

---

“He makes me uneasy,” Maglor admits to Caranthir. “I cannot stay in Amon Ereb for longer than a month. Even if he is not in the room, I feel his presence.”

They are wandering in eastern Ossiriand, among Amras’s Laiquendi friends.

“It’s the eyes," Caranthir says. “Too often, they are vacant. As if whoever inhabits that hröa has fled it.”

“And that terrible smile of his,” Maglor says, shuddering. “Like a layer of bright color painted over a rotting roof.”

“It was different with Nelyo, wasn’t it?” Caranthir asked.

“He never seemed absent. Even when his memories overtook him. There was always fire in his eyes.”

“Perhaps he needs time.”

“Perhaps,” Maglor says doubtfully.

---

The first time Fingon tries to kiss him, Maedhros pushes him away. The fifth time – he kisses back.

---

Maedhros sits with his eyes closed, while Fingon braids his hair.

“This feels nice,” he says as Fingon gently scratches his scalp.

“Isn’t this the life we always dreamed of?” Fingon asks. "Us. Together. We have never lived in one place with each other for so long.”

Maedhros smiles as he does every time Fingon mentions something from the past – another small proof that he is still Fingon.

“It is,” Maedhros says. “Despite the circumstances.”

He glances at Celegorm’s letter before him and snorts.

“What is it?” Fingon asks.

“Listen to what this idiot writes,” Maedhros says. “While you and Findekáno were busy braiding each other’s hair—”

Fingon laughs. “Don’t tell him how right he was!”

“Never. While you and Findekáno were busy braiding each other’s hair, my scouts found out— Oh.”

“Is something wrong?” Fingon asks.

“Lúthien’s son has the Silmaril,” Maedhros says quietly. “He rules now in his grandfather’s kingdom.”

Fingon says nothing. Maedhros stares at the letter for a moment.

“I should write to this Dior,” he says.

“Do you think he will be inclined to listen?”

“If I am persuasive, perhaps. He is young, and the Girdle is no more.”

“May I kiss you first?” Fingon asks.

“You must.”

Fingon leans down. Maedhros tilts his head back and pecks him on the lips.

“I love you,” he whispers.

Fingon smiles. “I love you too.”

---

Fingon walks to the gates of the fortress. The guard tries to stop him, but Fingon kills him, takes his sword and kills three more people that stand in his way before he is overpowered.

---

Amon Ereb has no dungeon, so they chain Fingon in the wine cellar.

He lies there, scraping his fingers against the damp wall until Maedhros comes in. Fingon sits up and meets his gaze. They stare at each other for long minutes.

“You killed four people,” Maedhros says.

“They would not let me leave.”

“Why did you want to leave?”

“I cannot remember.”

Maedhros kicks an empty barrel. It cracks, then collapses upon itself.

“What am I supposed to do with you now?”

“Kiss me,” Fingon says.

“You killed four people,” Maedhros repeats, incredulous.

“You have killed more. Kiss me, please.”

Maedhros does.

---

“Do you think it is possible to lock me somewhere I can see the stars?” Fingon asks.

“I am afraid not,” Maedhros says.

Fingon nods sadly. “I miss the stars,” he says, snuggling closer to Maedhros. “If only your people had let me leave, I would not have killed them.”

“Why did you want to leave?” Maedhros asks, tracing a dark scar along Fingon’s ribs.

Fingon’s hands twitch in the chains.

“I have told you many times. I cannot remember. You must know what it is like to be so confused, to have no idea where you are or why you do what you do. You bit my hand once. I still bear the mark.”

“It was a few days after you brought me back. I was delirious and did not recognize you,” Maedhros says. “This is different.”

"I cannot remember," Fingon says.

Maedhros dresses and leaves the cellar, calling the guards back.

---

Maedhros doesn’t tell his brothers what happened, but they find out anyway.

Maglor is the first to arrive. Then, Curufin. Then, Caranthir. Maedhros forbids anyone from entering the cellar. He takes care of Fingon himself.

Once, Maglor catches him leaving the cellar half-dressed but says nothing.

---

All of Maedhros’s brothers are waiting for him in the hall. Celegorm and Amras are still wearing their travel-stained clothes.

“Welcome back,” Maedhros says.

Celegorm slowly turns to him. “How long were you going to keep it from us?” he asks.

Maedhros stares him down. “I have it under control.”

“Four of my people are dead!” Amras cries. “Their friends and families demand retribution. He has to die.”

“He was not in his right mind when he did it,” Maedhros says. “Anyone who has been a captive there could have done it. I could have done it. Our uncle would not put me to death for it.”

“Because it would mean war,” Celegorm says. “Be honest with yourself. He is clearly under the Enemy’s control.”

“There is nothing clear about it.”

“Were it anyone else in his place, you would not hesitate,” Celegorm says, raising his voice. “If you cannot find the strength to do it, I take it upon myself.”

“Of course,” Maedhros sneers. “What is another cousin’s blood on your hands?”

A dangerous glint brightens Celegorm’s eyes, but his voice is calm when he speaks.

“Ingoldo chose his own fate. Findekáno cannot even choose his because he has no will of his own. It will be a mercy. What life is it to live as the Enemy’s thrall and your pleasure slave?”

Maedhros staggers, speechless with rage.

“You still fuck him?” Amras exclaims. “Even after he killed my people?”

Maedhros ignores him. His heavy gaze falls on Maglor, who looks away.

“You told them,” Maedhros accuses.

“I did not use those words,” Maglor says. He raises his head. “But it is not right, Nelyo. What he did. What you do. It is not right. He is not right.”

“What does it matter the words he used?” Celegorm asks. “The result is not changed.”

“You are the last person who should speak of such things,” Maedhros snaps at him.

“Have you considered that I might have learned from my mistakes?”

“No.”

Celegorm laughs. “At least I never chained Lúthien and never touched her.”

He doesn’t move even when Maedhros strides to him, eyes flashing white.

“What Findekáno does,” Maedhros says very quietly, “he does of his own free will.”

“How can you know that? Perhaps it is Moringotto’s will that drives him to your bed. Perhaps he has simply realized it is his best chance to stay alive.”

“I refuse to discuss this with you,” Maedhros says, turning away.

“You cannot avoid this conversation. We all agree he cannot be allowed to live.”

“Not all.”

Both Celegorm and Maedhros turn to Curufin in shock.

“We can use him to get the Silmaril,” Curufin says. “We have to find a way to let Turukáno know his brother lives. We promise to hand Findekáno over to him unharmed if he takes his army to Doriath and brings us the Silmaril. Turukáno’s army is greater than ours. Dior will not be able to withstand him. When he gives us the Silmaril, we give him his brother. Everyone is happy. Then Turukáno can worry about what to do with Findekáno.”

“I doubt he would ever help us,” Caranthir says before Maedhros can regain his voice. “That plan is too convoluted and bound to fail. Why not simply have Findekáno speak to Dior on our behalf? He is still the High King. His father had Elwë’s respect. Findekáno is more likely to convince Dior to give up the Silmaril than any of us.”

“We cannot trust him to do it. He is too unstable,” Curufin says. “Dior might not trust a former thrall either.”

“Dior would never give up the Silmaril willingly,” Celegorm adds.

“Then the only thing left to do is to kill Findekáno,” Amras says. “My people will have justice.”

“Enough!” Maedhros cries. “They were my people too! There are too few of us left to make that distinction. You keep repeating it – my people, my brother. You are not the only one who grieves.”

Amras says nothing. He leaves the hall without looking at anyone. Four pairs of eyes stare at Maedhros in reproach.

“This discussion is over,” Maedhros says. “I care not what you have decided. Only my decision counts in this matter.”

He turns to the door. Celegorm moves to speak, but Maglor shakes his head.

“What do you intend to do with him, Nelyo?” he asks. Maedhros stops in his tracks. “Keep him in chains forever?” Maglor continues. “Trust me, I have no desire to see him dead. None of us does. If you knew for certain that he is not controlled by the Enemy, I would be the first to stand by your side. But you keep him chained because you have your doubts. How long can this continue?”

Maedhros stands still for a moment, then walks out without turning back.

“Think about it,” Maglor says before the door closes behind Maedhros.

---

Someone poisons Fingon’s custard. He suffers for a few days but lives. Maedhros doesn’t leave his side.

---

“Would you like to go for a walk?” Maedhros asks.

Fingon perks up. “Outside?”

“In the woods.”

“I would love to.”

Maedhros unchains him. Fingon brings his hands before him, so Maedhros can bind them with a rope. They leave the fortress together. Fingon looks up at the stars and smiles. He strolls among the trees, his bound hands caressing the bark. He stops when they reach his favorite glade where they have made love more than once.

“Should we?” he asks Maedhros, turning back.

His smile freezes on his lips. He looks at the knife in Maedhros’s hand and then at his face.

“My brothers want you dead,” Maedhros says. “They believe you are still in thrall to the Enemy.”

“But I love you,” Fingon says.

“I am losing my control over them,” Maedhros says. “No one believes you are still yourself.”

“What do you believe?”

Maedhros yanks the rope binding Fingon’s hands and pulls him close. He puts the knife at his throat.

“Prove to me you are Findekáno,” he pleads. “Prove it to me, and you will live.”

“How can I prove it now if I failed to prove it during these years?” Fingon asks. A drop of blood slides along the blade. “We have joined fëar. Surely you would have noticed if I were still a thrall.”

“You hide something. I felt it, but I never asked.”

“So do you! You have ever since you returned. I spent twenty-five years in the dark without seeing the stars or the sun. Some horrors are not meant to be shared. I understand it now.”

Maedhros shakes his head. “Findekáno would not be content sitting idly for years and playing husband to me. Findekáno would fight me if I put him in chains. Findekáno would be wracked with guilt after killing innocents.”

“I have changed. You changed, too, after your captivity. How could we not?”

“It is not a good enough reason.”

“I love you. Isn’t it enough? Were you not happy with me? I was.”

“Findekáno would rather die than live with the doubt that he was the Enemy’s spy.”

“Findekáno was a fool!” Fingon leans forward, the blade pressing into his skin. “Kill me then if that is your decision. But I will not make it easy for you. I will not absolve you of guilt. I will not accept death with grace. I want to live. I want to live, Russandol.”

Maedhros’s hand shakes. Fingon closes his eyes.

---

Maedhros returns alone, bloodied, clutching a long, dark braid. He closes himself in Fingon’s room for three days. No one asks him what he has done. No one speaks of Fingon again.

---

Celegorm, Caranthir and Curufin fall in Doriath. The Silmaril disappears.

---

Maedhros seals the letter to Elwing, knowing it will be the last. 

---

All three of them leave the fortress together but unaware of each other. Entranced, they follow the call. The treelight brings tears to their eyes. They keep walking until they see the Necklace of the Dwarves, bejeweled with the most precious gems of Valinor – all paling before the Silmaril.

They are so enraptured by the jewel that at first, they don’t see the one who has brought it to them. Then all three slowly look up and stare at Fingon – bloodstained, weary Fingon, holding the Nauglamír in his left hand.

Maedhros sways and stumbles forward, pulling him into his embrace.

“Is this enough to prove I am myself?” Fingon asks.

Maedhros only nods, eyes shut tight against the tears and the light.

“You let him live,” Amras says absently, still staring at the Silmaril.

“And it was the right thing to do, wasn’t it?” Maedhros says.

Amras isn’t listening to him. He slowly reaches for the jewel.

“I would not do that,” Fingon says.

He raises his right hand to show the terrible burn on the palm.

“The Silmaril burned you,” Maedhros exclaims, carefully taking Fingon’s hand. “Why?”

Maglor points to Fingon’s hands and clothes.

“Whose blood is that?” he asks, suddenly overcome with terror for people he has never met and never will.

Fingon smiles his distant, empty smile. “Not mine.”

“How did the jewel come into your possession?” Maedhros asks.

Still holding the Nauglamír close, Fingon turns to Maedhros.

“I will tell you everything,” he says, “but for now, let us rejoice. We have the Silmaril, Russandol, and we are together again. All is well.”

Maedhros looks at him, his eyes reflecting the fell light in Fingon’s. He puts a tender kiss on Fingon’s wrist.

“All is well,” he repeats.

[runawaymun]

Maedhros for disability awareness month!

Maedhros & Disability Pride

[Image ID: some drawings of maedhros. The top image is a sketch page of Maedhros wearing a body-powered prosthetic for his right hand, showing how he wears a compression sleeve, the strap that goes over his shoulder to power it, and how different attachments can screw into place. It also includes sketches of some attachments he uses, like an articulated hook for everyday use, a decorative hand, and a 'lego hand' for holding things for long periods of time. The second image is a drawing of Maedhros and Maglor. They are lounging on the floor while Maglor braids Maedhros' hair for him. Maedhros is a light-skinned elf with freckles and visible scars, with very long wavy red hair with white streaks. He is wearing a patterned brown and turquoise fur coat and brown pants. Maglor is a light-skinned elf with iridescent black hair, wearing a turqoise and white gown. Maedhros jokes: "Need a hand?" Maglor, visibly shocked but amused by the joke, scolds: "Nelyo!" and Maedhros answers: "What? I have so many to choose from!" /. END ID]

Some Headcannons:

Maedhros prefers the articulated hook the most and only rarely wears the gold hand. He also has various attachments he can use in sparring and in fights, including a shield which will buckle to his arm, and spiked mace for smacking people with. These can be painful to use, though.

Maedhros' horses respond to verbal commands, rather than reins, to leave both his hands free.

He deals with chronic pain & often walks with a cane (though he dislikes doing this at public events tbh). This also makes him (more) cranky. It can be draining and he needs to rest more often than he would like to admit.

Hand jokes galore. Most people don't know how to respond to this, but Caranthir and Celegorm often join in. Maedhros made hand jokes one (1) time around Fingon and never again.

He has always taken great pride in his hair and it was another kind of grief to realize that he needed help taking care of it. Maglor mostly does it for him these days.

Celebrate Disability Pride with me! Send me in prompts for your favorite Tolkien characters, and I’ll make you something – art, headcannons, or perhaps a ficlet.

[nighttimepatrons]

The Trial of Glorfindel

altered lyrics of The Trial of Lancelot by Heather Dale

King Turgon's lords, they lined the Counsel Hall Save for one who stood before them For once without a weapon, for once he stood in shame The trial's charge was treason and betrayal of an oath, And should his guilt be proven death would fall on traitors both; The lords would counsel Turgon's hard decision. And Glorfindel, his head held high, Said, “I'm tried for love of Erestor, My crime was love.” The first to speak was Rog with sharpest tongue, “He is an elf like any other, The word of kings command him, his heart does not obey For all his strength and boldness this lord's fea is too weak. His crime has no excuses and no favours may he seek; The laws of kings don't bend and can't be broken.” And Glorfindel, his head held high, Said, “I stand for love of Erestor, For pride in love.” “I know this lord right well,” spoke bold Ecthelion, “And he has ever stood beside me, With steel he's answered insults, defended chivalry And oft this elf contended for the honour of your spouse His actions were not proper but should not cost him his life; His service past should earn of you some mercy.”

And Glorfindel, his head held high, Said, “I fought for love of Erestor, I'll fight for love.” Sir Maeglin spoke, “I love Tuor’s dear wife. For her I gladly suffer, she is my heart's delight Idril, the one who tempts me and she for whom I'm pure, My love for her confounds me and is all of which I'm sure; I understand my comrade's contradictions.” And Glorfindel, his head held high, Said, “I cry my love for Erestor, I've cried for love.” Spoke Egalmoth, the purest of them all, “Have no fear of predilection, For though he is my father, he is my source of shame. He joined in sinful union with my unbeguiling mother, And for all his claim at virtue he has gone and bed another; The laws of Eru declare this act damnation.” And Glorfindel, his head held high, Said, “I lie in love with Erestor, I've lied for love.” As Turgon wept, he called the wrath of Ulmo On the lovers who'd betrayed him On the lord he had called brother, thought worthy of his trust On the spouse who'd hid deception yet could say he loved him still; For lost innocence and beauty And in justice for their guilt; King Turgon knew the only price for treason. And Glorfindel, his head held high, Said, “I'll die in love with Erestor. I'd die for love.”

𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆞 𓆝 𓆟𓆝

This has been in my little document for months! I really wanted to make an animatic for this but let's be real that is never going to happen.

I've seen a few Glorestor fics where Glorfindel and Erestor meet in Gondolin, but I imagine for this they meet before the great city is founded. Though things end in Gondolin.

I adore Heather Dale and I cannot listen to her songs without thinking about my beloved elves. hehehe :)

Soon to be posted Fingon and Maedhros Thingol and Melien

[lamemaster]

The Glorious One

Request: Hi. I was wondering if you could write a fic, where Maedhros comes back from Angband and finds the female elf reader with a child and assumes she had given up on him and moved on. He decides to stay away from her life. The reader comes to him with their son, but he keeps his distance and still believes he ( son ) is someone else's son. Their son decides to participate in the war. Only for him to find out that the boy is his, after his death in the war. The reader and Maedhros had a heartfelt moment in the end.I hope you can understand this and it doesn't sound too confusing and complicated.

Pairing: Maedhros x Reader

Genre: Angst (caution- 100% concentrated angst)

Word Count: 3k

AN: Thanks for the request I loved writing it. Also, Baldur has been a long-time OC of mine so lmk if you would like to know more about it.

Part 2

The peaceful shores of Nevrast offer little comfort to your heart. The unease that hasn’t left you for the past months has followed you there.Yet, you wander these shores looking for the last hope. Your only hope.

Turgon had become your last resort. It was nearly a year since Maedhros’ capture and you were close to exhausting your options. The only remaining option now seemed to be Turgon. 

Related to you by your aunt Anaire, your mother’s sister, you believed Turgon to be the only one who could help you find Maedhros. You had begged Maglor and pleaded to an unrelenting Celegorm. You tried everyone but none answered.

But now that you find yourself closer to Turgon’s averting eyes, where lingers no love for his once half-cousin, you wonder if it were to be you. You would have left long ago, had there not been kicking signs of life in your belly. Yours and Maedhros’ child. 

You found it no later than when you first received the news of your beloved’s ambush. And now it became the only tether that kept you away from Maedhros. Maybe you had expected him to be back, for someone to care for him, for anyone of his extensive kin to go look for him. 

You desired for him to be here for the news. You wanted him to witness your growing belly or be there for the mornings of your sickness. You never talked about having children of your own but you knew how much it would have pleased Maedhros. How much he would love his child. 

So, by the quiet shores of the Nevrast, you wait for a time when you will be able to go look for your Nelyo. When you would be able to reunite the father of your child with them. 

The pains of your labor pass in the halls of Turgon. The day that you wished to spend by Maedhros is spent alone in pain. It seems unending and there is no one to hold your hand as your body tears itself. But that too passes away when you hear his first cries. 

Baldur, your son enters the world with shrill cries that drown yours. And just like this hope springs back into your life. He has come and Maedhros would as well. 

It is that day you start counting the time that you would be allowed to go look for Maedhros. One day when your son would be old enough to be by himself and you could bring Maedhros back. 

You spend years raising Baldur, who inherits your hair but glimpses of Maedhros reflect from his face. Cherishing every moment of his little life. Writing every passing moment down for when you will meet Maedhros.

So, it comes as a surprise when you hear the news of Maedhros’s return. Fingon rescued him from the cliffs of the Thangodrim. Holding your son Baldur’s little hand you make your way to Hirming. And on your way, you tell your son all of his father’s tales, his valor, his speech, his kindness, everything you remember your Maedhros as.

What greets you in Hirming is not a warm welcome…you did not expect that but a sense of hostility fills the air. Something that you did not expect to encounter. Not on the occasion of Maedhros’s return.

In your arms, Baldur excitedly whispers the name of each of his uncles. At least he tries to from whatever he can remember. Maglor, Celegorm, Caranthir, Curfin, Amrod, Amras, you have told him of all his uncles. Every single one of the big family he belongs to, even the ones separated by the sea.

“I must meet Maedhros,” you ask of Maglor who stops you outside of Maedhros’ door. Despite burying his head in your shoulder you can feel Baldur’s curiosity towards his uncles. The merry swing of his legs betray his excitement but your son has promised for Maedhros, his father to be the first one to be the one who he looks at. So, your darling waits with the patience of the most obedient elfling. 

You, however, unlike Baldur face the disdain on Maglor’s face who does not budge from the door. “Brother is unwell,” your heart drops at his words but Maglor continues, “Please leave.” Curt words grate on your nerves. There lingers a dangerous edge of Feanorian rage hidden in your brother-in-law’s voice. 

A dreadful sorrow fills your entire being as you re-adjust Baldur in your arms. 

“You don’t unde-”

“I understand well enough and so does Maitimo. We have all honored your wish to choose another so leave. Do not burden my brother with any more grief. Do not make him witness your child with another,” words that leave Maglor’s mouth leave you numb. 

“I would not…you know that Laure,” you try to explain to the ellon who does not believe anything that leaves your mouth. 

“My brother has honored you enough to offer you a home in Hirming but nothing more. So honor him in return and stay away.” Yet your mind focuses only on the slight wetness on your shoulder. Your son’s tears dampen your gown. Little hands that clutch your fabric close in a fist. How could he, who you shielded from every hurt, how could he be bared to such cruelty?

Your truth and your son’s truth go unheard. And you let it be for the prince you once knew to be your husband. The one who escapes your every sight. 

Maybe it is your last favor to him. A mercy of sparing him of the bond he seems to deny so vehemently. You do not burden him, who has suffered enough. 

 Concealed behind the thick curtains of his room, Maedhros observes you leave. His heart drowning in what seems the most painful of hurts. Moments ago, what had been his unconcealed joy now turns into despair.

He had felt the familiar flutter of his heartbeat your voice albeit strained but it had been your voice. The one he had craved for years of his capture. The voice of love from Valinor, the voice who stood by even in the hour of their dreadful doom. Your voice.

But the reality of the present comes crashing down. His brothers had told him of your choice. Your binding to another who lived in Nevrast. And despite all that happened, despite your betrayal, Maedhros could not blame you. It was for better that you remained away from the Maedhros of middle earth. It was better that for you he will always be the Nelyafinwe of Aman. Unscared ellon you loved. Not the broken husk he had become. And maybe just the act of your care of coming to visit him was enough. It was enough for Maedhros. He could not ask more of you.

He watches you leave his tower, it is then that he notices the mass on your shoulder, and his heart skips a beat. Resting on your shoulder is a mop of hair similar to yours. A tiny squished face and dazed slightly reddened eyes of an elfling. Your son. Yours and someone else’s, who wasn’t him, who he could never be.

Years later as Maedhros walks the paths of his celebrating soldiers, he for the first time feels the thrum of joy run through his veins. Dagor Aglareb, the glorious battle had been glorious indeed. A win against the dark lord.

The air feels fresher and the walls of Hirming more welcoming than they ever did. Maybe there was hope for them. With a thousand future plans forming in the eldest Feanorian’s brain, the victorious battalion made their way to the fortress. 

Yet, despite the joy that fills the party, the first night of the return is mellow. It is spent to honor the ones lost for the cause. There is a small number of them but that makes it even more important to honor those who took the fall for the cause of this world.

Heroes in their own right. It is members of a small segment led following an onslaught of a chunk of the orc army. Numbers smaller than the ones surviving. It is what most would call not a heavy loss. 

Carrying the list of departed, Maedhros spends the night comforting the families. He sits next to grieving wives and lamenting daughters. He does that earnestly. Their tears become his and their burden his. But he does not stop.

So, the world falls silent when his steps land him in front of your door. The one he has ignored for so long. And Maedhros’ heart thunders and an ominous feeling haunts him, leaving goosebumps lining his arms.

Baldur, Captain of the guard. Died following a party of orcs. The words written on his list haunt him. The handle to your door is cold. There is a solitary chill that creeps through the wooden door. 

Pushing open the door, Maedhros pauses as he takes in the scene in front of him. The entire room lies in disarray and in the middle of the broken glass pieces, a sea of cloaks, coats, pieces of paper, are seated you. 

With your hair undone, your hands bleeding onto the floor as pieces of glass dig deep into your skin. Maedhros finds you. Your face is full of blood, for a fleeting moment it alarms Maedhros only for you to smear it further as you wipe your tears.

“Baldur,” your voice is a whisper as your hug a cloak close to you. “Baldur,” you repeat and Maedhros notices how hoarse your voice is. He steps closer but you do not notice him.

“I am sorry for your loss,” formal words feel awkward on his tongue. “He was a great soldier. A captain worthy of his title,” Maedhros strings sentiments that do not come easy to him. He tries to imagine the captain he cannot remember. A distant face, he had not known to be your son. “Your son’s body is retrieved. You may ask his father-”

“His father will not come,” you interrupt him. Your voice so distant. Maedhros aches to hold you. Even through this, a sense of rage fills him. The unfairness of the ellon who left you to bear this alone. “Why not?” Maedhros questions back. 

“He does not know of his son. His father never knew how much his son cherished him. How much that child wished to be with him.” a cold seeping fear fills Maedhros. But he does not stop his next question. He cannot stop himself from asking you, “Who is it?” In some sense, he knows the answer.

You do not answer him. But Maedhros does not need words to know. He gingerly picks up one of the papers littered around you. It is written in a handwriting he has never seen but it feels hauntingly familiar nonetheless. 

Silence hangs heavy between you, the unspoken truths and the untold years of longing stretching out in the space. The ache in his chest grows unbearable as he takes in the sight of you, battered by grief and loss. His voice trembles as he finally speaks the words that have been lodged in his throat for far too long.

"I am sorry," he whispers, his voice laced with regret and a pang of profound sadness. “I am sorry,” he repeats as his soul seems to be ripping itself.

Dearest Father,

The day I meet you, I shall immediately demand my Ataresse. You must name with pride. Every day I work hard for that day. For that fated day when you will recognize me as your son. I know it will come and how proud you will be of me. I will work hard for it.

I wonder about you a lot. All of you. I have heard your tales from Mother, from your soldiers who seem to admire and respect you more than the Valar themselves. Father, your strength, your kindness, your valor, I admire them all. I hope that I too can become likes of you one day.

Your empathy for trying to save the boats, your humility in passing the crown to grand uncle Nolofinwe, your strength in remaining unyielding to the enemy. I love them all. Mother tells me that I am as tall as you and that I speak just like you. You must tell me if that is true when we meet.

My mother loves you intensely. She speaks of you with such fondness that even I cannot help but be endeared to you, who I have never met. I too wish to find to love like that once in my lifetime. But I shall only do that once I unite you and Mother.

And when that happens I will meet all my uncles and ask them more about you and them. I am writing this letter as I wait for the Hirming guard to respond back to my recruitment. I hope this step brings me closer to you. 

Until then father, I will pray that you will love me. 

With all my love,

Baldur

Dearest Father,

I hope this letter finds you in good health and high spirits. It has been some time since I last wrote to you, and there are many things I wish to share with you.

I have recently been appointed as a squire to one of the knights of Hirming. It is a great honor, and I am learning a great deal from him. He speaks highly of your prowess in battle and your strategic brilliance. I strive to emulate your skills and make you proud.

Mother often tells me stories of your adventures and the battles you fought. She speaks of your unwavering courage and unwavering loyalty to your kin. I am in awe of your bravery, and I long to be a warrior like you.

Father, I have been practicing my archery skills diligently. I can now hit the target from greater distances, and I am improving my accuracy. I hope that one day, I will be as skilled as you were with a bow and arrow. I know you would be pleased to see my progress.

Sometimes, I sit beneath the stars and imagine what it would be like to have you by my side. To learn directly from you, to hear your words of wisdom, and to feel the strength of your embrace. I yearn for that day, Father, when we can be together as father and son.

I often wonder if you think of me, if you know of my existence. I hope that one day, you will hear of my achievements and be proud of the son you have. I dream of the moment when we will finally meet, when I can look into your eyes and see the love that only a father can give.

Until that day comes, Father, I will continue to train and strive to be the best version of myself. I will carry your name and your legacy with honor. I will make sure that the world knows of the great Maedhros and the love he has for his son.

With all my love and longing,

Baldur

Dearest Father,

Guess what?! Something amazing has happened! I can hardly contain my excitement as I write this letter to you!

I am thrilled to share with you that I have been chosen as the Captain of the Guard in Hirming! Can you believe it? I get to lead a whole group of brave warriors and protect our people. It's like a dream come true! I'm walking on air, Father!

Every day, I put on my shiny armor and hold my head high, just like you would. I feel so important and strong, just like the great Tulkas himself! Everyone looks up to me, and I make sure to lead with courage and honor, just like you taught me through Mother's stories.

Oh, Father, I can't help but imagine the day when I will finally meet you face to face. I'll run up to you, all covered in armor, and say, "Father, it's me, Baldur, your son!" And we'll hug and laugh and talk about all the adventures we'll have together.

I'm training harder than ever, Father. I want to be strong and skilled, just like you. Every swing of the sword, every strategic move, brings me closer to you. I can almost feel your presence guiding me, cheering me on. I'll make you proud, Father, I promise!

I have so many questions to ask you when we finally meet. I want to hear about all your epic battles, your wise words, and the lessons you've learned. And I can't wait to share my own stories with you too! We'll have the grandest adventures together, just you and me.

Until that magical day arrives, Father, know that I carry you in my heart always. Your spirit fuels my determination and gives me the courage to face any challenge. I'm counting down the days until we can be together, to laugh, to fight, and to create memories that will last a lifetime.

With overflowing excitement and love,

Your enthusiastic son, Baldur

Cheers of victory fill the empty field where Baldur lies. A smile creeps on his face. They made it. They had won. His father won. 

The sword that impales him seems to pin him to the ground but Baldur cannot care. Even as shreds of his soul are ripped from his body, the ellon is full of pride. 

The world blurs as his breaths come uneven and maybe he is indeed lost in a trance when he sees a blurry outline come walking towards him. He squints his eyes but it is hard to distinguish the battered armor that seems to be heading his way.

“Father,” he calls but no one replies.

Alcarinque, Maedhros names his son. The glorious one, who died in the glorious battle. 

[meadowlarkx]

Some March fic recs!

For Tolkien Fanfic Reading Month! Limiting myself to stories I read in March (but posted anytime). (header by Anna Zakharova on Unsplash)

picnic by @swanmaids - A bored and reckless Aredhel goes to Vána's orchards seeking adventure and has an experience. This lush and sexy fic feels like a warm summer afternoon. I love how seductive and eerie Vána is here!

Kiss and Marry by @thecoolblackwaves - Have you ever looked at Celegorm and Curufin and thought, "They should be the stars of a romcom"? No? This fic is here to reveal that wonder to you.

弄假成真 by Divano_Messiah - Maglor has been telling people at school that he has a boyfriend. Maedhros is jealous until he learns who it is. (I admit I read this via google translate, you can too...)

Envy by @polutrope - In Tirion, Maglor and Elemmírë struggle to handle each other's reputations with equanimity. The people around them try to respond. This fic is so funny and sweet--I love this take on Elemmírë and Fëanor's guest appearance is hilariously him.

Youthful Regrets by kitkatkaylie - Turgon and Maglor fall in love in Valinor before Turgon's engagement to Elenwë. I really like the personality contrasts of this ship, with Turgon opening up to Maglor, and how this story sketches out their relationship through the whole arc of Silm to its bitter separation.

I risk my life to make my name by @maironsbigboobs - The brave knight Galadriel goes on a journey to meet the Green Woman Melian and her fate, ft. adventures along the way. I love how Tolkien is blended with Arthurian conventions here--it works so well and brings out the myth vibes of Silm that I love so much!

Strange Currencies chapter 12 by @jouissants - This is such a beautifully-crafted tale in every regard, but I want to especially mention this flashback chapter I read in March, covering Maedhros' and Maglor's voyage on the swan ships up to just before Fëanor's death. The horror of the Fëanorian Noldor arriving in the dark with their distrust, inflated ego, and total lack of knowledge of Middle-earth comes through here so, so vividly--this part can be read by itself, go check it out!!

Oubliette by Stramonium - Horrifying and so vividly written scene of Maedhros in Angband, isolation, and monstrosity. Poetic and awful, I can't do it justice in summarizing it.

arrangement for flute and harp by @jouissants - Maedhros is determined to work late, so Maglor and Fingon decide to entertain each other. The Himring atmosphere and incredible character dynamics make this also really sexy smut such a wonderful story.

whatever you would crave by @eight-pointed-star - Sooo sexy ficlet in which Fingon and Maedhros attend to Maglor's Needs. Short but immensely powerful.

scherzo for ink and parchment by @dovewifes - Charming and comedic missives exchanged between Maedhros and Maglor during the Long Peace, ft. romantic endearments and the invention of emojis. Maedhros' so-apparent love for Maglor is something I especially cherish about this fun fic.

Star-kissed by @aipilosse - Celeborn of Doriath rescues recently-of-Gondolin (and silver-haired!) Celebrimbor from a predicament in Nan Dungortheb. Incredibly clever, funny, and hot!

Purification by @zealouswerewolfcollector - Thingol is curious about Maedhros: throne sex ensues. A favorite ship of mine in a flavor I'd never considered. Incredibly intense and super well-written.

Comfort from a Heavy Hand by @undercat-overdog - After the Bragollach, Mablung tends to an injured Beleg, and they seek comfort together. The wreckage and destruction of the battle feels so vivid in this one, and the dynamic of Beleg/Mablung as past teacher and student (and current battle companions) is wonderful.

Thou knowest to-night, and wilt know to-morrow by @welcomingdisaster - A brilliant installment in an ongoing Children of Húrin AU series that has the most beautiful, unsettling, and dreamlike atmosphere. In this fic Maedhros teaches "Cáno" about pleasure in preparation for their marriage bed. Catnip to me personally!!

Proxy by @aipilosse - Celebrimbor comes to reproach Celegorm in Nargothrond after Finrod's departure. They fuck. Gender, tension, messy and complicated emotional dynamics all around. The dirty talk is so so good.

Star of the Nevrast Shore by joanofarcstan - Silmarillion filk of one of my favorite folk songs! What more is there to say!! A sweet tale of Gondolin told from Voronwë's point of view, recounting the love between him, Tuor (the star of the Nevrast shore), Idril, and Maeglin.

A Light Burns in the Forest by fictional_hr_department - Thranduil and Oropher escape Menegroth with child Elwing. The title and art by @lycheesodas give me chills and the atmosphere of the fic as they make their disorienting journey to Sirion really brings to life the terrible aftermath of the second kinslaying.

By Your Side by HiyoriTomioka - fem!Eärendil and Elwing support each other in this ficlet... such a good vision of this ship, and the way Eärendil thinks about Tuor and Idril here with longing uncertainty makes me think of a trans!Eärendil even though that is not explicit.

Something Sleepless in Mirkwood by @imakemywings - Thranduil sickens as the Greenwood does. Elrond tries to heal him, but can't understand at first what's happening. Brilliant and canon-compliant (To Me) wry, proud, and eerie woodland king Thranduil--go give this a read!

A boat, my boat, out upon the River by Tethys_resort - Sméagol is trying to craft his own boat to take fishing. His family keeps getting in the way. This sweet fic paints such an idyllic picture of proto-Hobbit life and made me really feel the tragedy of Gollum.

The Fortress by TheLegendCreator - Brief and haunting fic in which a Dwarf visits the ruins of Himring and they have a conversation. I love the view this offers of Maedhros and the fierce loyalty Himring and its folk had for him.

one whole with my other by @i-am-a-lonely-visitor - Indis' marriage to Finwë is transferred to bind her instead to reembodied Míriel. This turns out to be a good thing. An incredibly touching, beautifully wrought and worldbuilt story. I just love it so much.

The Number One Exercise for Relieving Work-Related Stress (Click to Find Out!) by @imakemywings - Date night in Mirkwood. Maglor (Noldorin princess, ex-kinslayer) adorns herself for the benefit of Thranduil (the Elvenqueen)--or that's her plan, anyway. This story is so sexy, so funny, and honestly so touching. I just adore this ship as a happy ending for Maglor and their relationship is gorgeously fleshed out here.

Cousin, Sister, Lover, Queen by broken_pencils - Lesbian Éowyn discovers desire... through Éomer's betrothed Lothíriel. Lothíriel is a stealth fav for me from the Éomer fics I used to read as a kid and I really enjoyed her here, and the lush atmosphere of this story.

His Return by @danmeiljie - Beautiful, tender scene of Maedhros and Maglor reuniting as per @tari-cua's art. Such lovely descriptions in this one and so cozy.

[sallysavestheday]

Blend, Bond, Blaze

A little something I wrote about Fingon, Angrod, and Aegnor's canonical friendship for this month's SWG challenge, using the prompt "three strands of a braid."

It is the great frustration of their childhoods that they do not match: FingonandAngrodandAegnor, close as brothers; three flashing, crackling sparks of the same bright fire. They share eyes that mingle blue and green, nimble fingers, quick and sometimes thoughtless mouths. No one of them is faster or stronger or wilder than the others. What accident of form is it that makes Fingon’s locks so dark, when they should quite obviously be fair? Noldor, all, they experiment with change. Angrod crowns Fingon with a mop; Aegnor braids his curls with hay. Fingon holds his cousins in a fearsome grip and coats their long, bright hair with mud: all three are black of mane, then, until it dries and cracks. For a while, they wear identical scarves to hide their dissimilar hair – if they cannot match in outward seeming, let none look at them and know them somehow strange. But scarves slip. They cannot be worn in water. They catch in tree branches and are torn free in the wind of a gallop. They are impermanent, when FingonandAngrodandAegnor will always, always be the same. Finarfin finds them in the laboratory, deep in argument over the merits of stripping dark from light or weaving shadows into gold. What chemical marvels might they blend, to align their three fine heads and make them all alike? A chemistry lesson bleeds into genetics, and then into metallurgy: if they may not dye (as their fathers categorically forbid), how might they otherwise embellish and adorn? All their energy pours into anodizing, plating, hammering thin and fine. Managing weight and durability to shape jewels that represent the closeness of their ties. Fingon’s dark braids gleam with ribbons of gold; Angrod and Aegnor weave theirs with blackened steel. They are tiger-striped; lightning-struck. Three wild spirits, finely alloyed.

Also on SWG and AO3.

[theoppositeofprofound]

It puts me in the minority, but I do not think that Maedhros was particularly fussed about the Quenya ban, aside from the fact that it demonstrated Someone Other Than His Camp had power. He just got out of several decades on a cliff face, he’s reached a state of PTSD that mimics zen. Also, powerful older brother adaptions allow him to put up with nonsense. In fact, here’s my ranking of Lords of the Noldor reactions.

Maedhros: yeah, sure, whatever it takes to get you people united in the fight against Morgoth. he’ll be the bigger person here and start writing his passive aggressive correspondence in a different language. nothing is more important than the war effort.

Fingolfin: yes, sure! he’s made worse compromises to placate more difficult people. most of his court speaks Sindarin anyways so it’s not a hard transition for him

Fingon: also a fast adapter, lack of delineation between work and personal life means that he doesn’t revert back in private unlike some of his cousins

Maglor: on one hand, some of his best work is in Quenya and he will still be performing it as it was originally composed—but translation is a good and noble pastime to fill the winter months! he’ll bitch about it and subvert it in private but he doesn’t mind abiding in public, not when it opens up whole new avenues of word games

Caranthir: also has more sindar than Noldor in his household and is a consummate Sindarin user in public—does revert back with close old relations

Finrod: thinks he deserves it for abandoning his mother’s family, borderline method of self-harm but in a fun, phonetic way

Celegorm: doesn’t care, talks to some of his best friends in Bird, linguistic distinctions are all made up, tends to default to the native language of whoever he’s conversing with regardless of political affiliation

Curufin: is soooo stroppy about it. reverse ban in his private chambers. grammar exercises in classical Tengwar for his son. loves to do a bit of metalworking with a Quenya inscription

Aredhel: straight up forgets the ban exists most of the time? primary driver of the creation of the Gondolin creole. enormous source of strife in her marriage with eol

Turgon: makes some initial efforts to swap but is so far away from the war front and necessity that he kind of gives up and lets his people do what they want, makes Quenya the official language of Gondolin a little bit out of spite but mostly to engender a distinct municipal identity

[thelordofgifs]

the fairest stars, continued

The "Beren and Lúthien steal two Silmarils" AU that has spiralled completely out of my control: time for a new post again! Parts 1-9 are here and Parts 10-15 here. Also now slowly being uploaded to AO3 here, though you still want tumblr for the latest version.

To recap:

Maedhros and Maglor are in Himring.

Maedhros has (somewhat, a bit, with caveats) recovered from his very bad unreality attack, and is now attempting to defend Himring from an army of orcs. Unfortunately 90% of his people aren't there.

Maglor has very much not recovered from being stabbed by Maedhros, and is not really in a great situation.

Fingon is busy trying to stop Curufin's war with Doriath. He's kind of managing to talk Thingol down from attacking Himring's assembled army.

Although his bright idea for accomplishing this was offering to execute Curufin.

Maedhros holds one Silmaril in Himring, Thingol has kept one in Menegroth, and the last one is still in Angband.

Dead characters who are nonetheless still in the story: Lúthien, Beren, Finrod, Celegorm.

When Maedhros' mother named him well-made, she was not picturing his prowess on a battlefield: but Maedhros was forged anew in the crucible of Angband, or perhaps more gently in his long months of healing by Mithrim's shores, and this is what he is good for, now.

And he is very good at war.

Under his command the defence of Himring rallies. Maedhros sets the few archers he has to rain down arrows on the arrows on the attacking orcs, and takes a small party out on horseback to drive them further back, and the fortress gains a little breathing space.

But there is only so much he can do with so few people – and people, at that, who are so strangely slow to respond to his command.

Not that they will disobey him openly, but he is far too aware of their suspicious eyes on his back, the wave of mutters that breaks every time he issues an order.

"And the way they look at me – as if I'm, as if I'm one of the Enemy's thralls – do you think—?"

"Nelyo," Maglor says instantly, "you are not a thrall."

Maedhros attempts to stop his frenetic pacing up and down Maglor's room. "Then why," he says. There is so much noise in his head. He cannot seem to finish the sentence.

"They're Curvo's people," says Maglor, and there is something hard and unfamiliar in his voice as he speaks their brother's name. "Who can say what poison he's fed them?"

That was the wrong thing to say. Maedhros blanches for a moment, draws in a sharp breath, and then says, "Curvo told me – he told me—"

"I know," Maglor says, reaching out a hand. "I know, and he lied. Come here."

Maedhros clutches at his hand. Maglor can feel his frantic, fluttering pulse beneath his fingers.

Maedhros can feel Maglor's, faint and irregular.

He tries to steady his breathing. Tries not to sort through the jumble of memories pressing against his skull (they're dead, they're both dead) and focuses on the present.

Maglor is here, alive, alive – although his pallor has worsened every time Maedhros can snatch a moment from the siege to visit him, and his grip on Maedhros' Silmaril is white-knuckled, and some nameless fear touches Maedhros as he looks at him.

"Should I send you away, dearest?" he asks.

Maglor's eyes widen. "What?"

"It isn't safe here," Maedhros explains, although he has little heart for his suggestion in the face of Maglor's obvious dismay. "If Himring does fall – I don't wish to put you through a hard retreat."

"Don't make me leave you," Maglor begs, his voice teetering on the edge of real distress. "I want – I want to stay here, and—"

"All right," Maedhros soothes. "All right. You can stay as long as I hold."

"You'll hold, Nelyo," Maglor says. "You always do."

In the face of this unwavering confidence Maedhros manages to summon a shaky smile.

When he is gone – and the sustaining warmth of the Silmaril with him – Maglor reviews his objectives, which are threefold.

One: stay alive. Not going very well tbh. He has not recovered from the blood loss. And more than that the world feels grey and cold to his eyes – he who has always loved sunrises – and he cannot stop remembering: the splintered haunted look in Maedhros' eyes, the way, before Maglor sang him to sleep, he was reaching for the knife to try again.

Two: make sure Himring doesn't fall. He cannot quite believe it will, while Maedhros is in command, but the news about the recalcitrance of the few soldiers they have is concerning. He should have realised that rumour would spread through the castle after Maedhros was found in a pool of Maglor's blood, should have blackmailed Curufin's lieutenant into keeping her mouth shut about it – but too late now. Hopefully Maedhros can rally them.

Three: keep Maedhros generally sane, and specifically unaware that he stabbed Maglor. Also not going too well. Maedhros is growing stressed and paranoid. He's noticed that Maglor is healing very slowly (or not at all, to be more accurate). And – as today's incident shows – he will remember, sooner or later.

A dire situation all round, Maglor concludes, and he is not sure how much longer he will have the energy to attempt to handle it.

Where's Fingon when you need him?

Exactly where he should be, actually!

Fingon is mostly succeeding in his objectives.

The Sindar have stood down.

(Thingol agreed to his terms. That’s what matters, right? Not the vague flash of disgust in his eyes.)

“Are we going back to Himring?” Curufin wants to know. “They’re in danger.”

I have to kill you, Fingon thinks, and says aloud, “Yes, we are. But if you’re lying to me again, Curufin…”

He lets the threat trail off.

Anyway. More pressing concerns for now.

He sets a hard pace back through Himlad, reasoning that even if Curufin is lying there won’t be any harm done in getting back to Himring quicker.

Curufin has been trying to make contact with Maglor again, but his brother’s mind is closed – worrying.

All he gathered from Maglor’s brief use of ósanwë was the scent of blood and panic, the sound of orc-horns in the distance and a terrible pain in his side.

Has Maglor been injured in battle? Surely not; his leg can’t be mended enough for him to fight yet. But then what’s wrong with him?

Curufin definitely isn’t going to try touching Maedhros’ mind, considering the state Maedhros was in when he left Himring.

This is such a mess. And it’s all his fault. And Celegorm is still dead.

Be better, Fingon told Curufin – but now he won’t even look at Curufin, and Curufin’s hand is still burned and he doesn’t think it will ever heal.

Does he even want it to?

Back at Himring, Maedhros watches as the orcs press closer. If they manage to surround the great hill completely—

[look I know nothing about military stuff. in lieu of any actual manoeuvres or strategies we are going to assume that the Bad Thing that needs to be prevented is the fortress being encircled. got it? cool.]

“Harass them from both flanks,” he orders. “Keep them contained, don’t let them spread out.”

His paltry force obeys, but with plenty of murmuring.

The patrols, Maedhros catches, and His own brother.

He doesn’t know what they mean. He doesn’t know how much longer he can possibly hold. He doesn’t know where Fingon is, or whether he’s succeeded at preventing a war with Doriath, or why Maglor isn’t getting better.

When there is nothing left but the clamour in his head and his racing pulse, there is still war, at least: still the swift brutal swing of his sword though orc-neck after orc-neck, the splatter of black blood against his breastplate and the deadly dance of the battle-field.

(Still the gentle light of the Silmaril in his pocket. Still Maglor, breathing. But those are harder to hold on to.)

Himring will not fall. Himring must not fall.

As the weary battle for the fortress continues, its chronicle is woven by steady, skilful hands in the House of Vairë.

Míriel Therindë’s grandson has little difficulty finding her tapestries in the Halls of Mandos.

He is staring at them in transfixed horror when he feels a presence behind him.

“Oh. It’s you. What are you doing here?”

“Same as you, I imagine,” says Finrod, coming to sit beside him (metaphorically. since spirits can’t really sit. you know the drill). “Looking at the tapestries.”

Celegorm snorts impatiently. In life he had a tendency, when frustrated, to slip into the language and mannerisms of whatever bird or beast he felt most appropriate to the situation – elves are simply too stupid to talk to being the clear implication.

Finrod is absurdly pleased to find out this is still the case.

Or maybe it isn’t absurd, he tells himself, maybe it’s natural to want to believe that this is still the cousin he grew up with, that a person can betray you and turn your kingdom against you and still have some parts worth saving.

“I meant,” Celegorm is saying derisively, “what are you doing in these Halls? I thought your dear cousin won you a special boon.”

“Impressive you can still speak of her, after what you did,” observes Finrod. “But yes, Mandos did tell me I was to be re-embodied. First of all the Exiles, you know.”

“And?” Celegorm presses, after he is silent for a time.

Finrod smiles at him. “I told him thanks, but no thanks,” he says.

Celegorm splutters for a bit. “What?” he manages at last. “Ingoldo, have you lost your mind? How – why – is this all out of some misguided form of pity? Or are you just flinging it in my face that you can choose to leave and I can’t?”

“Lúthien reminded me,” Finrod says seriously, “that we always have a choice.”

Back in Himring, Maedhros is being pressed hard.

They are so badly outnumbered, and the orcs keep coming and coming, a never-ending river.

If Himring falls, Maglor dies – for there is no chance of his surviving a hurried retreat, Maedhros can see that even without fully understanding what ails his brother, and he has refused to be sent away in advance.

Himring can’t fall, Maedhros tells himself.

(To evil end shall all things turn that they begin well – how those words echoed in his ears four hundred years ago, as he watched his high stone fortress built. He realises, now, that he always expected Himring to fall.)

The orcs have pushed them back to the south of the hill, almost closing off the circle, cutting off their last path of retreat.

Will he burn with the house, then – like Amrod, like his father? The prospect would not be so awful were it not for Maglor.

Nothing lasts forever; Maedhros understands that as few other elves do, and has done since Angband.

But Maglor – Maglor has to live forever – Maglor is dying—

To the south-west sounds a clear silver horn, the horn of Fingolfin.

(to be continued)