#fingon/amrod

[fuckingfinwions]

going back to the institutionalized/dehumanized a/b/o verse

"I wish I could do something better for Amrod", Maedhros said.

"He'll be home in a couple days," Fingon replied, and began rubbing his omega's shoulder soothingly. "No one will hurt him, with Feanor and Amras there to watch over him."

"Maybe not, but heat is still terrible without a bondmate."

“He’ll be fine, that’s what the heat hotels are for. And your father did a good job of navigating you through them; even got you bred by your bondmate in advance.” Fingon nipped at Maedhros's ear.

Maedhros whined, then asked, "What were the heat hotels like, for you?"

"No anywhere near as good as having a bondmate. So obviously designed by betas, with more concern about keeping alphas from causing problems than about pleasure in my time there. Overall, a bit of a tease."

"A tease?"

“Definitely. There’s this nice handsome omega, dripping with slick, and I only get to knot them once. Right at the moment my knot’s gone down enough to bask in the afterglow, maybe play with their cock or work a finger in their hole alongside my cock, I’m pulled away to another omega. There’s no time for anything but the most basic sex, the omega can’t suck my balls or lick my knot because they’re too desperate to get fucked, and their mouth is covered beside. The gags mean I can’t even tell them what I want to do to them, and can barely hear their reaction. Do you know, before we bonded I thought you were quiet in bed?”

“I just prefer to use words rather than the garbled whining you can make around a gag.”

“Yes, you’re very articulate in heat.” Fingon teased. “Begging for my cock, or sometimes just ‘more’ but you can’t think of what. Still much hotter than just lying there silently.”

“I wasn’t trying to make you say how glad you are that we’re bonded.”

“I am though. Were you trying to get me turned on? Because you did that too.”

“No. I want to tell you it was like at the heat hotel for me.”

“Hmm, and you don’t expect talking about how you got pounded to turn me on?”

“It might, but I need you to understand. Especially since Amrod still has to go there.”

“All right I’m listening.”

“The heat hotel was better than being left alone in a room, I suppose. But I was in an unfamiliar place every time, smelling of nothing until I’d been there long enough for it to smell of a dozen strange alphas. It never quite satisfied, to have an alpha show up for an hour or so. Sure, a knot chased away the worst of the heat, but I couldn’t relax at all, couldn't let go and just experience the moment; I was always aware that this alpha would abandon me and a new alpha was about to come through the door. The closest it came to being good was when I was bred there, knowing for once that this had a purpose.”

"That does sound bad." Fingon placed his hand around Maedhros's neck, feeling the pulse and reassuring Maedhros that he definitely belonged to the alpha now, whatever had happened in the past. "Would it have helped to have your own bedding? Or to have a friend in the room, rather than the hall? Amras does go along as another guardian, and I think Feanor has given up on him not seeing sex."

"A familiar scent might help? I'd have all these strange alphas in space that felt like mine, so it would be more invasive but less disorienting. And I doubt a beta in the room would help at all."

"Well, I won't give you up even for a week, so Amrod unfortunately can't have a familiar omega in the room."

Maedhros nodded. "I can bundle up his sheets and such next time, so they don't have your scent on them and annoy the alphas."

"Good idea. You also can't go because any alpha who saw you in a heat hotel would go for you first, and Amrod would never even get knotted." Fingon pulled Maedhros into his lap.

"Fingon! Be serious, Amrod would be in heat and naked and I'd be fully clothed."

"Just like his first heat, where I pinned you to the floor while Amrod whined in emptiness twenty feet away."

"We're bonded, it's different."

Fingon paused for a moment and adopted an expression of deep thoughtfulness, then shook his head. "Nope. You're simply that hot." Fingon dragged Maedhros's tunic off. "The absolutely-" Fingon nipped Maedhros's collarbone and trailed lower "most" bite "fuckable" bite "omega" bite "in all" bite "the world" Fingon reached Maedhros's nipple and held on.

Maedhros moaned, and was very thoroughly distracted from worrying over Amrod.

__

Fingon didn't forget what Maedhros had said though. He came up with a plan to make Amrod's next heat better, and shared it with Maedhros.

Maedhros was a bit concerned, but it really did seem like it would comfort their son. And if Amrod didn't like it, he could always go back to the heat hotel the next time.

Fingon told Amrod to come to him or Maedhros at the start of his next heat, not Amras or Feanor. The rest of the details would wait - best for Amrod not to worry too much in advance.

__

"Fingon Ada?" Amrod knocked on the door frame as he entered the courtyard.

Fingon had been climbing the oak tree, but swung down at Amrod's call. "What is it? - Oh little omega, you are so sweet and ready."

Fingon had obviously figured it out as soon as he got downwind of Amrod, but Amrod nodded anyway. "I'm in heat, and you said to tell you before I go the heat hotel with my guardians."

"That's right. We're doing something different this time for your heat." Fingon took Amrod's hand and led him into the house. "Maedhros is going to bring some of your bedding so it smells like you."

Amrod followed; Fingon's explanation covered why they weren't going to Amrod's own bedroom, but were instead entered the master suite.

Maedhros was reading in front of the fire. "Hello Fingon. Hello Amrod." He set his book down to kiss Fingon on the lips.

Fingon raised his free hand to the back of Maedhros's head, and didn't let him up until they were both gasping for air. "Amrod's in heat again. Bring his pillows in here."

"Yes Alpha."

"Good boy."

Amrod bit his own lip to keep from moaning. He tried to ignore that he was holding the hand of a half naked alpha - Fingon didn't wear a tunic to exercise - in the alpha's bedroom. But it was difficult when Fingon kept saying things like that, even if not to him. Amrod was so focused on controlling himself that he didn't even notice where he was walking until he was backed up against the bed. "Ada?"

"Shh, no need to worry my omega. I'm here."

"Why did you take me to your bed?" It smelled good, the familiar scents of Amrod's parents mingled with sex. But Amrod didn't want to relax in it when any minute he'd be told to climb in the carriage and go to the heat hotel.

"I told you we're doing something different this heat. You're my omega, and I'm going to fuck you and knot you as much as you need. No strange places, no parade of unfamiliar alphas."

Amrod blushed. "What about Maedhros?"

"He'll be back soon with your bedding. And then in a nest of all our scents you can let go and let me claim you."

Amrod instinctively tilted his head back, though the thick leather collar meant his neck wasn't actually bare for the alpha to bite and bond. "He won't mind?"

"Why should he? He'll be here the whole time, and can watch me take care of our son. Now strip and lay down."

Amrod pulled off his outer robe, but the laces on his tunic seemed to have tangled into one giant snarl, and he fumbled with it for several seconds.

"Nevermind that, we can take off your top when I'm inside you." Fingon instead reached for Amrod's crotch, unfastening his pants in seconds and brushing against his dick.

Amrod whined, and Fingon reach further back, fingers dipping between Amrod's cheeks.

"You're so wet for me, practically dripping and you haven't even seem my cock yet."

"I want to. I want your cock alpha, want you to push me down and breed me. Knot my hole and fill me up until I'm bursting."

Fingon growled and shoved two fingers inside Amrod. "Oh, I will. But I told you to get on the bed. Lay on your back and spread your legs." Fingon pulled his fingers out and gave a sharp swat to Amrod's ass.

Amrod scrambled back quickly and tried to get in position. His half removed pants still stuck around his knees stopped him for a moment, and Amrod blushed as he took them off all the way. Then he spread as far he could, knees bent and feet braced against the bed to show his hole to his alpha. He raised his face forward to see whether Fingon liked it.

"Absolutely gorgeous," Fingon said. He pushed Amrod's tunic up to his armpits and bit his belly.

"Did I miss anything interesting?" Maedhros asked with amusement as he walked in carrying nearly a dozen pillows.

"Not at all, you're just in time for the main event." Fingon pulled off his own trousers, revealing his hard cock with the knot already visibly enlarged at the base.

Amrod moaned.

"He is magnificent, isn't he?" Maedhros said. "Just relax though, and our alpha will take good care of you."

Fingon walked up to the bed and pushed Amrod's knees even wider, settling between them and pinning Amrod thoroughly to the mattress

"Normally you're in heat for a few hours on the carriage ride before you get knotted. So Fingon might feel a bit bigger than you're used to." Maedhros said hurriedly when he realized Fingon wasn't going to slow down.

"Don't worry though, you can take it." Fingon said. "My sweet little omega, made just for me."

Fingon thrust into Amrod in one long stroke. Amrod's moan of pleasure turned into a whimper at the end, but Fingon leaned down to capture his lips. Amrod's answering kiss was sloppy and unskilled, but that made sense - all his times with other alphas had been wearing a mask and a gag.

Fingon lets his hands wander over Amrod's body, calming his son and learning every part of him. Soon Fingon began to thrust, quickly finding Amrod's prostate and hitting it every time.

Fingon's knot was growing, stretching Amrod's hole more with every stroke. Amrod was indeed less loose and less slick than normal, but Fingon was very good at taking his mind off any discomfort, with lips and fingers exploring all of Amrod's most sensitive spots.

Amrod came after only a few minutes, sum spattering both his belly and his alpha's Fingon thrust a few more times and then ground his hips, letting Amras's hole clenching in orgasm bring him over the peak as well. Fingon let himself collapse nearly on top of Amrod, catching himself on his forearms and thoroughly shielding Amrod from the world.

Maedhros gave them only a few moments to recover. He trailed kisses across Fingon's shoulders, reminding his alpha he was there but not demanding a reply.

Amrod was the first to speak. "Thank you alpha."

Fingon chuckled slightly, but said, "The pleasure is very much mine. We raised a very polite son, didn't we Maedhros?"

"Yes we did. Amrod, would you like help with the laces?"

Amrod looked again at his tunic, and sighed. "Yes, I can't see well enough to untie it from this angle."

Fingon leaned back so that Maedhros would have enough space, making both him and Amrod moan as Fingon's cock shifted inside the young omega. "What about you love? Are your clothes stuck as well?"

"No, I just though one of us should be dressed in case we need to talk to Feanor, or to get something from another room."

"Feanor has already seen you naked plenty of times, and you can always put something on later if it's needed. I'm taking these off you." Fingon was as good as his word, and pulled Maedhros's pants down immediately. The shirt required a little more coordination, but Maedhros let go of the laces on Amrod's tunic long enough to get his own over his head and arms.

"Should someone tell Feanor?" Amrod asked after a few minutes of the three of them lying on the bed together.

"He or Amras will notice you're not at dinner in a few hours," Fingon said. "There's no point in getting them involved sooner."

"But - shouldn't my guardian know I'm in heat and need care?"

"I'm your alpha, and quite capable of caring for you right here."

"My love," Maedhros said, "how much did you actually explain?"

"Enough to calm Amrod down and make him stop worrying about beta-style relationships."

Maedhros rolled his eyes and kissed Fingon's chin, darting back out of reach before Fingon could start making out with him. "Amrod, you're not going to the heat hotel. Fingon is going to stay with you the whole time, in this room, and knot you as often as you want. When your heat is over, you'll get to decide what you want next time, either Fingon the whole time or a typical the heat hotel."

"But I thought alphas hated letting anyone but them fuck their bondmates?"

"Yes, which is one of several reasons why Fingon isn't bonding you, and the collar is staying on. You also aren't going to get bred this heat; the Song on your womb remains as it has been."

Amrod nodded, and looked up at Fingon. It was a novelty to be able to read the expression of the alpha inside him, perhaps they all looked this smug once they finally knotted him. But he doubted they were as beautiful as his ada.

"I'm still surprised Feanor agreed to this idea, he likes traditional stuff like the heat hotel."

"Feanor is smart enough not to pull me away from my omega once I've already knotted," Fingon said.

"Wait did you not tell him?"

"Like I said, I'm going to take care of you. If you don't want this again I won't force you, but no one was going stop me from giving you a good heat for once."

"But-"

"Besides, non-traditional can be fun. Maedhros, kneel over his face, ass towards me."

"Is this going where I think it is, alpha?" Maedhros asked as he made his way across the truly inordinate number of pillows.

"Yes. You're going to show Amrod how much an omega enjoys it is when an alpha puts his tongue in your hole, even though it's much smaller than a cock."

"Oh yes, alpha!"

[prattling-she-elf]

Can we take a moment to talk about that generation that consisted mainly of the grandchildren of Finwë?

I mean, look at this:

Dead, Good as Dead, Dead, Dead, Dead, Dead, Dead, Dead, Dead, Dead, Dead, Dead, Only Alive Because Her Family Had the Presence of Mind to Stop Her, Dead, Dead, Dead, Survived.

Galadriel really was the only one who survived.

And this hits me hard when I think about it.

Because a writer puts a bit of themselves in every character.

The part of Tolkien that I see the most in Galadriel is the part of him that survived the war.

After all, he was part of the Lost Generation. Two of his closest friends—Robert Gilson and Geoffrey Smith—died in the war. Tolkien and Christopher Wiseman were the only two of their fellowship to survive.

Only Galadriel survived.

That was what the Grandchildren of Finwë were. They were the Lost Generation. An entire generation slaughtered.

The regret, the lamentation, the grief. Galadriel knew it well. She lived it because Tolkien lived it.

And I don't know why, but for some reason, this speaks to me louder than any history book ever has.

[myceliumelium]

It's done! I did my best to do imperial right but i feel like it's a little off anyway here are some close ups

[carmisse]

Simarillion random moments pt 2

[sakasakiii]

the idea of the peredhel twins having heightened senses due to their maia blood is one of the concepts ive seen floating around that i really like, so here's my take on it combined with the feanorians (+ fingon) lingering about as houseless spirits that i explored some time ago in an old inktober post 😌

houseless spirits see all, but they can't interact with the world around them so i suppose that makes for quite a static existence...but compared to an oathbound eternity in Mandos (sans Fingon??), i like to imagine they'll stay a little longer to watch over those left behind, just to make sure they're doing alright 👍🏻

some more lighthearted bonuses cuz why not:

[gratuacuunart]

The grandchildren of Finwe and Nerdanel. 100+ hours over 8 months. It was so worthi it. Can you name them all? (no looking at tags. :-P) Edit: I forgot a comma and I think a lot of people are confused. (Me included.) It's supposed to be: The Grandchildren of Finwe. And Nerdanel. I'm so sorry. XD

[nelyos-right-hand]

I honestly don't think that elves get reembodied without their scars. I have three reasons for that:

1. The new hröa is made from the memory of the fëa. So they might not have scars from wounds they acquired shortly before their deaths, but the fëa should remember the other ones.

2. I don't think that's how Mandos works. It helps the fëa *heal* from its wounds, but it doesn't just *erase* them, just like it doesn't erase all those years of battle and hardship. Some wounds heal without a trace, but others leave scars, so reembodiement elves will still be irrevocably changed, and since the hröa and fëa mirror each other the same should apply to the body. Scars are a sign of survival, of all the things you went through and still lived. I think elves might even feel uncomfortable in perfect new bodies that seem to completely ignore the hardship of their previous lives.

3. Let's be honest. It's just so much cooler. And I'm not just talking about Maedhros with his badass I'm-super-terrifying-and-one-of-the-greatest-warriors-to-ever-live-now-run-for-your-life-look. Think of Fingolfin and Fingon with the battle scars acquired in four-hundred years of fighting Morgoth, and Celegorm, Curufin and Amrod with burn scars from the Bragollach (and *other* incidents). I just don't see them walking in Tirion looking all perfect and harmless again.

[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.

[ettelenethelien]

If Silm characters had Tumblr blogs (Years of the Trees):

Galadriel:

url: flowers-glade

pfp: probably a cat picture

blog title: have a voice and won't hesitate to use it

bio: 240s * mixed heritage (all three<3) * disrespect any and I am not liable for the consequences * anti-fëanorian * involved in politics to a reasonable extent

blog is a mix of aesthetic/poetry/literary analysis, strongly-voiced political views (no, she's not 'reasonably' involved), and personal posts that sound a lot like bragging tbh

Maedhros:

url: 12russandol

pfp: a picrew

blog title: Even scholars have their doubts, even painters have their missteps

bio: eldest brother of seven • yes, my father's Fëanor • probably won't reply to any asks about family matters • busy existing

posts like once a month on a very varied array of subjects. always polite

Caranthir:

url: you-are-the-blood-in-my-veins

pfp: something with a dark background

blog title: I just f**ing hate this world

bio: You're not going to like me, but maybe you'll stay to watch the trainwreck

very emo about it, song lyrics and edits, cultivates a deliberately edgy persona (is not really like this irl). steers clear of politics

Finrod:

url: manifestations-sevenfold-daffodil (bastardisation of some hyper-complex philosophical term + something random added on for good measure; if you ask him about the meaning he won't shut up)

pfp: cartoonish snake on a green background with yellow flowers (suspicious similarity to the arafinwean badge)

blog title: Edginess kills

bio: We could also just get on well with eachother :)

posts once a few days, reblogs anything that catches his eye. has contributed to various heritage posts though he isn't tumblr famous, has the epitome of a tumblr sense of humour. rarely makes original posts that aren't about complex philosophical questions.

Bonus - Fëanor:

has no consistent url because he gets banned every two months and has to make a new blog. is a troll. gets into a vicious fight with galadriel every week, neither knowing it's the other. very occasionally posts something more wholesome about his family or craft, but it's rare in comparison.

[doodle-pops]

Puppy Love

A/N: A little bit of fluff for the holidays :)

Words: 600

“Hey, where are you looking? Keep your eyes on me,” he whispered, his lips hovering just above yours, his voice commanding and gentle all at once.

You couldn’t deny that you had a tendency to avoid making eye contact with him. It was an intense experience that never failed to make you feel flustered. He had noticed this quirk of yours and took every opportunity to lock his gaze with yours, just to watch you stumble over your words and witness the bashful expression that would invariably spread across your cheeks. He found it endearing, and it became something of a playful game between you two.

His fingers reached out to pinch your cheeks between his larger hands, playfully squishing them together. He made it his mission to help you learn to maintain eye contact, but the task proved to be a challenge. So, he resorted to another tactic.

Peering at you from beneath his long lashes, his eyes took on a darker shade, focusing intensely on you. You felt the sensation of his gaze like a physical weight, and you bit your lip to resist the urge to look away. His hand on your chin held your head firmly in place, but despite his efforts, you blinked rapidly, trying to alleviate the intensity building inside you.

He couldn’t help but grin victoriously as he observed your struggle. “Eye on me, stars,” he murmured, his voice filled with a mixture of affection and mischief.

You gulped, aware that you were teetering on the edge of surrender. You longed to wipe that triumphant smirk off his face. For five more seconds, you held your gaze, determined not to give in. But eventually, you shifted your vision elsewhere, and he chuckled, releasing his hold on your chin.

Throwing his head back, he howled with laughter into the night sky, leaving you scowling in his direction, albeit under your breath. “I win. That last piece of cake is mine. I told you, you couldn’t beat me,” he declared, reaching for the final slice of marble cake and sliding the plate toward him.

“Whatever. It’s not my fault you have such beautiful eyes,” you grumbled, pausing midway through your disappointment to glance at him.

“Oh, come on. Didn’t you want to win the cake? I’m offering to share. Just one bite…” His smile widened as he enjoyed your sullen demeanour. He knew you wouldn’t stay like this for long; you just needed a little incentive.

His eyes flicked over to your sullen expression and pouting lips, and he couldn’t help but smile. Turning in his seat, he cut a small portion of his cake and wiggled the fork towards you. “Say ah…” He held a fork with a piece of cake poised before your lips.

Still sulking, you turned your head in the opposite direction, unwilling to share in his victory cake.

Setting the plate aside, he rested his hands on either side of your chair and leaned in to kiss your cheek. The moment his lips met your skin, you turned your head in disgust, prompting him to move to your lips. You squealed in protest, knowing exactly what he was trying to do. Your hands came up to cover your mouth, but he was undeterred. His hands moved to tickle your sides, causing your hands to drop and allowing his mouth to claim yours for a swift kiss.

“Are you done sulking, love, or are you going to pout some more because my eyes are beautiful?” he teased.

“As a matter of fact, yes, I have,” you replied, a mischievous glint in your eye, “but now I’m ready to beat you for good.” With that, you launched out of your seat, chasing him through the backyard of his parents’ house. The sound of your laughter filled the air, a joyful chorus that reached the ears of his parents, who sat nearby, smiling at the happiness their son had found.

Maedhros, Maglor, Celegorm, Amras, Amrod, Fingon, Argon, Finarfin, Finrod, Aegnor, Glorfindel, Galdor, Egalmoth, Beleg, Elladan

Masterlist

Taglist: @lilmelily @rain-on-my-umbrella @mysticmoomin @aconstructofamind @asianbutnotjapanese @batsyforyou @ladyenchanted @mcwentfandomtraveling @involuntaryspasms @stormchaser819 @addaigio

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[papita474]

Re-post this mini comic,cause I forgot that it existed,and it's just too funny hahahah

(Love the reality were mae did found elured & elurin)

[englishlotusflower]

Who Looks Like Who(for Plot and also Angst purposes in some cases, but mostly based off vibes)

Fëanor has Míriel's expressions, her short slight frame, and her elegant nimble hands, but his colouring, his charisma, everything else comes from Finwë

Maedhros looks like Nerdanel, but with a bit of Finwë in him. You can tell from a glance that he's Nerdanel's son, equally so that he's Finwë's grandson. It's much hard to tell that he's Fëanor's son (unless he's in a temper). He has Nerdanel's level head and pragmatism combined with the Finwëan charisma, intensity and general OP-ness, all of which he inherited in spades. It's very dangerous - to others.

Maglor has Nerdanel's nose and eyes, and her vibes of quiet serenity until the breaking point and then quiet pointed fury, but also he looks like Fëanor otherwise. Especially wrt his charisma.

Celegorm looks like Míriel. He has Nerdanel's more solid frame, but otherwise could pass for Míriel's twin. Everyone who knew Míriel is always commenting on how he has her hair, her eyes, her rebelliousness, her restlesness, her temper etc. Part of the reason he spends so much time in the woods is because no one there compares him to a woman who died before he was born.

Caranthir looks like Nerdanel with dark hair, and he has her pragmatism. He does have his father's temper, but he also has A Lot of Indis' mannerisms that he has no idea where they came from Atar. (Indis is a genius with maths, economics, trade - Caranthir learnt everything from her. She isn't proud of much that anyone does in Beleriand, but she is very proud of Caranthir's trade empire.)

Curufin looks exactly like Fëanor, except when he's deep in Crafting Mode - then he looks weirdly like Nerdanel. He has Nerdanel's clear head and her insight, and Fëanor's short temper. He's cruel when he's angry, unlike his dad who rampages indiscriminately, but very much like his mum who always knows how to make it hurt.

Ambarussa are identical, with Nerdanel's colouring and frame, but Fëanor's face. Lightly toasted (or crispy or whatever) has more Fëanor vibes and raw has more Nerdanel vibes. Can't explain it, its just Like That. And also the vibes of Fëanor accidentally toasting the twin more like himself. Delicious

Findis has her mother's golden hair, her father's eyes, and an uncanny likeness to Míriel in her mannerisms that can only come from copying Fëanor. (Does this piss Fëanor off? Absolutely. Will she ever stop? Absolutely not.)

Fingolfin has his mother's eyes and her height, but just like Fëanor his colouring, his charisma, everything comes from Finwë.

Fingon did not inherit his father's height and he will never not be sore about it. He looks more like Anairë than anyone else, but his eyes are indubitably Fingolfin's. His habit of braiding ribbons in his hair comes from Findis - she tends to use bright colours but he prefers only gold.

Turgon DID inherit Fingolfin's height, and just like Fingolfin he will never let his elder brother forget it. HE looks a lot like Indis, if she had Noldorin colouring, and everyone says his more...settled temperament comes from her. It doesn't - Indis is calm and controlled, Turgon has his mother's resting bitch face and icy temper. Everyone just thinks he doesn't because his temper is quiet rather than explosive.

Aredhel also inherited Fingolfin's height. She looks like Anairë if Anairë had the Finwëan dramatic tendencies and charisma. Her idols are Cousin Celegorm and Aunt Lalwen (in that order) and it shows.

Argon is taller than Aredhel. By like...a hair. When he discovers that, it becomes his entire personality for a good week. He is the only one who looks mostly like Fingolfin, but he has Anairë's quiet, deadly iciness rather than the Finwëan over the topness.

Finarfin has his mother's colouring and her calm facade, but in all else he is Finwë writ blond. He also hides a temper under the calm facade, but because he controls it better everyone assumes his dad's temper passed him by.

Finrod has the Telerin chill/friendly factor mixed with the Noldorin dramatic intensity, which leaves him aggressively and pointedly friendly. He looks like his mum if Eärwen were blonde and constantly wore as much jewellery as Fëanor made in a particularly inspired month.

Orodreth got Indis' calm facade, and the Finwëan drama gene skipped him for which he is eternally thankful. He has Eärwen's colouring, and Finwë's bone structure, but everything is softer with Orodreth. He's just very shy and quiet and adorable.

Angrod looks very much like his dad, if his dad had blue eyes. He also got Indis' calm facade, but the difference between him and Orodreth is that for Angrod it is just a facade. He's got stubborness in spades from Finwë, and a backbone of mithril from his mum. She also gave him a healthy dose of common sense. Oh and he got a bunch of mannerisms off Findis that really annoy his uncle Fëanor.

Aegnor...well. People make jokes that he's Fëanor but blond. He's got the charisma, the intensity, the impulsiveness, the propensity for bad life choices, the list goes on. Thankfully, he also has Angrod to keep him from anything too awful.

Galadriel has Indis' height, her strength, her colouring and beauty, and a temper that wouldn't look out of place on Fëanor himself. She also has her mother's competency (which comes from the same place as Lúthien's ability to take down the two biggest bads without breaking a sweat). It's a rather dangerous combination.

Lalwen is...herself. She's got her mother's height, her father's charisma and his colouring, but mostly she's just Lalwen. Bold and laughing and utterly done with her family's drama.

[thelordofgifs]

the fairest stars: post vi

Beren and Lúthien steal two Silmarils, everything spins out of control, et cetera: we are 78k words and 30 parts into this monster bullet point AU now! Masterpost with links to all previous parts on tumblr and AO3 here.

Part 31: on saving people.

Lúthien finds Maglor in the rose garden.

"I came as soon as I heard," she says, sitting down beside him.

(It isn't a lie – she knows Maglor needs a friend right now. But it is true, also, that Barad Eithel is easier at the moment than thinking of the dull unhappy look in Beren's eyes as they departed Morwen's house, and begged shelter like outlaws with others of the Hadorians.)

Maglor does not look at her. He is staring at his lap, very still.

"Maglor," says Lúthien. She dares to put an arm around him, and then tenses, thinking of Morwen's blank and silent grief, and how she rebuffed all Lúthien’s attempts at comfort.

But Maglor shivers, when she touches him, and then leans against her gratefully.

"I didn't know," Lúthien says. "I'm sorry – I would have stopped him, had I known—"

"How could you have known?" Maglor asks, very heavily. Maglor does not wear his grief gracefully: it is an awful frozen thing, numbing his tongue and coarsening his tuneful voice.

Lúthien thinks of those dreadful days after Beren died, and her heart twists again with pity.

"I did not know, either," Maglor says. "You would think – you would think I would have known, if anyone had."

"I am sorry," Lúthien breathes. "I am so, so sorry."

Maglor manages the faintest of smiles for her, but says nothing else.

They sit in silence for a while.

Lúthien does not want to ask the question burning on her tongue, but ask it she must. "Have you any idea where he might have gone?"

"Do you think I would be here, if I did?" Maglor asks, wearily.

He and Fingon have spent hour upon hour pacing around Fingon's study, fruitlessly turning over the same half-questions: why and how and could we have— before returning, inevitably, to the most pressing of the lot: Where is he, where is he, where is he?

They do not know. They have no idea what Maedhros was thinking in the hours before he disappeared, which frightens them almost more than the rest of it.

Lúthien takes a breath. "Do you think – is there any chance – might he have gone to Doriath? My father still has the Silmaril he took from you."

Maglor barely flinches at the reminder of that past failure. "It's possible," he says. "What makes you think of it?"

"He spoke to me," says Lúthien, "just before I left. He asked me if I might not try to persuade my father to relinquish that Silmaril – for your sake."

"For my sake!" Maglor says. He laughs, bitterly. "For my sake! How very considerate of him. What did you answer him?"

Lúthien meets his gaze unhappily. "That I would not try," she says. "If I had only spoken differently..."

“If only, if only, if only,” Maglor says. “Do not blame yourself, Lúthien. Fingon and I have gone down that path too many times already – but the truth is that I do not think anything could have stopped Maedhros, once he had made up his mind.” He shrugs. “Or perhaps I did not know him as well as I thought.”

“You speak of him as though he is dead,” Lúthien breathes.

“He could be,” Maglor says, matter-of-factly.

“You are very angry,” Lúthien murmurs, “are you not?”

Maglor is quiet for a moment. “This is the third time Maedhros has left me to go after a Silmaril,” he says. “In Mithrim, when Morgoth made his false offer of parley. In Menegroth, when he went hunting for Carcharoth. And now this! Yes – yes, I am very angry. It is the Oath – were it not for the damned Oath—”

“I asked you once before,” Lúthien murmurs, “if you would un-swear it, if you could.”

Maglor looks at her with anguished eyes. “I would,” he says. “In an instant, if only I knew how – look what it has taken from me!”

His breath catches. Lúthien puts her arms around him again.

“Maedhros loves you,” she says quietly, after a moment. “He was – I do not think he was very well, when I spoke to him – but even so it was clear to me how well he loved you. You must not doubt that.”

Maglor thinks of Maedhros whispering, What would it take, to make you hate me? and his own low voice answering, If you left me.

How much easier it would be, he thinks sometimes, not to understand! How comforting bewilderment would feel, to say, I know not why he has done this – what a burden, to know Maedhros as he does, to know what drove him to leave and know that it is, at least in part, Maglor's own fault, that Maglor, utterly trusting, handed his brother the very weapon he turned against him.

Useless, all useless: for all that matters is where Maedhros is now, and he does not know that.

"If he did go to Doriath," he says, attempting to return to Lúthien's question, "he would not have been able to get through your mother's Girdle, anyway." He means to explain, He left the Silmaril with me, but his voice catches halfway through the sentence – he who has always claimed such mastery of words – and all that comes out is, "He left – me, he left me, he left me."

"Oh, Maglor!" Lúthien exclaims. She flings her arms around him again, and Maglor hides his face in her shoulder until he has recovered some of his composure.

(Important, these days, to be composed, to show Fingon's shocked and doubting court that the sons of Fëanor can yet be relied upon – and Maglor's world might have fallen to pieces around him, but he is still good at performing.)

“You must not lose hope,” Lúthien says. She squeezes his hand. "He lives yet, does he not?"

"We cannot tell," Maglor says dully. "He has closed his mind – to me and Fingon both."

It is an awful, suffocating thing, to reach instinctively for the part of his heart that belongs to Maedhros and come up every time against nothing but a smooth impenetrable wall – to cry out, again and again, Where are you? Come back to me, and receive only endless uncaring silence in response.

"I am sure he lives," Lúthien says resolutely, "and you will see him again."

"I have thought him dead once before," says Maglor, "for thirty years, I thought him dead. He was not – and yet—"

Fingon, his voice flat and strange, said once, Makalaurë, is there any chance – he could have – there is a Silmaril in Angband still—

Don't say that, Maglor cried, quicker than thought, don't say that, Finno!

Neither of them have mentioned the possibility since; and so it has lingered, as unspoken things tend to, lurking just beneath the surface of every frantic circular conversation.

"It was not a happy homecoming," he says, "when he was returned to me."

"But he was returned!" Lúthien says. "And he will be again – I am certain of it."

Maglor says, his voice very dreamy, "Celegorm used to shout at me, in those years Maedhros was lost. He said I was a coward, for not attempting a rescue." He shrugs. "He was not wrong – and perhaps little has changed. Am I – am I always to be left behind, waiting for him to return to me?"

"You do not have to be," Lúthien murmurs. She thinks of Hírilorn, and pacing helplessly between its great boughs while Beren lay suffering in Sauron's dungeons.

"Perhaps," Maglor says, "that is the way the story goes, after all – and there is nothing I can do about it. Perhaps unshackling the chains of doom are not as easy as you made it appear, for us."

Lúthien looks at him. "I do not think you really believe that," she says softly.

Maglor meets her gaze, his eyes bright with despair. "I do not believe anything, any more," he says; and when Lúthien, her heart aching, presses a kiss to his cheek she tastes salt.

Meanwhile in the Halls of Mandos:

Withdrawn into the depths of the Halls, where he can nurse this new hurt in peace, Finrod is surprised to sense another approaching him.

For a moment he thinks Celegorm has come to apologise for his harsh speech; but the resemblance between the two spirits is merely superficial.

"You are hard to find, cousin," says Amrod. "I began to think you had taken Mandos up on his offer, and returned to life after all."

Finrod laughs hollowly. "I swore to remain here," he says, "and so I shall – until the breaking of the world, should your brother have his way."

"Is forever always forever?" Amrod asks, dreamily. "Queen Míriel once swore that she would never leave these halls; but she had taken up her body again by the time I arrived here."

"The line of Míriel," says Finrod, "is rather more prone to faithlessness than I."

He regrets the words as soon as he speaks them; barbed, unkind things, more suited to Celegorm than himself.

But Amrod looks at him with pity. "Don't let him make you cruel, Ingoldo," he says. "He did not win when he forced you from your kingdom – nor when he threw all your mercy in your face – but he will, if you grow to imitate him."

Finrod makes an effort to follow this advice. "I would have thought you would be on his side," he says.

"I am," says Amrod. "Why else do you think I want you to save him?"

"I am not sure that is possible, anymore," Finrod says bitterly.

"Neither am I," says Amrod, with a shrug, "but you did swear to try."

Finrod hesitates.

Amrod's story has always horrified him. How bitter a monument to the folly of the sons of Fëanor – how incriminating, that they did not realise after their brother's death that their Oath was pointless, their project Doomed before it could begin!

But Amrod was not just a morality tale: he was Finrod's little cousin, too.

And they have both suffered at Fëanorian hands.

"Why did you stay on the ship?" he asks. "Did you think the Valar would show you mercy, if you returned to these shores?"

"No," Amrod says neutrally. He offers Finrod the edge of a smile. "Only that I had to try."

"I didn't," Finrod says quietly. "I could have turned back with my father, after Alqualondë. I think it would have been better if I had."

"Beren would have died, then," says Amrod, "in the darkness in Tol-in-Gaurhoth. To say nothing of what other good you wrought in Middle-earth."

Finrod thinks of Lúthien, who thanked him for his sacrifice.

"To evil end shall all things turn that they begin well," Amrod muses. "I knew what I was facing, when I decided not to set foot on the beach at Losgar! Not – not that my father was already so consumed by madness – but I did not expect any mercy from the Valar, no." He laughs slightly. "And now here I am. Tyelko tells me it was all for nothing."

"He might not be the best judge of that," says Finrod.

"The brother I remember was kinder than this," Amrod says, thoughtful. He worries at his fingernails as he talks. Sometimes the light, such as it is, shifts and his form becomes that of a charred corpse, his skin crumbling away to reveal the blackened bones beneath. "Was it the Oath that made him so, do you think?"

"The Oath was his own folly," says Finrod. "You do not need to delve so deeply for his motivations: he told me himself that he cast me out of my kingdom because he wanted to, and he does not regret any of it."

“Yes,” Amrod says with a sigh, “it was our own folly, was it not? I was afraid of it, in truth. Afraid of what it might make me become – what it had already made me become, in Alqualondë. And poor Tyelko has gone much further down that dark and lonely path.”

“He killed you,” says Finrod, “and yet you pity him.”

“He killed you, too,” says Amrod, “or as good as – and you pity him too, I think.”

“I do,” Finrod admits. "But he will not accept any pity from me."

Amrod looks at him carefully, and then says, "You ask me why I was willing to turn away from my Oath. Why are you not willing to turn from yours?"

Finrod bristles. "What?"

"You didn't have to go with Beren," says Amrod. "And you didn't have to vow not to leave Mandos until Tyelko can. What made you do it, then? Is it naught but pride – let them add more verses to their songs about Finrod the Faithful, so pure of heart that he forgave his own usurper?"

"No!" Finrod says. "No."

"A hard thing," says Amrod, "to pity someone who does not want or deserve it."

"Quite," Finrod murmurs. "Perhaps that is why I pity him."

"It is a difficult task you have chosen," Amrod warns, "and a thankless one, with little hope of success: even I his brother can tell you that."

"So was the path you chose, when you stayed aboard the ship," says Finrod. "All the same – I have to try. For my sake, perhaps, as much as his." He looks at his cousin again. Amrod's spirit is a pale, flickering thing. "And yours."

"Mine?" says Amrod, sounding truly surprised for the first time.

"It matters, does it not?" Finrod says softly. "That you grieved your deeds – that you were willing to turn back, and face the consequences for them."

"It didn't do anything," says Amrod. "It didn't save anyone."

O for the solidity of a body! Finrod would clasp that small unhappy form to his own, if he could, and squeeze his shoulder comfortingly.

"Then let me save you," he says instead.

Amrod's smile is sad. "I don't think it's that easy," he says.

Back in Barad Eithel:

Before she leaves, Lúthien seeks out the High King.

Fingon is expecting to find one of his lords at the study door, ready to harry him some more about his terrible life choices; so seeing Lúthien is something of a relief.

Even so, he is very tired.

"Is there something I might help you with, lady?" he asks.

"I rather thought I might help you," says Lúthien, tilting her head and offering him a winning smile as she sits down. "But first I owe you my thanks."

Fingon thinks, absurdly, of his abortive promise to behead Curufin. "For what?"

"We have never really spoken, you and I," Lúthien says slowly. "And yet we have rather a lot in common, I think." She smiles at him again. "It was the story of Thangorodrim I was thinking of, when I saved Beren in Tol-in-Gaurhoth."

"I am glad some good came of it, then," Fingon answers bitterly.

Lúthien's eyes on him are sad. "I thought you might say that."

Fingon forces a smile. "Do not mistake me!" he says. "I was pleased indeed to hear how you saved Beren: and pleased, too, that you avenged Finrod my cousin in doing so."

He breaks off. Lúthien's face has filled with sudden pain, hearing Finrod's name.

"I mourn him, too," she says simply, noticing the question in his eyes. "I wish I could have saved him."

At some point you will have to learn that you cannot save everyone, Maglor told Fingon, during the fall of Himring.

Afterwards Fingon thought it mere Fëanorian dramatics; Maedhros had survived the battle, and against all odds so had Maglor, and even Curufin's head was still attached, after all.

Now he thinks perhaps there was a grain of truth to his cousin's words.

Maedhros' distant half-smile and his wide bright eyes and the little tremble in his mouth when Fingon kissed him that last evening—

How did Fingon not see it? How could he have been so blind?

"It is all very well," he says wearily, "to go into the dark armed only with a song, and free one you love from his chains."

Lúthien shudders. She can smell the blood – can feel it, warm and sticky, lapping about her ankles.

"But what can I do," Fingon continues, "if he goes back to the shackles? Am I to break them anyway, against his will?"

"Do you think he has?" Lúthien asks. "Do you think he went to Angband?"

"I don't know!" Fingon exclaims. "How can I not know? I have told myself – I have told him that we are as good as wed – but it is not true! I don't know where he is. How am I to find him, if I don't know where he is – if he has hidden himself from me, deliberately?"

"You can," says Lúthien. "You will. You found him on Thangorodrim, after all. Oh, you of all people must not lose hope!"

"No," Fingon says hollowly. "A High King must not be allowed to despair, after all."

Easier, these days, to understand what drove his father to the breaking point.

"Believe me," says Lúthien, "I know what it is to give your heart to one set on his own destruction." She offers him a faint, comradely sort of smile, but Fingon cannot bring himself to return it. "But is not love about following whether you are wanted or not – about saving them, as many times as it takes?"

Fingon looks at her carefully. Maglor speaks highly of Lúthien, and so did Finrod, but Fingon thinks he would take a liking to her even were it not so: beneath all her ethereal loveliness it seems to him there is a spirit rather akin to his own, both cheerful and practical.

"You do not understand," he says, and closes his eyes.

How is it that this dull defeated voice is his own? Look what you have done to me, he might tell Maedhros; look what you made of me. But the truth is that he left bruises on Maedhros too, with his grasping, over-eager fingers.

"It is not," he says, "it is not merely that I do not know where to follow him this time. It is that – how can I even know whether he wishes me to find him? How do you save someone who does not want to be saved?"

Lúthien thinks of Beren, who heard her singing outside Sauron's tower, and lifted his own voice in response.

She thinks of Maglor telling her that perhaps he need not be bound forever.

"I don't know," she admits.

Fingon tries to master himself. Lúthien may be trustworthy, but all the same he cannot afford to grieve too openly these days.

Is this Maedhros' vengeance on him, to make Fingon's proud and foolish declaration of love into a public stain – to have branded on his cheek, The High King is bound to a traitor?

(There are very few people in Barad Eithel who view Maedhros' disappearance without suspicion.)

"Your story is a happy one, and I am glad of it," he tells Lúthien. "But in truth I know not if its like will be told again – and not of the Noldor, certainly."

Lúthien looks at him unhappily. "Yours is not over yet, either," she says. "Maedhros told me once that I had brought hope to all Elvenkind with my deeds. But you did that long before I."

Fingon smiles at her, practised and kingly, without meeting her gaze.

(to be continued)

[isilwhore]

The House of Finwë kids’ table

[carmisse]

Of News and family reunions.

Argon : we appreciate that you were able to meet with us.

Celegorm : a family reunion. We usually have one when there is a wedding or a funeral.

Maedhros : Turcafinwë!

Maedhros : you may continue, Telvo.

Amras : as I was saying. We are really excited to share this.

Argon : Telvo and I plan to celebrate something now that we have some peace.

Fingon : owww, is it your wedding?

Aredhel : Turko, Curvo and I can take care of the wine.

Argon : I'm afraid, dear sister that Telvo won't be able to drink wine for a while.

Curufin : what the hell are you talking about?

Amrod : Curvo, please, it is obvious what you are talking about.

Maedhros : ...

Fingon : Oh Ilúvatar.

Amras : we're expecting a baby!

Argon : surprise!

Turgon : I think I need to sit down.

Maedhros and Fingon : ...

Caranthir : someone stop the Ñolofinwëas' urge to procreate with Fëanorians!

Amras : it will be a sweet girl!

Maglor : owww a Noldor princess!

Maglor : the first of the house of Fëanáro!

Fingon : Maitamo, hold me, I'm going to faint right now.