#anyway. maedhros really walked into this one

[lordgrimwing]

Babysitting #01

Maglor didn't flinch when his office door swung open, hitting the doorstop on the wall with a bang. At the law firm of Fëanoro & Associates, slamming doors and raised voices were no uncommon thing. He considered it the natural consequence of working with his father and all six of his brothers (Amrod and Amras were just paralegals at this point, but there was no question that they would join the firm after graduating) in a single building. He continued typing on his chunky keyboard until he reached the end of the paragraph of the settlement document he was redrafting before looking up.

"I need you," Maedros said without preamble, the customary mildly annoyed expression he wore anytime he wasn't talking to clients or judges replaced by actual frustration. "To do something for me."

"I'm kind of in the middle of something," Maglor said, already knowing that he'd do whatever his brother asked and just end up staying even later at the office—it wasn't as if anything was waiting for him back at his apartment.

"She brought her children," The hand not gripping the edge of the door curled into a fist at his side.

“Who did?” One of the first changes Maglor made when he came on as an attorney was to hire some good secretaries. He did not pay that much attention to any of his brothers’ schedules these days.

“That Elwing woman, the pro bono case Celegorm talked me into.”

“Oh,” He was quite familiar with the details of this particular divorce if for no other reason than Maedhros complained about it at least once a day for the past month. The woman in question, a young peredhel from down south, was apparently prone to worrying over every detail and calling her attorney in a panic when she needed reassurance that everything would get worked out. 

“I cannot work with children touching everything in my office.” His brother continued, shoulders tense. 

He thought he knew where this was going. “And you need me to…”

“Just occupy them with something. If they aren’t around to interrupt and distract her from what we’re doing, I’ll be done in an hour, two at most if this girl keeps asking inane questions and insisting on accounting for every possible mishap in the formal papers.”

Maglor signed out of his computer and pushed his chair back from the desk. “I can do that.”

“Good,” Though the tone didn’t suggest it, he could see his brother’s gratitude in the faint softening of his frown before he turned away. “Come on.”

They walked quickly down the hall to Maedhros’s corner office. At the large wooden desk inside sat a woman with bleach-blond hair styled in a vaguely windswept way. She looked up anxiously when the door swished open, her bottom lip slipping out from between her teeth as she quickly tried to compose herself. She looked even younger than Maglor expected: less like the 23-year-old mother of twin 6-year-old boys and more like a child herself. The boys in question had their faces and hands pressed against one of the windows, staring out at the city below them.

“This is Maglor,” Maedhros said briskly to Elwing. “He will keep an eye on your children until we finish.”

Maglor smiled at her to smooth over his brother’s tone. “We’ll be just down the hall.”

“Thank you,” She said, still looking like a nervous wreck, and turned to her children. “Elros, Elrond.”

They turned from the window to look at the adults. Maglor was surprised to see they were identical and couldn’t help but recall how Amrod and Amras looked as children too. Even 20, most people outside the family had a hard time telling his brothers apart, though Amrod’s hair was getting slowly darker as the years passed. These twins did not bear any resemblance to his brothers, of course, beyond the fact that they were both identical sets. Their features bore such a mix of races as to make it impossible to guess at their heritage other than some combination of elf and human.

Elwing continued. “This nice man is going to take you to do something much more fun than listening to Mommy and Mr. Marillion talk.”

Maedhros’ upper lip curled back slightly in disgust at the use of his legal last name and probably at the reference to his brother as a man. Fëanor’s family held to the traditional values of the Noldor elves and preferred using more elvan terms. Personally, Maglor did not care much one way or the other if he were called an ‘ellon’ or a ‘man’, but everyone argued less when they all went along with tradition. He ignored his brother’s reaction and turned to the boys as they approached him.

“Yes,” He grinned at them, crouching slightly so he was not looming so far above them. “We can find something much more fun.” 

“Do you have toy boats?” The first boy asked, holding hands with his brother who looked much more reluctant to talk with the stranger. “I love boats.”

His father kept a model of the boats the Noldor used to sail across the sea thousands of years ago in his office, but Maglor doubted Fëanor would appreciate them interrupting him to see it. “Let’s go see what we can find,” He said instead. At the very least, he could use one of the secretary’s computers to look up boat images or videos. If that was all it took to keep these children occupied, he would count himself lucky. He recalled Amrod and Amras being quite the handful at this age.

The first boy tugged the second along as they left the office. “I’m Elros,” He said and then pointed back at his brother. “He’s Elrond. It’s okay if you don’t remember, no one ever does.”

“I’ll do my best.” Given Elros was wearing a green t-shirt and Elrond a blue, he would have no trouble telling them apart. “What do you like most about boats?” He asked.

“You can go anywhere on a boat!” Elros exclaimed with obvious glee. “You can sail all over the world and visit all the countries and go on adventures. Who doesn’t like boats?”

“I’ve met a few hobbits who don’t.”

Elros rolled his eyes. “Our dad’s met all kinds of people on the sea, even hobbits!”

“Our dad’s a sailor.” Elrond piped up in a tiny voice. 

By which, Maglor knew he meant their father was in the navy. He’s apparently been involved in some heroics a couple years ago which was somehow making the divorce more complicated than it should have been when two peredhil got married far too young and finally realized they shouldn’t stay together. According to his father, most people got married far too young these days, especially the elves. Fëanor spoke quite freely about the vices of marrying young when Curufin was going through his own quiet divorce five years ago. The then 23-year-old law student dutifully murmured his agreement with everything said as his now ex-wife took their child and drove away. Sometimes, it was better for everyone if couples didn’t stay together.

He wondered if these boys knew their parents were getting divorced. “That sounds very exciting,” He said instead and left it at that until they reached the front desk and he told the secretary that he’d be commandeering the unused computer so Elros could show him his favorite kinds of boats.

He did not particularly care for sailing himself. He’s gone out on the ocean a few times: their father insisted they all have at least an appreciation for the type of boats the Noldor used. He found the constant movement made him nauseated. Despite that, the next hour and a half passed surprisingly quickly as Elros, with a little support from Elrond, talked his way through picture after picture of various ships.

He looked up with surprise when he heard Maedhros’s voice. “Yes, yes I am sure that is everything we need to put in writing. Yes, Eärendil will be on leave next week and we’ll get everything signed and put away and it will all be official, and you do not need to worry.” 

His tall brother guided Elwing through the doorway and into the front lobby. From his tone and expression, he was on his last thread of civility.

“All finished?” Maglor asked, standing up quickly and giving the children a gentle push toward their mother to distract her from whatever she was worrying about and his brother’s bruskness.

“Yes,” Maedhros said with conviction. 

“Yes,” Elwing said with relief. “Mr. Marillion you’ve been so helpful, thank you. I feel so much better with adding those last couple things. I really do.” She turned to Maglor. “And thank you for looking after Elros and Elrond. I hope they weren’t too much trouble.” 

“None at all,” He assured, thinking about the documents waiting in his office.

“Thank you again, Mr…” She trailed off, clearly fishing for his last name.

“It’s Marillion too, but please just call me Maglor. There are far too many of us in this firm to use our last name.”

With that, Maedhros ushered her and the two boys out through the glass entry doors. 

“Is she getting custody?” Maglor asked when his brother turned around.

“Yes,” He answered, sounding entirely done with it all. “Full custody, the father didn’t even push very hard for visitation rights.”

“She doesn’t really seem like the kind of girl who should be raising kids on her own.” Maglor mused, watching through the glass as Elwing fumbled and dropped her car keys. When she bent over to retrieve them, her phone fell out of her purse to join the keys on the asphalt.

Maedhros snorted. “She’s done it for the last six years. The father will still pay child support, so a divorce isn’t going to change that much.”

“I suppose she loves them, at least.” Love did not play heavily in any of his siblings’ childhoods. Their father approved of results far more than people. Their mother appreciated that he and Maedhros were old enough to help when their siblings came along but was quite ready to continue with her career in the intervening years. People always talked about the importance of parents loving their children, though, so it seemed like an appropriate thing to say.

His brother shrugged, unconcerned. “She certainly worries.”

“How so?”

He turned back toward his office and Maglor followed by his side. “She wanted an addition to the agreement stating who should take the kids if she suddenly died or disappeared or was kidnapped and held for ransom by some eco-terrorist group, or if the police couldn’t definitively prove her ex wasn’t involved. I had to sit there for the last 40 minutes while she called every contact on her phone and asked if they would take them.” He threw his hands up with frustration.

“And did she find someone?” Maglor asked, curious.

“No! They all had the good sense not to answer or else say those were ridiculous things to worry about and told her to calm down and they’d talk later.” Maedhros looked as though he’d wanted to tell her a good deal more than that.

“She just gave up?”

“No,” He repeated, turning suddenly into Maglor’s office and flopping into one of the cushioned chairs for clients to sit in for more relaxed discussions. He sighed and closed his eyes for a moment.  

Maglor sat next to him. “You could get some nicer seats in your own office, you know, rather than using mine.” He chastised without any real intent. He liked when his brother stopped by to unwind a bit during the day.

Maedhros chuckled but didn’t answer. His office hardly changed in the ten years since he claimed the space after passing the bar.

“So what happened?” Maglor pushed.

“It’s past 6:30, I just wanted her to get out.” He said without opening his eyes.

“And?”

“I said I’d take them.”

Maglor laughed at the thought of his brother volunteering to look after children again. “Really?”

“Signed it and everything. Legally binding now.” Maedhros said, looking utterly unconcerned.

“Russ,” He switched to one of the names that he only used when lightly teasing his older brother. “That means you’ll have to raise two more boys if she suddenly and mysteriously dies.”

Maedhros inhaled sharply, a mockery of surprise, and said, “Pray that she doesn’t, Laurë. Pray that she doesn’t.”

[thelordofgifs]

the fairest stars: post iv

Beren and Lúthien steal two Silmarils, more sons of Fëanor than anyone ever needed or wanted get involved, things go extremely sideways: you know the drill. You can find the first 18 parts of this bullet point fic on AO3 here, and parts 16-20 on tumblr here.

We're starting out part 21 with a timeskip!

One year after the fall of Himring, north Beleriand remains bitterly contested.

The East is overrun. In Barad Eithel's great war-room the map of Estolad is covered in black arrows stretching from Lothlann down to the Andram Wall.

Caranthir and Amras maintain a last stronghold on Amon Ereb, with the people of Himring who fled there after its fall; but Ossiriand, they fear, will only remain undefiled so long as Morgoth's attention does not turn towards it.

Their Eastern allies, too, are unimpressed. Bór and his young sons were all slain not long after Himring burned; the few of their people who escaped the orc-raids have joined themselves to Ulfang in Thargelion, but they are none too friendly to the Fëanorians these days.

"And Nelyo says I'm bad at making allies," Caranthir remarks.

[yeah he's in this now. damn it why will they not stay in their place.]

"I wouldn't say this is Nelyo's fault," Amras says quietly.

It is a debate held, in one form or the other, in every free kingdom in Beleriand.

But anyway, the East does not seem to be Morgoth's main concern for now.

It is Hithlum, Fingon is sure, where the next assault will come.

Hithlum, the realm of the High King of the Noldor; Hithlum, where he reigns who once humilated Morgoth so thoroughly; Hithlum, where Maedhros holds a Silmaril yet.

If the last true stronghold of the Noldor falls—

And he is facing plenty of internal pressure, too.

His lords – many of them survivors of the Grinding Ice, and arch-loyal followers of the House of Fingolfin – are less than impressed by the rumours that have reached them of the fall of Himring, and Maedhros' actions there.

Fingon has tried to quell the whispers as best as he can. But it is impossible to deny the fact that the attack took Himring by surprise because its patrols were cancelled on Maedhros' orders, or that Maedhros left the field as their position worsened.

The healers who treated Maglor's stab wound have not been quiet, either, about the fact that it was an elvish blade that caused the injury.

And some of those who were at Himring have heard that Maglor was found in a pool of his own blood with Maedhros, subdued too late, unconscious beside him—

If only they knew, Fingon thinks furiously, they would not cast sly aspersions on his judgement and his taste in friends. They would not stop talking of anything consequential when Maedhros drew near, as if he is not to be trusted with the secrets of the war.

Of course when he dares to suggest to Maedhros that this might bother him, Maedhros laughs and says, "Finno, do you think this the worst humiliation I have ever endured?"

So. There's not much Fingon can say to that.

His father was a diplomat, a politician, a builder of alliances. Fingon is not doing a very good job of living up to that legacy.

Thingol returned no response to the letter Fingon sent him, informing him of Curufin's disappearance.

In fact, Thingol is kind of just Done.

So the Noldor turned out to be faithless. What else is new?

Also he didn't really want Curufin's head anyway. Where would he even put it?

Fingon cannot give him what he truly wishes for: his daughter.

In Lúthien's absence old age has fallen upon him, who has lived unwithered for long Ages of the Stars since his birth at distant Cuiviénen.

Melian sings no longer. The people of Doriath, who have known little but peace and splendour since the Girdle was first raised, begin to wonder if their blessings have been withdrawn.

So it is a Menegroth much changed into which Beren and Lúthien walk, hand in hand, one afternoon.

Their return is met with both joy and some consternation. Youth comes back to Thingol at the touch of his daughter's hand; but Melian knows that she will never smile again.

Lúthien bears it all, the feasts of celebration at which none can look her in the eye, her father's overwhelming gladness and her mother's sorrow, the halls that ring yet with the memory of her grief, for exactly two weeks; then she announces that she and Beren are leaving.

"Daughter," Thingol protests, "you have only just returned to us – and soon—"

(Thingol does not know how he will ever handle the parting that is to come.)

"Will you not stay?" he asks. "This is your home."

Lúthien is not sure she knows what home means any more.

"I am sorry," she says, regretful but firm.

The next day finds her and Beren walking through Brethil, debating their next course of action – just as they did not so very long ago, when Celegorm and Curufin attacked them in the woods.

It is of that little skirmish that Beren is thinking now.

"They say Curufin is still out there somewhere," he argues. "It mightn't be safe—"

"I sang Morgoth himself to sleep," Lúthien cries, "and you think I can't take Curufin Fëanorion?"

"Tinúviel," Beren says, with a laugh, "I do not think there is anyone you can't take."

Lúthien allows herself to be placated.

"I am not suggesting we dwell alone in the wilderness," she says; "you made your earlier thoughts on that very clear. But I – I cannot go back to being Doriath's Princess, Beren, as if every part of me is not changed irretrievably since first you called my name, as if – as if you didn't die there, and—"

"Sweetheart," says Beren, kissing her forehead. "It wasn't permanent." And when she chokes out a little laugh through her tears, he goes on, "I know you do not wish to stay in Doriath. But we must choose somewhere – and somewhere safe. It seems as though the Enemy's reach has lengthened in the time we were, um, gone."

"I thought to go to Ossiriand," Lúthien says. "My kin the Green-elves still guard those lands."

"But only those lands," says Beren. "Estolad and Thargelion are overrun. The sons of Fëanor keep no watch upon the Eastmarch. If Morgoth were to learn that you dwelled there—"

"I'm not afraid," Lúthien says. "And even if I were – am I never to venture beyond the Girdle again, for fear of him? Is all my father's kingdom to be naught to me but a prison, as Hírilorn was? I cannot stand it – I will not."

Beren takes both her hands in his one and looks at her. "Tinúviel," he says, very seriously, "I will never cage you."

Oh, he knows her. What a wondrous, terrifying thing, to be understood so completely.

Perhaps Lúthien is still a little delirious with the rush of living once more, for she dips her head to capture Beren's mouth in a delighted kiss, and for a time they both forget all other matters.

Plucking strands of grass from her hair some time later, Beren says, "I have another idea."

"What! I thought I argued my case quite passionately," Lúthien teases.

"You said you thought of dwelling among your kin," says Beren. "What of going to mine, instead?" And, when Lúthien shoots him a puzzled look, "The House of Bëor is mostly ruined, but there are still remnants of my people who escaped Dorthonion ere its fall. Some of them dwell nearby, with the Haladin. And others went north to Dor-lómin – my little cousin Morwen is the lady of that land now."

"I do not wish to stay in Brethil," says Lúthien; "it is rather too close to Menegroth for my tastes. But the Land of Echoes, on the other hand..."

Her eyes are alight with that same fanciful gleam they used to get when Beren told her stories of the world outside the Girdle, of holy Tarn Aeluin and the dread Ered Gorgoroth alike.

You would think, Beren muses, that she would have had enough of adventure by now.

"I have," says Lúthien, catching his thought. "We are to live a very peaceful and retiring life. I insist on it! That is what I told Mandos we deserved. None shall dare assail us, in Dor-l��min." She rolls the name on her tongue as if trying to taste it.

"They call it so because of the terrible cry of Morgoth when Ungoliant assailed him," Beren tells her, "not for any sweeter music."

Lúthien laughs and flings her arms around him. Oh, his living body warm and solid against hers! It is a gift she does not intend to waste.

"Luckily," she says, "I am good at changing the melody."

Another conversation between lovers:

"Do you think it could be done?"

“I have already told you what I think.”

"But you haven't explained," Fingon persists, "you have only looked at me dolefully and proclaimed that it is not possible."

"Well, it is not," says Maedhros. He is lying curled in Fingon's arms, their ankles hooked together, and he is loath to disturb their contentment with arguing. Keeping his voice measured, he says, "If our strength were doubled I do not think it would be enough, Finno."

"The attack will come either way," Fingon says, also without much vigour. They have had this debate so many times now that it is become well-worn. "Why not meet it head on?"

"Because you have a defensible position here," Maedhros says patiently, "and a greater chance of holding than you do of storming the gates of Angband."

"My father did it," Fingon mutters.

"Your father died," Maedhros says, voice suddenly sharp.

Fingon looks at him. "Don't look so worried, beloved! I am quite turned off the idea of wasteful heroics these days."

"Then look to strengthening your defences," Maedhros says, "and drop this fool notion."

"But if we did try," says Fingon, "if we united all the Free Peoples under one banner, and marched on Angband together – think what we could achieve!"

His eyes are bright with hope. Maedhros hates to crush it, but crush it he must.

"Finno," he says, "the East is lost. My brothers do not have so strong a position in Amon Ereb that they can afford to march north to join in a war that could prove ruinous. Bór and his people are dead almost to a man. Belegost will no doubt have heard the rumours—"

Fingon glances at him sharply, but he speaks without bitterness. Which is concerning in itself, but Fingon decides to let it slide for now.

"—and there is little help to be expected from other corners," Maedhros continues. "Doriath has strength to spare, but Thingol hates you."

Fingon shifts uncomfortably. He never actually told Maedhros why Thingol hates him now.

"Nargothrond," he says, to change the subject. "Orodreth will answer to his High King."

"Orodreth!" says Maedhros, dismissively. “A king too ruled by the whims of his people. If he had any spine he would have turned my brothers out of Nargothrond immediately, and Finrod might have lived.”

If Fingon were crueller he might say, You didn't manage to control your brothers that well yourself. Instead he says, "But the people of Nargothrond are many and valiant. We should not discount them."

"If Nargothrond wishes to stay out of the wars of the north," says Maedhros, "I think it would be prudent to allow them to do so." There is a thoughtful, uneasy look in his grey eyes.

Fingon gauges it correctly and says, "Are you worried for your nephew?"

Maedhros looks at him unhappily. "Everyone in Beleriand knows what a mess – Curvo – made of – everything," he says.

(A year might have passed, but Maedhros still does not much like to speak of Curufin.)

"Tyelpë is safe in Nargothrond, where his father's deeds cannot taint him," Maedhros says. "I would keep him so." Then he shrugs. "But my opinion carries no weight now, beloved. Do as you will, and I will support you, for all that is worth."

"It carries weight with me," Fingon says fiercely. "And I am not ashamed to say so. But you have not yet heard the key element in my plan."

Maedhros smiles despite himself, propping himself up on his elbows so that he can keep his eyes focused on Fingon's face. The mass of his silken hair is pooled on Fingon's bare chest. "Go on, then," he says, indulgent.

"Gondolin," Fingon says triumphantly. "My brother took a third of our host with him when he disappeared, and yet more of the Sindar went with him. They have lived in peace for more than three hundred years; their numbers must be great."

Maedhros does not seem as delighted with this idea as Fingon is. "Finno, you don't know where Gondolin is."

"The Eagles bring them tidings, clearly," Fingon points out; "else they would have opened the leaguer and come to our aid when they saw the fires of the Dagor Bragollach on the horizon."

Maedhros frowns, attempting to parse this extremely backwards logic. Eventually, he says, "If Hithlum falls, Gondolin will be the last stronghold of the Noldor in the north. I do not know if its position should be risked."

"All war is risk, beloved," says Fingon, "and if I were to call upon my brother, Hithlum will not fall."

Maedhros says, as if he has been saving this blow for last, "Finno, if you call upon Turgon, will he even answer?"

It has been more than three hundred years, since Fingon last saw his brother.

“Do you think he won’t?” he asks, more sharply than he means to.

(Turgon didn’t tell him he was going. He didn’t tell anyone. He just – vanished.)

Sometimes Maedhros thinks things were easier during Maglor’s long convalescence, when his only concern was his brother, when every sleepless night was because Maglor needed someone to sit up with him and every meal was whatever invalid's food Maglor could be persuaded to choke down – when Fingon was his strength and steadiness, and Maedhros could yet wrap his blue cloak around him like armour.

Selfish – selfish. Maglor is better now, and Maedhros is so, so glad; and Fingon cannot always be his strength. Sometimes Maedhros must be his.

"I am sure he will," he says, contrite. He presses a kiss to Fingon's tense jawline. "I just don't think it wise to ask him."

Fingon sighs and puts his arms around Maedhros. "Fine," he concedes. "Perhaps you are right."

But later, when they have extricated themselves from their warm tangle of limbs and risen for the day, he sits down to write a letter.

A few days later the High King's messenger, having ridden swiftly along the Ered Wethrin and into Dor-lómin, nearly collides with a small child playing near the road.

"Be careful!" cries Lúthien, dropping Beren's hand and rushing forward to snatch the child up.

The messenger gapes at her, for it seems to him as though she has materialised out of the shadows themselves. Then, when he gets better look at her beauty, he gapes even more.

Lúthien is not paying attention. All her focus is on the little golden-haired creature in her arms. "That was nearly very dangerous for you, wasn't it, sweetheart?" she coos. "But you don't seem frightened at all. What's your name, dear one?"

The little girl giggles and hides her face in Lúthien's sleeve without answering.

Beren feels a little dizzy, looking at the picture that they make, and at the bright tender look on his wife's face. Someday, he tells himself, someday.

He looks around. The messenger has dismounted; it seems the great house up ahead is his destination. A house of lords, clearly, surrounded by gardens as lovely as any in the chilly northlands, and with a bubbling stream running just past its walls.

Well, here they are.

He is pondering what the etiquette is here – should they knock? wait here until someone spots them? – when he catches sight of a second child, a little older, dark-haired, watching them intently from around a tree-trunk.

"Good day, lad," Beren says gravely. "Might I ask your name, and those of your parents?"

The boy regards him with suspicion for a while, before he finally says, "I am Túrin son of Húrin, and that is my sister Lalaith."

(One little-appreciated consequence of the fall of Himring: for the last year, Morgoth's attention has been on the final desecration of the March of Maedhros. He did not have time to send the Evil Breath to Dor-lómin.)

"Lalaith!" Lúthien says, delighted. "What a fitting name."

"Then, son of Húrin," says Beren, "we have reached our destination indeed. Might you do me the honour of introducing us to your parents?"

Túrin looks unimpressed. "Who are you?" he asks.

"My name is Beren son of Barahir," says Beren, "and we are kinsmen, son of Morwen."

Túrin frowns even more. "How do you know my mother's name?" he demands. "And Beren is dead."

Kind of hard to argue with that.

Before Beren can come up with a suitable response there is a small noise from the direction of the house: the children's mother has come out to call them in for the evening meal. She stands so still she might be made of stone, were it not for the wind whipping up her dark hair behind her.

Beren finds his own mouth is very dry.

He buried Baragund his cousin, and avenged him; and he has not thought of his slaughtered companions for a long time.

(There's only so much survivor's guilt one person can have, and it is usually the screams of Finrod and his Ten that haunt Beren's nightmares.)

Morwen is not now the thirteen-year-old he remembers, her face sterner and more sorrowful, but somehow she is the image of her dead father.

"Hello, little cousin," he croaks out.

Morwen stares at him.

Lúthien comes to the rescue. "You must be the lady Morwen," she says warmly, setting Lalaith down so that she can drop into a graceful curtsey. Her Taliska is hesitant, but beautiful. (Everything about Lúthien is beautiful.) "Beren has told me so much of you. And your children are charming."

"Beren's dead," Morwen says at last, shakily. "And – you—"

"I was dead," says Beren, "but now I'm not. I don't know how to explain it, cousin, but—" He holds his hand out to her, letting the Ring of Barahir gleam green upon his finger in the setting sun. "It really is me."

Morwen makes another small sound, swaying where she stands. Her hand rests on her son's dark head as though he is the only thing keeping her upright.

"Mother?" Túrin says nervously.

Before things can get any more awkward the lord of the house comes out to seek his family, perhaps wondering what is taking them so long. "Morwen," he says quietly, seeing her stiff posture.

But Morwen takes a breath. "We have guests, Húrin," she says, composed again. "This is my kinsman Beren Erchamion, and his – and his wife, the Princess of Doriath."

Lúthien turns her dazzling smile on Húrin. "A pleasure to meet you," she says gaily. "But call me rather the Lady of Dorthonion."

(to be continued)

[caenith]

The very beginning of the First Age was such a bad time for Fingolfin:

his youngest son is killed,*

he learns that his older brother, who is the reason why all of them are right now in Beleriand, has been dead for a while,

one of his nephews is a prisoner in Angband and nobody really knows his fate,

a civil war might start any day now - Fingolfin's people are not in the best mood after the horrors of Helcaraxë and Fëanor's host did not follow Fëanor because of their love for Ñolofinwë.

And now his OLDEST SON AND HEIR, precious Fingon DISAPPEARS. Maybe someone saw him leaving the camp and going north, with just a bow and his harp? Or maybe they suddenly realize that prince Findekáno has not returned from his walk? Anyway, Fingolfin panics - this is a dangerous, unknown land. Angband is so close. Orcs can be anywhere. It could even be another trap set up by Morgoth to capture yet another prince. But Fingolfin can't stand losing another child. He won't lose another child.

If elves' hair could turn gray as a consequence of stress, Fingon would surely be welcomed back in the camp by a white-haired figure strangely resembling his father.

And just as Fingolfin can finally sit down and rest (Fingon is most certainly grounded, Maedhros seems to be recovering, feanorians behave, at least for now), he gets the crown. No rest for poor Ñolofinwë, apparently. Just new responsibilities.

*if we consider a version of the story that includes Argon, what we will most certainly do for the maximum drama :)

[animatorweirdo]

Rough Weekend with Mom

(Another fic for the being the local therapist for the elves. Hope you enjoy)

Imagine being the local therapist but opening up to them about your recent troubles, traumatizing them in return. 

Warnings: Mentions of blood, violence and murder. This takes a dark turn. Poor Maedhros is gonna wish he didn’t ask. 

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

Maedhros: And then they just get kicked out, and we lost one of our possible allies and get Thingol even more mad at us, killing the chances of ever getting along. Then they also dare to walk back to me, begging me to let them stay after their stunt. 

You: Man… that’s rough. I don’t know much about politics, but even I would consider that as a bad move. 

Maedhros: tell me about it. sometimes I consider murdering them myself. 

Maedhros: Anyway, sorry about ranting. You have listened to me rant and talk about these things far too many times. 

You: It’s fine. Whatever helps you relieve stress. 

Maedhros: Well, I don’t consider it fair that I only get to talk, so tell me – how have you been doing these past few days? 

You: Nah – it's fine. 

Maedhros: No, I insist. I would really like to know how you have been doing. 

You: Uhmm… Well, I must say I had a rough weekend. 

Maedhros: Really? What happened? 

You: Okay…so…uhh… my mother came to visit me for the weekend. All was fine, and we spent some time together. 

Maedhros: That sounds nice. What then?

You: Well…one night, when my mom was visiting my sister and her family, I heard crying coming from my basement. I went to investigate and found a baby beneath a pile of bloodied clothes. 

Maedhros: …what?

You: Yeah, I found baby… then I found my father’s bracelet. The thing about this bracelet is that he never takes it off. It’s like a family heirloom to him, so that’s when I knew something was off and my mother had something to do with it. 

Maedhros: Oh, no. 

You: So, I left the baby at my brother’s house and asked him to keep it a secret from our mother. Then, I went to visit our father. He lived in the next town, so it wasn't too far from where we lived.

You: My father and mother were divorced by the way. They had a pretty bad falling out and had not been in contact ever since. 

You: *Release a heavy sigh*

You: I arrived at my father's house and found it in a terrible mess. All the furniture had been either tossed or broken, and there was blood all over the place.

Maedhros: Was your father okay? 

You: *Shaking your head* No. He was nowhere in sight. 

Maedhros: *Fall silent* 

You: I investigated the house, trying to find leads of him and his assailant, but then a friend came over and told me there was a crazy woman harassing my siblings, claiming to be the baby’s mother and demanding to see our mother brought to justice. 

You: My siblings were scared, so they didn't dare to give the baby back to her. Also, because They weren't certain if the woman was telling the truth.

You: I got back to my town, and things escalated. It turns out, my father had been seeing this woman and had a child with her - the baby I found in my basement. My mother did not like that, even though they had been divorced for many years.

You: So… my mother murdered my father, tried to hide the baby, my half-sibling, in my basement, and turns out she was not visiting my sister, but trying to hide my father’s body somewhere in the forest. And not only that, when she found out that we knew what she had done, she tried to convince us to get rid of our half-sibling. Obviously, we refused then our half-sibling’s mother came back and stabbed our mother in the back several times, killing her on the spot– likely as revenge for killing our father. 

You: And… well… she then killed herself out of despair and sorrow because our father was dead, leaving us… with her infant baby, right in front of us. 

Maedhros: *Staring at you in horror*

You: So... we kinda lost our parents and got left with a baby and… I don’t know. It all happened so fast and… I really don’t know how to feel about the whole thing. 

You: I got to keep the bracelet since me and my father were pretty close and… we decided to name our sibling Anna since she was a girl. So… I guess that’s fine. 

*Dead silence between you and in the tavern*

Maedhros: *Grabs a whole bottle of wine over the counter and hands it to you* Here—  you need this more than me. 

[eleneressea]

★ ☆ ☠ ♡ ♥ ▼ ☼ ൠ for Maedhros?

★ - sad headcanon

One of Morgoth's favorite tortures was for Maedhros to watch other people being tortured. Any elf would do, all that mattered was that Maedhros could see and hear them and couldn't do anything to stop their pain. It's not that Morgoth wanted information from Maedhros or anything, like when Sauron tortured the Gwaith-i-Mírdain in front of Celebrimbor; it was just to see Maedhros suffer.

☆ - happy headcanon

Wanted children with Fingon—not seven kids, because that's so many, but maybe three or four. Fëanor jokingly suggested naming Maedhros's eldest "Fourth-Finwë" to go with "Third-Finwë" and got a pillow thrown at his face and a demand that Fëanor would have to go by "Second-Finwë" for Maedhros to even consider "Fourth-Finwë."

☠ - angry/violent headcanon

Could and did take on entire companies of orcs alone; there is a reason that they fled in terror from his face. While in battle he tended to not notice most injuries, which meant that sometimes he would be halfway back to Himring when the pain hit and he stopped being able to move. Thus while he could take on orcs alone, in practice he usually brought at least one other person.

♡ - romantic headcanon

Sometimes spent all day kissing Fingon while in Valinor. They would go on trips alone to secluded spots to avoid getting walked in on by their many siblings and cousins, and then spend the day cuddling and kissing. Usually without a shirt on. Or anything else.

♥ - family headcanon

The only one of Míriel's descendants to actually be called "Þerindion" because fiber artist!Maitimo is my one true love, and also the one with the most physical resemblance to her; he mostly inherited Nerdanel's coloring and Fëanor and Nerdanel were both quite tall and broad (and Maedhros is taller than both of them) while Míriel was tiny, so it's not really apparent on first glance, but his facial features are all Míriel's. (None of the rest of them bear her much resemblance at all.)

▼ - childhood headcanon

Fëanor and Nerdanel moved around a lot when the children were young, stopping here and there for a few years at a time, so most of Maedhros's childhood memories involve sitting in a wagon, reading aloud while Fëanor and Nerdanel drove. Driver picked the reading material; Fëanor would give Maedhros letters from the family or his colleagues to read, and Nerdanel had him reading descriptions of their destination's geology.

☼ - appearance headcanon

All over freckles, which until the rising of the Sun were only known in Valinor and were considered a blessing from Varda. He gained even more freckles in Beleriand, between the sun and the reflection of sun off of the snow in Himring. Fingon liked to make constellations out of them.

ൠ - random headcanon

Never told Fingon that he had argued with Fëanor or stood aside at the burning of the ships; first, because he regrets a significant number of the things he said to Fëanor during that argument and doesn't want to think about it, and second, because he doesn't think it really matters since Fëanor burned the ships anyway.

[just-another-linguist]

House of Fingolfin pet headcanons

Fingon: Despite him being my favourite character, I didn't think about what kind of pets he would have yet. Now that i'm thinking about that, it would be pretty iconic fof him to have an eagle as a pet (*cough* the Thangorodhrim incident *cough*). Think about it: He was friends with all the eagles after the rescue of Maedhros. One time he was out on his balcony, just chilling on a chair reading a book. An eagle built a nest over his balcony. Suddenly, one of the eagle babies gets thrown out of the nest by one of his siblings. High king Fingon, cool as he is, reacts fast and catches the eaglet before it hits the ground. The mother eagle is very grateful that he saved her baby. Over time they become friends and the mother eagle sometimes brings letters to his friends and fellow aristocrats (politic letter stuff from Doriath and Nargothrond. Idk how all of that works). The eagle doesnt really count as a pet but i'm counting it anyway. In Valinor he didn't have any pets and mostly looked after his siblings' pets, since they tended to not be very good pet owners. In Beleriand, additional to the eagle, he got a dog from Maedhros, who got him (the dog) from his brother Celegorm, who had a bunch of them. The dog was dalmatian and was terrible at hunting and cowered alot, so Fingon kept him inside most of the time and only went out with him for walks and visits to the vet.

Aredhel: Had a bunch of dogs from Celegorm, but also bred dogs herself. All hunting dogs, loved to cuddle with her and were very affectionate. Also had a tortoise in Valinor, but was terrible at caring for him. Fingon did all of the pet care for her, probably out of pity for the poor tortoise.

Turgon: Koi person. 100% koi owner. Number 1# koi fan. They are beautiful, gigantic, very expensive, super difficult to care for and Ulmo's personal favourite fish species. The last point is the most important one, since Turgon is an Ulmo stan. Turgon was actually a very good pet owner and cared for his kois, unlike his siblings (*cough* Aredhel). He even gave his kois names. His mother was always annoyed at him when he didn't come to the dinner table but ate outside at his koi pond and watched them swim. In Beleriand, kois were not native and none of the noldoli, including Turgon, brought kois to Beleriand since they are fish and very difficult to transport; Turgon kept goldfish in Gondolin as a replacement for the koi fish, and although he loved his goldies, he always wished he had brought his koi fish with him.

Argon: I am deeply convinced Argon was the baby child in the family. He's the youngest child, he died early, he literally gets zero text in the silm and nobody gives a shit about him. So what kind of pet does he get? Exactly. A rat. Who the fuck gives a shit about rats? No one, except me and maybe Fingon and Argon. Ron Weasley vibes. Uses two in one shampoo. His favourite movie was Ratatoui. Tell me this kid wouldn't have a rat as a pet.

[runawaymun]

🗡️&⚓, if you please!

🗡️ Defend your favorite war criminal (or make them worse - I'm not your mom)

I'm a Maedhros apologist for so many reasons. Chief of which is because I love him. But in all seriousness, while he is a war criminal and he is a mass-murderer, I think out of all the The Sons of Fëanor, he displayed the most restraint and regret.

Like sure the narrative tells us that Maglor deeply regretted his actions explicitly -- but he comes late to that realization after the end of the third kinslaying. Out of all the sons, Maedhros props up my idea that the Oath is something Eldritch and Outside of Them -- a compelling Force (which doesn't absolve them of their actions, but does explain things a lot) the most. He seeks the peaceful, least-violent solutions first, nearly every time.

Maedhros didn't participate in the burning of the ships.

Maedhros repeatedly tries to protect others at risk to himself - taking up the most dangerous/at-conflict lands in Himring, and trying end the conflict with Morgoth with the least bloodshed possible - at risk of his own life by going to treat with Morgoth. Is this his smartest move? No. Is it perhaps his most selfless? IMO yeah. I'm sure he knew he was walking into a trap, but he was offered an opportunity to end things with the least amount of bloodshed and risk to others, so he took it.

Maedhros does a lot of political (and familial) work in healing all the division his father caused over the Silmarils via the Union of Maedhros, but is happy not to be in charge and doesn't seem to need/want recognition. He doesn't have a huge ego. He relinquishes kingship to Fingolfin even though his brothers don't want him to.

The second he felt that his brothers might cause conflicts with others, he moved them out of Hithlum.

Celegorm had to convince Maedhros to attack Doriath. This was after Maedhros attempted to simply ask Dior to hand over the Silmaril - Dior may have inherited the Silmaril from Beren & Luthien, but IMO stolen property, even inherited, is still stolen property. Does this justify the sack of Doriath? No. But I personally do not believe that Dior had any moral right to the Silmaril either. Maedhros was well within his rights to ask for it, and while I understand completely why nobody handed it over, and the Oath may have compelled kinslaying anyway due to the "he who hideth/hoardeth/in hand taketh etc etc" clause -- Maedhros still asked first. and IMO that's a sign of, again -- the fact that he seeks out peaceful solutions first. And it was only after the Oath had awoken and after a great deal of "stirring" from Celegorm that Maedhros agreed to launch an assault.

Maedhros canonically hated what happened to Elured & Elurin. It was done without his knowledge and he also canonically tried to save them.

In a repeat of what happened at Doriath: Maedhros sent messages to Sirion first, and while again -- I don't blame Elwing for withholding the Silmaril because nobody at Sirion had any reason to believe that M&M wouldn't take the Silmaril and kill them anyway (especially after Doriath) -- he still tried. And it was only after they refused to hand it over and the Oath was awoken & in some versions of the tale the Ambarussa urged him that they launched an assault on Sirion.

Maedhros doesn't send anyone else on the fool's errand to try and retrieve the last two Silmarils. He goes alone with Maglor. There is no assault. No battle. He does it in secrecy and kills the least amount of people he possibly can. It really feels to me like the goal was to sate the Oath/save his family from eternal darkness with the least amount of bloodshed possible.

⚓ Pick a Silm ship to go down with. What is compelling about their dynamic?

I'm gonna have to go with Brimbrond, obviously. I love me some Russingon and some Gilrond but I just am clenching Brimbrond in my fists. They're so good. And the tragic end makes it better for me because Elrond's the one Gil-Galad sends to liberate Eregion and he fails. And when you add in the ship background it makes it even worse. Just...the THEMES. THE THEMES.

Elrond and Celebrimbor are both friendship-focused and people-oriented.

If you're a kidnap fam stan then they have a lot of bonding to do over stories of M&M. In my head, Elrond has to deal with a lot of weird/rocky political fallout due to being a "Feanorian fosterling" -- people are mistrustful at first. And he has to deal with his complicated feelings about M&M and like, no actually, he doesn't hate them -- which no one else seems to understand. But Celebrimbor would.

Both have to deal with the crushing weight of family legacy & trying to forge their own path & in a way choose their mother-names over their fathers' legacies. Celebrimbor chooses to go by Telperinquar rather than Curufinwe III. Elrond chooses "Peredhel" over "Earendillion"

Something something echoes of Elrond's attachment to "silver" lovers who meet untimely and horrible ends thanks to Sauron.

there's more here because I could ramble about them for ages but I just really love them together.

silm ask meme

[outofangband]

Yet another Morwen and Aerin ficlet

cw abuse in the background

This is a very sad, tired Aerin here but she does get a blanket and some soup at least

I enjoy writing these obsessively and they’re important in two of my longer stories but I know they can probably be a bit repetitive so I apologize for that

Also I know this one is pretty bleak but I should note it takes place in one of said longer fics and so things will get worse and then somewhat better

my next fic will be Maedhros and Angband :)

Night has fallen by the time she is at the door. It is colder than ever, a clear, aching cold that it is far too easy to become numb to. Her gloves are for riding and not warmth and her fingers are aching as she dismounts from the borrowed horse. He was not stolen, Aerin thought, because she would be returning him to the stables as soon as she returned. The poor lad who had been assigned them had collapsed from exhaustion and had been asleep at the small table where she used to clean her own tack. 

The bruise on her face is clear against pale skin when she walks over the threshold, shoulders slumped and eyes down. She had hoped to be able to hide it though she could not have said why. Morwen closes and locks the door quickly, leading Aerin to the only comfortable chair, putting a warm mug into her hands. Perhaps she had already had the soup made or perhaps there was a period of waiting for the fire to ready that Aerin was not aware of.

“You should not,” Aerin mutters, looking down at the contents though her stomach twists with hunger. It is a rich smell. Meat stew of some kind.

“We were lucky,” says Morwen shortly, “The snares Sador and I set were unsuccessful but for one. Not a surprise in this cold” She gestures to the pot over the fire, “One large rabbit. I dried most of it but there was enough for one pot with fresh meat.”

“You should not give your food to me,” Aerin says again. The mug is comfortably warm in her hands. Morwen has put her own cloak over Aerin’s shoulders. There are a few more patches on it than the last winter when Aerin had last borrowed it under such drastically different circumstances. 

“I recall telling you the same not one month prior,” says Morwen, “But you are cold and this is all the warmth I can offer.” She has dried herbs for teas but these are sparse and strictly medicinal. She has already given Aerin small pouches of one mixture in particular.

Aerin knows she must look pitiful if the other woman has not even offered reprimand for coming despite the cold she has risked in addition to the usual dangers.

She doesn’t have the strength to argue more. The stew is too warm to eat but she takes a few sips anyways. It burns her tongue and she can pretend it is only that which brings tears to her eyes.

Morwen sits beside her watching as Aerin sweeps her hair off of her face. Her fingers go briefly to the vivid bruise in the process.

“When did this happen?” She so rarely asks. Why would she need to? 

“Eve before last. No reason, really,” Aerin shrugs and then shudders, “I was just there.”

The memory strikes her as quickly and harshly as the actual act of violence had been. She was lucky, she thinks, that it had not been worse.

When she looks up she sees Morwen’s eyes flash. It is a dangerous look and for all that it may be useless, Aerin enjoys the warmth of her protective anger.

“Would that I could make it so he will never lay hand to you again,” Morwen says quietly. For the briefest of moments Aerin lets herself see the woman Brodda so fears, standing before her, proud and fierce and not almost as exhausted as she is.

“I know you would,” Aerin says and she means it, her voice sounding more her own for the first time in days. Morwen’s returned expression is inscrutable as ever. Aerin feels it searching her. And then her exhaustion becomes more evident again.

“It matters not,” Morwen says finally, “Even if I had the means of intervention I could not put you at further risk.”

“Of course it matters!” Aerin says more loudly than she means to, “It matters to me deeply.” She reaches for Morwen’s hand again, brings it to the side of her face that is not bruised. Morwen lets her, resting three calloused fingers on her cheek. The concern on her face is clearer than Aerin has ever seen it before. She holds her hand there for as long as she can. Morwen lets her. 

(She will sleep later. she really, really needs a nap. Honestly they both do. But Aerin will sleep for a few hours or so with her head on Morwen’s shoulder)

[doodle-pops]

Hi Mina, this might be a little bit of an odd question, but I'm trying to make an OC with special powers (Idk If you know anything about MCU's Scarlet Witch but her powers are similar to that). She's basically very powerful snd she hides the fact she has these powers from her beloved elf. What would be the elves' reaction be when she suddenly saves them from a legal attack using her powers? 🤔

Sorry Ik this is difficult, but I was hoping if you could help me out a little bit. This OC thing might go down into the dump who knows lol

But anyways, I hope you can give me something and thank you for your input 🥰🥰

Word of advice 'don't sell yourself short of what you can create.'

I have to say, I really love this question and would love to write headcanons if it was ever requested. Now, onto this masterpiece OC that you're creating which requires my input. First and foremost, I love the Scarlet Witch and your idea. Happy to help.

Your elves are probably going to think that you're a Maia and the Valar sent you to relieve them of their suffering. Some might believe that you could be one of the Valar, for they only ever felt that level of power surging from them. They would love for you to show them your powers and learn all that they can from them.

Fingolfin, FINGON, Turgon, FINROD, Angrod, Aegnor, GLORFINDEL, Ecthelion, EGALMOTH, Galdor, Rog, CELEBRIMBOR

Sceptical because they are aware of the Valar not being of any assistance since they defied them and don't have any positive views on them. Quick to throw a million and one questions and force you to reveal your true intentions. When you do reveal that you're on their side, expect apologies. A few may still be cautious.

FEANOR, MAEDHROS, Maglor, CELEGORM, Caranthir, CURUFIN, Amrod, Amras

In general, they would all be in awe of your power. It becomes very useful in battle. From lifting them into the air so they could defeat creatures with ease, to throwing the creatures about the place. You're able to create hexes, manipulate reality, control the mind, weather control, teleportation, and spell casting.

I'm putting the rest under the cut since it would be of more interest to you anon. Hope it everything helps and best of luck.

With the Darkhold the Scarlet Witch was able to dream-walk, but you could include them doing so without it. In the comics, the Scarlet Witch's powers extended to the limits of being able to speak and the action would be performed.

Can I give you a bit of backstory to how your OC could be created if you don't mind? You don't need to use it, but if you're trapped go right ahead.

They can be one of Morgoth's experiments - a Maia he stole from Irmo (since he deals with the mind) because he admired their powers and wished to enhance them.

The experiment could be a failure or a success. But they're trapped in Angband being forced to assist Morgoth with his scheme. Control the minds of elves and creatures.

You could escape on your own or during the time when Fingon rolls in to rescue Maedhros and he passes through Angband.

I think the Feanorians, should they learn of your abilities, would be quick to convince you to help them regain the Silmarils without a doubt, as well as defeat Morgoth once and for all.

Same with the other Houses, they would all urge you to assist them in defeating Morgoth and using your powers for the greater good.

There might be a tug-of-war between which elven houses get to host you. Either the Feanorians or the High King.

[earthling55]

Pearls & Buttons (Maedhros)

At over 7 feet tall, I am hardly the size of normal elleths. Hidden in the back of a tailor’s shop, I take life day by day, hiding from the stares that would undoubtedly follow me should I leave. That is until a certain Feanorian comes walking in.

This is slightly inspired by a head canon I read awhile ago. It was about what if the reader was the same height as Maedhros and in a relationship with him. I distinctly remember Celegorm and Curufin calling them “two trees,” but other than that, nada. If you know it, please send it to me!

Also, I wrote this a while ago, and while I don't think it's the best work, I'm going to post it anyways. Part 2 is in the works!

You need to work harder Elaryia,' Madame Lecomb chastizes me.

'That stitching has to be just perfect for our Lord's feast. Or else.'

I bend my head lower, if that's even possible, avoiding Madame Lecomb's eyes and the never ending scrutiny that comes with them.

'Yes ma'am. Of course. I'll work harder.'

'Hmmp,' she scoffs. 'You better.'

I let out a breath I didn't even realize I was holding as she turns around and heads back out front.

I've been working on this for hours, my fingers covered in pricks from the needle and my neck aches from bending over to look at my work. I was beginning to believe it was all worth it. The piece seemed beautiful - to me - not, by any means perfect, but beautiful.

It reminds me of myself, as much as I know Madame Lecomb would disagree. I have the beauty that comes with being one of the eldar, but my stature is what deforms my beauty in the eyes of thers, and overtime, my own. Where most elleths are tall but dainty when compared to most ellon, I am not.

At 7'3 I stand taller than most - every one that i've met at least and have been the end of countless jokes, jives, and whispers, not to mention the looks. They make my skin crawl.

All this is why you can find me here most days. Hidden in the back of Madame Lecomb's Seamstress Shop.

The garmet I'm currently working on is an gown for the Lady Nerdanel. It's a gorgeus aquamarine, embroiderd with silver thread that shimmers like a thousand moons.

Some of the designs are emphasized by hundreds of tiny pearls that I am painstakingly sewing on by hand. I'm running late. Madame Lecomb promised the lady and her family that it would be finished by tomorrow morning, and I am still hours away from completion. But I must continue on. I fear what will become of my head if Madame Lecomb comes up short with the Feanorians.

Shudering at the thought, I revert my attention back to the tiny pearls and fall into a reverie of repetition.

I work all through the night and the next morning, stoping neither for food nor rest, yet the hour comes for it to be picked up and still I have not finished. With fear in my heart I alert Madame Lecomb.

As predicted, she's furious, and insists that as it is my shortcomings that have prevented the gown from having been finished, I must be the one to break the news to whoever comes to pick it up.

I pace up and down the hallway connecting the shopfront with the back rooms where I work. I detest talking to strangers, or anyone who isn't my family really.

I know how it's going to go. The initial look of shock combined with humor they think I can't detect. It’s how everyone has always seen me. Some freak who's hopeless regarding friends or, God forbid some kind of romantic relationship. For who would want a lady who's taller than they are?

Finally, at a quarter to 10:00, the door chimes open. It can only be one person, this close to the feast Madame Lecomb's has prohibited walk in's or anyone entering who doesn't have an appointment. Wringing my hands, I walk out prepared to meet my fate. It's much worse than I thought.

It's not a servant that's come to recieve the dress, it's one of Feanorians themselves. Thankfully, it's one of the kinder ones - or so I've heard.

Maglor Feanorian stands in front of me. As expected, his eyes widen, he looks me up and down, and then, the oddest thing happens. He smiles.

That has never happened in all my years of being alive.

The staring I was prepared for, there isn't an interaction I've had where it doesn't happen, but the smile?

Clearing my throat and cutting my mind off from whatever that may mean, I politely inform him of the issue.

'Unfortunately, my lord, the gown isn't quite ready. I can have it done by tomorrow morning at the earliest. I sincerely apologize for both making you come down here and not having anything to give you.'

I'm rambling, we both know it, yet he makes no move to stop me, only smiling wider at my words. My eyes must be deceiving me. That is the only possible explanation for why Maglor Feanorian could possibly be happy to see me.

I rack my brain for why this could be, but still, I come up empty handed. We've never met, of this I am sure.

I never attend the feasts, or any outing for that matter, far too afraid of their scorching looks. Instead choosing to remain curled up at home in front of the fire next to Ada and Naneth.

Finally, my incessant chatter comes to an end, and I’m left shifting my weight from foot to foot as I wait in fear of his reaction.

'That is fine,' he states, and my mouth nearly drops open at the words. He's okay with it? There's no anger?

'Uh, um...great, that's great.' I barely stutter out a thanks as Maglor continues to smile at me, eyes twinkling like stars.

Unbeknownst to me, Maglor is ecstatic at my words. If the gown isn't ready, then that's just perfect. Perhaps it will not be him who his Naneth sends to fetch it tomorrow.

He turns to leave. There's a glint in his eyes that I cannot place, and although it doesn't look menacing, it brings butteries to my stomach.

I am sure that after this meeting something in my life will surely change.

/////////////////////////////

Ok, so this is definitely a part 1? No idea when part two will be out, but I'm working on it!

I don’t know exactly how tall Maedhros is supposed to be, so I just made a guess and went for it.

Also, I have a tag list now! If you want to be added, just let me know!

[riding-with-the-wild-hunt]

Thank you sm! I love ur view of the Silm characters. As that is the case, any Maedhros headcanons?

no thank-yous necessary, it's really my pleasure! i'm just flattered that you feel so positively towards my interpretations :)

same format approach as before: tamer headcanons are above the cut and the grimmer/more graphic stuff is underneath.

he has pretty large age differences with most of his brothers, so his role tended much more towards the parental than the sibling-y.

at Valinor-era family functions, he was always designated caretaker for the younger crowd.

as a result, he found it a lot harder to make friends with his younger cousins because they tended to not really see him as a peer (he and Fingon originally got close because they both got the i-love-my-younger-siblings-but-sometimes-i-wish-i-were-an-only-child thing).

in fact, other than Fingon, most of his cousins don't really like him (authority figure, no fun, blah blah blah), which was kind of rough for Mae to deal with as a teenager.

he's the most into traditional scholarship out of all his siblings! pre-Beleriand, he was the kind of person who would write a dissertation for fun.

he originally wanted to go into academia or medicine, not politics.

he loves animals, though he's pretty quiet about it because it's kind of Celegorm's thing and Celegorm a. doesn't like sharing and b. it feels like intruding

he isn't charismatic or charming in a typical way. i think he's actually pretty shy and awkward! Maglor tries to coach him into being suave, but it never sticks. but he's funny (once you can get him past monosyllables,) and he's kind, and he's good-looking, which makes up for a lot in the eyes of Valinorean society

he starts putting a lot more effort into appearing "nice" and "approachable" post-Thangorodrim, because he has to counteract fear rather than extra attention based on how he looks.

he loves music and singing but isn't especially talented at it. he mostly just listens.

he adores children and wanted to have a family growing up

Nerdanel is his go-to parent for advice. he keeps consulting her in his head up to the end of his life.

post-Angband, he's almost completely blind in one eye and can't see in the dark from either one, due to parts of his eyes being removed as experiments and resulting infections. glasses don't help very much, but he wears them anyways in social situations to seem less intimidating.

he hoards food in secret for most of his adult life. he got so used to never having enough that he can never relax, even when resources are plentiful.

he feels responsible for his brothers swearing the Oath, as well as for their actions in pursuit of it, even the ones he had no part in. he's a relentless self-flagellator over almost anything bad that ever happens and will willingly take blame any time it's offered.

he makes health sacrifices in favor of trying to look "stronger" and provide more reassurance to his follower. he's always pushing past his physical limits (i.e. he almost never walks with a cane, he goes out on patrol more times than his soldiers, he purposely stays in rooms on upper floors so he has to climb stairs, etc.)

he honestly hopes he's going to the Void when he dies. he thinks he deserves it and it's what's best for the world, because he's obviously a cowardly, destructive, weak person and shouldn't be able to hurt anyone else.

the only promise he ever broke to Fingon was to not blame himself if Fingon died.

over the years in Beleriand, his relationships with his brothers gradually get worse and worse--they resent that he's kind of a broken record about everything being their fault, and he's afraid of hurting them by being too close.

anyways, i hope you liked these! feel free to share any of your own too! :)

[thelordofgifs]

The Unburied sounds intriguing 👀👀

Good choice! The Unburied is the working title for my Mithrim/Helcaraxe longfic, narrated in alternating chapters by Fingon and Maglor and covering the time period from the ship-burning at Losgar to the Battle of the Lammoth and the first sunrise. Absolute pet project, it's going to be SO SO GOOD one day. Emphasis on "one day" because so far I only have two incomplete chapters and I haven't really touched it since tfs became A Thing, since I can only really handle one longer project at a time. (Which is good, in a way! I'm settling on a lot of characterisations and headcanons with tfs, which should hopefully make writing The Unburied easier when I get back to it.)

Anyway, a Maglor snippet for a fellow Maglor enjoyer:

When Maedhros turned back from the tent flap, having ushered their younger brothers out, he did not look particularly surprised to see Maglor still standing in the corner. His mouth twitched; then he returned to his seat at the head of the war-table, and waited. Maglor walked over to him, and then went to his knees on the muddy tent floor. “Shall I beg?” he said. Maedhros’ breath caught. “Don’t.” “Look,” said Maglor, and he took his brother’s cold hands in his own, folding their fingers together. “Just as a supplicant might come before his High King. Will you heed me now?” “Káno,” said Maedhros, “stop.” Maglor looked at him. He had looked upon Maedhros’ face almost every day of his life, and yet it seemed to him utterly alien now in the wavering torchlight. “You will not be convinced,” he said. “Might I not convince you, instead?” Maedhros asked. His tone was mild, though his mouth trembled a little as he spoke. “It may not feel so, but we have won a great victory. We would do well to press our advantage.” “A victory cannot be great without feeling so,” said Maglor. “Father is dead. We have no advantage.” “Then,” said Maedhros, “if talk of strategy will not sway you, consider: we swore to avenge him.” “And so you go to parley with his killer? Your logic escapes me.”

hmm this is one of my favourite scenes I've ever written actually. would be nice if I could actually finish the thing and share it in full.

[fuckingfinwions]

Ooh that point about grudge for eternity is a really cool thought -findunderground

Thank you!

I like the trope of elves not really having invented a lot of crimes in pre-Darkening Valinor, just to make the kinslaying at Alqualonde and then culture shock of Beleriand and meeting the other species all the more stark. (Okay, I write a lot about elves doing terrible shit in Valinor too.) But I don't think they're inherently kinder than humans, they just have longer-term thinking. If a human blackmails someone into obeying them for thirty years and keeping silent for another twenty, the human can expect to be dead before consequences reach them. With an elf, the most they can hope for is to have gotten out of town - and then to literally never come back.

Maedhros is thinking several things. a) he can blackmail Fingolfin pretty much indefinitely, as Maedhros will remain leader of the next largest military faction unless one of them dies, or they win. b) If they win and get the Silmarils, Fingolfin might stop considering cooperation worth it. But the Feanorian army and the Nolofinwean army can just split into different kingdoms at that point if Fingolfin tries to make Maedhros face consequences. c) Maedhros's family and his followers will believe him over Fingolfin d) If they die, they weren't going to walk out happily as friends in Valinor in a week anyway. All the Noldor are doomed to a long time in Mandos, and Maedhros specifically is sworn to the Void. The Tirion government can't arrest him for rape if he doesn't exist anymore!

[klngfili]

☾ ☆ ✿ ■ ♦ ☯ ♒ - for Glorfindel, Elrond, Maedhros and Fili (feel free to skip the ones you have already done for Elrond)

Glorfindel:

☾ - sleep headcanon: he is team haha what is sleep? blinking counts as sleep right? ☆ - happy headcanon: each morning he gets up and preps for the day ahead and braids his horse's hair and then puts a bunch of bells on his horse and they ride out with the first light and often dont come back before like 5pm, he used to do that in Gondolin as well, even tho back then he had Ecthelion w him ✿ - Sex headcanon: yeah so i mentioned those rides with ecthelion didnt i?? plus there are always secret spots around gondolin yknow ■ - Bedroom/house/living quarters headcanon: his living situation kinda looks like that of a frat boi but like it is his chaos and he knows where everything is al all times and it drives the other elves crazy ♦ - quirks/hobbies headcanon: loves sitting by the fountain's in rivendell, there was decade where he even tried to teach himself how to play the flute, he loves horse riding ☯ - likes/dislikes headcanon: likes: being a morning person and telling everyone about it, he also goes around and says stuff like back when i was your age i had already killed a balrog and died to people, also has a sweet tooth dislikes: rainy days and silence ♒ - cooking/food headcanon: oh boi does he have a sweet tooth he basically only eats desserts and sweets and pastries

putting the rest under a read more cause there are 3 more left and the last 2 are kinda long

Elrond:

☾ - sleep headcanon: he is a half elf so every evening he gets into his soft pjs puts in his hair routine to keep his hair nice and fresh for the next day and then goes to bed and closes his eyes and dreams of happier days, he's also a bit of blanket hog ☆ - happy headcanon: dude is so sad and tragic he needs some happy headcanons asap but sadly i can only give him angst T^T like that halfelf can sadly fit so much angst but one happy headcanon is that he and bilbo get into poetry battles ✿ - Sex headcanon: a praise kink, like the biggest praise kink also gets pegged lbr ■ - Bedroom/house/living quarters headcanon: tidy and neat. Everything has his spot. He also keep another library in his bedroom, with all the books and scrolls he has, most of them are healing or history tomes ♦ - quirks/hobbies headcanon: (done) ☯ - likes/dislikes headcanon: (done) ♒ - cooking/food headcanon: tried to cook mole stew once and it actually wasnt that bad, at least that's what durin and disa told him over and over again

Maedhros:

☾ - sleep headcanon: Dude hasn't slept in years, not since Angband and even before that every time he tries to sleep he hears his brother's screams as he gets burned alive and then it's his father's death. So he just stays up and broods or does accounting or practices swordfighting or writes long letters to Fingon and after Fingon's death he still writes those letters he just never sends them. Sometimes he goes to the rampart of Himling and looks west and thinks about his mother ☆ - happy headcanon: he used to be happy once right? he must have  been, he remembers hours spend laughing at Caranthir's antics or helping Ambarussa with their calligraphy or festivals he spends dancing with Fingon and Aredhel and his mother's kin. Catching things for his younger brothers and cousins they couldn't reach, playing hide and seek with them ✿ - Sex headcanon: he can be ace as a treat ■ - Bedroom/house/living quarters headcanon: it's all very sparse and he doesn't have much stuff anyway most of his things are still in Valinor and he didn't get to bring anything and he also doesn't really get attached to any item be it decorative or practical plus he doesnt sleep so why would heed a bed, if he rests he does it leaned against a wall or smth ♦ - quirks/hobbies headcanon: he loved dancing and singing and playing the Middle-earth version of volleyball ☯ - likes/dislikes headcanon:  likes: taking walks at night with only the stars and moon above, he plays long distance chess against caranthir, he also likes wine. dislikes: actually can't stand maglor like at all and its all rather silly cause they entered a music competition as kids and he was unprepared so he asked Maglor to write him smth and then maglor played both his and Maedhro's song, and well.. Maedhros is still his father's son and even nerdanel couldnt smooth things over. ♒ - cooking/food headcanon: he was a bit of a picky eater as a kid and hated everything yellow, so no apples, potatoes, yellow bell peppers, quinces, cheese, or yellow sewets etc but he's not a picky eater anymore and wolves down everything he can get his hands on

Fili:

☾ - sleep headcanon: fili sleeps like  a  rock and he hates sleeping aloe cause when he was little he used to share a bed with both his mother and his younger brother, so he can't really fall asleep unless he knows someone is at least in the  same room as him. ☆ - happy headcanon: his father taught him how to braid and he was often allowed to braid his father's, Dis' and Thorin's beard and he felt very honoured doing that and ofc he taught Kili how to do his own hair ✿ - Sex headcanon: sadly he died a virgin even though he had been pining after Nori for the entire trip to Erebor, they werent even stuck in a cell together in Mirkwood, round of Fs in the chat pls ■ - Bedroom/house/living quarters headcanon: he shares everything with Kili actually and sometimes Kili uses up all the soap and then there's no soap left for Fili, or sometimes Fili uses up all the flour and butter and milk and Kili just wants to have some cereal but alas no milk. And no Dis did not kick them out she would never she loves her sons too much for that, it's just that thorin thought it would be best if they lived closer to the smithies, especially since they both have a knack for oversleeping ♦ - quirks/hobbies headcanon: he has a 12 step hair care and skin care routine, everyone always thinks Ili is the vain one but no it's him, he is the one that takes ages in the bathroom and looks into every mirror or window he passes ☯ - likes/dislikes headcanon:  likes: baking he actually tried to convince thorin once that he much rather wanted to be baker (an equally important and well respected jobs among the dwarves) but thorin told him it would be better if he knew his way around a proper weapon ; he also likes a good prank, and o boi did he use to prank Balin and Dwalin cause he and Kili knew they could get away with it (Balin) and could fit into hidey holes they couldn't reach (Dwalin) dislikes: he hates rain and humidity, again he's quite vain. He also dislikes being late but his bed is just too comfy ♒ - cooking/food headcanon: he secretly loves baking.

[fangirl-erdariel]

Quote time!

"Never mind the rising sun, there's no sign of day or dawning"

"Until all the songs are sung"

"As Darkness Takes The Day"

"And I would bring you rings of gold"

"I'll be okay / cause I've been loved enough today"

"Lived for lies, lived for tales"

"Kept my treasures with my bones"

Ooooh let me see... I'm still in Too Much of a Middle-Earth mood so I can't promise that you'd get anything but that, tho ':D

Never mind the rising sun, there's no sign of day or dawning - I think this would be Silmarillion stuff... Maybe Maglor? Like After the War of Wrath and the whole mess with the Silmarils, after Maedhros has killed himself, after there's nothing left. Maglor, walking into the Second Age with none of the things he left Aman for and no hope of ever gaining them, only blood on his hands and no reason to go on except that he doesn't know what else to do. Uh. Sorry, this got really depressing (but to be fair to me there's Too Much Stuff going on for me to be able to come up with anything very cheerful right now)

Until all the songs are sung - For some reason my brain went into Elladan and Elrohir after LOTR. Still lingering in Middle-Earth because it's the only land they've ever known and they still love it (and also they care about Arwen and Aragorn), but knowing that should they choose the fate of the elves, they must soon leave for the West, because the time of the elves is over and they no longer really fit in in Middle-Earth, and kind of just exploring that dilemma. (For the record, I still think that they both did ultimately choose the elves, but they only sailed to the West together with Legolas and Gimli after Aragorn and Arwen had died.) I could not tell you if my life depended on it why this title would be that fic, though, it's just what my brain went to for some reason :D

As darkness takes the day - I think this could maybe be of the Fall of Eregion (and the army led by Elrond being too late to stop it) and the beginning of the War of Elves and Sauron in the Second Age. Probably at least mostly Elrond POV, but just kind of that like realization of how much worse it is than they had anticipated it was going to be and the kind of uncertainty as Eregion is lost and the elven army is forced to retreat bc Sauron's forces are just too strong and all that, you know?

And I would bring you rings of gold - For some reason my mind is going more towards BBC Merlin? Maybe some cute but mildly angsty Leoncelot, with Lance being totally in love with Leon but feeling unworthy of being with him and too shy to confess anyway, and it's just kind of him watching Leon from a distance while thinking of all the things he'd do for and give to him if he had the courage to show his feelings?

I'll be okay, cause I've been loved enough today - hmm, this one's hard. I'm not sure. It would be something super angsty but in kind of a Soft way with a happy ending? But I can't give a character or fandom, sorry! ':D

Lived for lies, lived for tales - for some reason I'm thinking Merlin with this too. Maybe Merlin afterwards questioning the narrative he'd tried to live by about him basically existing to help Arthur and starting to realize how it maybe wasn't the greatest idea to live his life only for someone else, rather than for himself and according to what he maybe would have wanted

Kept my treasures with my bones - I have no idea which fandom or character this would be, but I think it would be a resurrection story, someone being brought back from dead, you know? It definitely has an interesting vibe!

Thank you so much for the ask!!

[tanoraqui]

real talk I wasn't going to actually write this, or not tonight at least, but then literally while I was daydreaming it the first lines, spotify dropped this song into my radio for the first time, because I guess spotify reads minds now. It's not 100% right, but obviously I had to write the fic (while listening to the song on loop)

At night, Maglor sang to the Silmaril.

By day, he sang to whatever he wanted - the sea, the sand, the stony cliffs. His own self; his brothers' memories; his brothers', father's, uncle's, countless cousins' ghosts...more often, the ghosts of his kinslain victims, of loyal followers, of should-have-been-protected innocents whom he'd failed... Worst of all, ghosts he hadn't realized he hadn't realized were ghosts yet: little Celebrimbor all grown up; Gil-galad, who'd seemed like a decent king from afar; Elrond with teenage, halfling awkwardness exchanged for the grace of a pure Elf and Elros with the square jaw and broad shoulders of a Man...

Most of all, he sang to passing Men, though he stayed out of sight, What good was a cautionary tale if nobody heard it?

But each night, his gaze was drawn up to the shining star in the West, and so were his songs. This was the last deed the Oath demanded, as its dull burn gnawed on the bare bones of its lonely last remaining prey. Canafinwë he'd been called once, and he watched the last Silmaril impossibly out of reach among the stars and sang until its light seemed to pulse in time with his song.

Exhausted, he sang longing to it - for relief, for respite, for return of the stone, that he and his kin might be saved from the Darkness at the very last. For return of just the kin - just his father, or Maedhros, or just one of the twins. For return to the days when the light was not a single speck out of reach but flowing freely from bright trees, and Canafinwë's songs were bright, gay things that knew nothing of pain. He begged in song.

With his last dregs of fire, he sang fury to it - Is this what we fought for? Is this what they died for, one by one? A distant shining speck; a burn that wouldn't heal; another burn that did heal but he wished it hadn't, from reaching for Maedhros as he fell and catching only burning rock -

Mostly, he sang the Noldolantë to it, as he sang it to everyone and everything else. The song was much expanded now - the Fall of the Noldor had gone on for so very, very long. Its epilogue was a singer on the shore. Sometimes the memories reminded him of something new to add; other times the ghosts did. (Sometimes he thought the ghosts were probably just memories as well, or hallucinations. It didn't really matter.)

Why did it pulse? he wondered in one of his more lucid moments, after a rare meal of a particularly slow rabbit. (He knew simple songs to lure in prey. But he had more important things to sing about.) Curufin's ghost, his companion at the lack-of-fire this anniversary of the fall of Nargothrond, agreed - no, Curufin would never agree that their father's work might have a fault. Celebrimbor? No, Maglor did not want Celebrimbor to have a ghost at his lack of fire. Please no.

He resumed singing as he walked down to the sea to wash the blood from his hands. Metaphorically, he didn't deserve it, but practically, he was far too used to surviving to let himself die of something as petty as an infected burn. If a hallowed burn could even be infected. If it could, it probably would have by now. He washed his hands in the stinging water anyway.

Nargothrond fell today, once upon a time, but Curufin ghost might've been here, so instead he sang of Doriath - the way the darkness under the trees had once been rich with Melian's power, he'd heard. The way it'd just been dark when the Sons of Fëanor fell on Menegroth, and then rich only with the scents of blood and fire...

You had to sing to ghosts (probably ghosts) of their deaths, he'd found, or they'd forget how they'd died and appear even bloodier. Or even more burned, or both or neither - mangled by wolves instead (except for Finrod, for whom that was normal); frozen on the Ice (Elenwë), wasting away from impossible mortal diseases or an orc blade jutting from their chest or turned impossibly dark and mad with a shining, iron-wrought crown of their own...

He sang to his ghosts and to the Silmaril in the sky, even as clouds grew until its light was hidden. Maglor, Oath wrapped around the base of his heart like a dragon around a tree, still knew how to face it.

No, it really is flickering, Fëanor himself whispered a few days later (or a month, or a century). His father frowned. It shouldn't do that. It can't do that. What's wrong?

The sky was perfectly clear. Maglor had slept recently; his eyes were steady and his throat was barely bleeding at all. Fëanor alone had suspected Morgoth's treachery from the start, though not the Darkness that came with it.

The Spider had been banished until the End of Days - had it been so long? Surely it had only been a few hundred years. Surely the world was not all being scrapped and remade already. Elrond had good foresight, would he know...?

Maglor shook his head and began the Noldolantë again from the start. That was his place in the Song, he knew now: not glory but remembrance, lest all their mistakes be made again.

He sang to sea and spirits and the Star above. He sang of cracks in the House of Finwë, how blood on the steps of Formenos seemed to heal them but in truth only drove them deeper. He sang of how the Oath seemed to set them all alight in the Darkness, hope even when the fire swept out to consume Alqualondë. He sang two melodies back and forth, for he'd learned the rest of the story for just this: the storms at sea and the Ice. The first landing, triumphant battle and shining salvation to the beset Moriquendi, and the Ice. He sang of ship-burning fire, shadow and fire, blinding screaming Father! fire, and the Ice.

He sang of treachery and loss and a crown that he'd hated, hated hated hated. He sang of new arrivals and the rising sun, heroic deeds and rescue, relief, so unexpected it was almost another death blow. He sang of cracks patched with joy and of alliance, new-forged swords, Glorious Battle and hesitant peace, fortresses stretching across the northern marches in an unbroken wall from west to east. From steady Barad Eithel to rich Thargelion the watch-fires had gleamed, and in between the singing riders of the plains; cold, dauntless Himring; Aglon Pass where they always had the strongest arms and best-hunted stores -

The watch-fires, Maglor thought suddenly. The watch-fires and the Falathrim naval lantern codes they'd all used, because Círdan's sailors were the only one's who'd consistently talk to everyone. They'd expanded on them (linguists to the last, Father) and used them almost frivolously in the Long Peace, blinking fortress to fortress to ask after orc incursions and storms from the North but also horse trades, new songs from the peaceful south, Orodreth's baby was born! It's a girl, named Finduilas! He hasn't slept in a week!

He kept singing because that was his duty, he knew as deep as the smoldering Oath. Deeper. He was the last one left so he had to keep their memories alive; he had to warn everyone off from doing any of the same things. He coughed up blood but he had been Canafinwë once; he sang to the Silmaril and watched it more intently than ever.

It didn't truly flicker, not like a real star. The others proved that. The variations were so slight that no Man could have seen them, and probably no Elf whose spirit was not bound by fateful Oath to that distant, glorious, never-again-reachable light. But they were regular - though not, he remembered vaguely, night to night. Different nights, different patterns. Most nights it was completely steady.

S H U T U P A B O U T Y O U R F U C K I N G F A M I L Y D R A M A, the Silmaril blinked like a ship's lantern, in the most basic old letter-code. GIVE ME NEWS (OF) [phase] M Y S O N S (two extra, rapid blinks after each letter for emphasis).

Oh, right.