#káno speaks

[hyperactivepuppy]

got back into bnha recently and one of my first thoughts was hm i should read some hyperactivepuppy fics again. love your writing.

aww thank you so much!

[zealouswerewolfcollector]

Writing Patterns: Final Lines

Thanks for tagging me in this @polutrope <3

Here are ten final lines from my latest ten fics.

None moves.

A Tale That Wasn't Right (2408 words, M, Finwe, Maedhros/Fingon)

2. But for now, he stays.

Purification (1160 words, E, Maedhros/Thingol)

3. Caranthir closed his eyes and took Finrod’s hand, and he did it gently.

White Daffodil (3993 words, T, Caranthir/Finrod)

4. “All is well,” he repeats.

To Evil End (2883 words, T, Maedhros/Fingon + other Feanorians)

5. Swaddled in the blaze of Maedhros's arms, buried under the firestorm of his body, encased in the molten metal of his fëa as Maedhros moves within him, Fingon is warm, Fingon is safe, Fingon is loved.

Kaleidoscope (1436 words, E, Fingon/Sons of Feanor)

6. Fingon sat by his side, his hand hovering over the dagger but never touching it.

Fingolfin and Maedhros speak to Fingon (1812 words, T, Fingolfin & Fingon, Maedhros & Fingon)

7. But if you wish to know me as I am now and for me to know you as you are, on the first day of each month, look for me at the grove at what was once the hour of Mingling.

Now a Quill, Now a Sword (11817 words, T, Maedhros/Fingon)

8. Maglor closed her eyes, and for the first time in what felt like forever, decided against escaping.

Lady Makalaurë Fëanáriel Dying of Poison, Late Second Age, Artist Unknown (8671 words, T, fem!Maglor/Wife)

9. Maedhros snorted and tossed the last bit of the apple into his mouth.

Cheerful Cannibalism Ficlet (247 words, Maedhros & Fingon)

10. Maitimo smirked at him, closed his eyes and kissed Káno.

Proxy (5912 wrods, E, Maedhros/Fingon, Maedhros/Maglor)

What do we observe? Well, first of all, I'm incredibly slow because I wrote only ten fics in almost two years. As for endings, I do like to end the fic abruptly, leaving some things undecided or uncertain. Especially in shorter fics. I do try to wrap up longer fics in a more definite way.

Anyway, tagging @melestasflight, @thescrapwitch, @ermingarden, @welcomingdisaster, @that-angry-noldo

[that-angry-noldo]

wrong all over

T || Maedhros || 1k || ao3 || @thelordofgifs || (cw: implied torture, violence)

"Káno," Maitimo says, voice croaking.

Káno shifts at his side, and looks at Maitimo curiously.

Maitimo stirs and winces at the soreness of his body. The bed is flat; he feels cold. The room is bright. Káno turns away, and for a second Maitimo fears that he mistook for his brother someone else entirely.

His throat is dry, and his bones ache.

"Káno," he tries again.

"Be still, little jewel," Káno says, still not looking at him.

Maitimo never says no to his brother. He closes his eyes obediently, and leans into the touch when Káno's hand caresses his hair.

...

Maedhros wakes up slow, and though it was a long time, he still lacks the confidence in telling reality and the fruit of his mind apart.

The curtains are draped. He stares at them, trying to guess the time; tries to decide if it will be fit for him to go back to sleep, or if another day has already begun.

Candlelight flickers in the corner of the room. Maedhros' eyes travel down the wall. He sees a figure hunched in an armchair, hair unbound, parchments spread around him.

Maedhros does not move when he recognizes the figure as Maglor.

...

Maitimo's body hurts, so much he wants to weep. At least Káno is petting his hair, his fingers cold—Maitimo wishes to take Káno's hand and press it to his cheek, keep it there for eternity. Káno hears his thought; his touch is gentle as if he were tracing the outlines of his favourite harp.

"Káno," Maitimo sobs. "Káno, I hurt do much. Can you sing for me?"

He is not worth singing for; but it is Káno, Káno who loves him.

Káno laughs, a dangling and splitting sound. "I do not sing, jewel," he says. "Hurt a little more."

...

Wind howls outside.

Maglor's hair is dark, and he sighs something under his breath, brow furrowed in concentration. Maedhros flinches. How melodic that sigh is; how soft, how bright.

He hates it, when Maglor speaks, when Maglor sighs, when Maglor makes any noise at all. It makes his memory clash and his skin crawl, makes terror rise within his chest, disgust stick to him like a foul substance.

Maglor's eyes flicker when he hears movement. He looks at Maedhros, smiles weakly.

His smile feels wrong, his eyes are unwell. Maedhros falls still.

Resistance is useless. Lieutenant never allows it anyway.

...

"Káno," Maitimo sobs, and clasps Káno's hand. "Káno, I'm so tired."

Káno sighs. Maitimo flinches; he knows he overstepped, but—it is Káno, Káno who loves him. Káno raises his hand, and Maitimo is sure it will strike him. It would be deserved—Maitimo deserves punishment—but the thought of it makes Maitimo weep, makes him press his hands to his mouth to try and stifle his sobs.

Káno sighs.

"You are disgusting," he says. He takes Maitimo's chin between his fingers, burns away Maitimo's tears. "Be quiet; I cannot bear to see you so undone."

"Káno," Maitimo sobs, "Káno."

...

"Nelyo," Maglor says. "You should go back to sleep."

Maedhros' sleep is haunted by past terror; he only dreams of endless mazes or dark corridors, burning fires, crooked shadows.

Maedhros looks at the thing wearing Maglor's skin, and expects it to fall apart.

Maglor stands up. He looks tired; Maedhros almost pities him.

He turns his head—Lieutenant always wants Maedhros to face him. Maglor sits on the chair near his bed. Maedhros closes his eyes.

Something bitter fills his chest; something much like hopelessness and despair.

"Káno," he says, voice barely a whisper. "Will you sing for me, dearest?"

...

"Káno," Maitimo whispers. "You are so cold."

Káno hums, not paying much attention. Maitimo's head is in Káno's lap; Káno plays with his hair. Maitimo shudders, presses closer.

"You are so far away," he whispers. "You should be closer to me."

"You are testing my patience, jewel," Káno says, tugging at his hair sharply. "Don't make me have to put you in place."

"You hate me," Maitimo sobs, and yelps when Káno strikes him, throws him out of the bed.

He curls up on the floor, sobbing. He made Káno hate him, and there is nothing now he can do.

...

To Maedhros' surprise, Maglor sings.

It almost puts him at ease. Maglor brings his harp; Maglor starts an old tune, which makes Maedhros' think of stars. His voice rolls quietly. The meaning of the words slips past Maedhros, but he thinks they must be beautiful.

He looks at Maglor. The flicker of the candle confuses him; Maglor's fingers change, his hair reddens, his eyes grow golden.

Maedhros shuts his eyes, grits his teeth. It hurts, hurts so much. Maybe he is dreaming still; maybe he will not see Lieutenants face again.

Káno sings, and Maedhros' eyes are wet with tears.

...

Káno hates him; still he allows Maitimo to sit at his feet.

Maitimo knows not whether it is mercy; whether he finds it a comfort, that Káno is still willing to see him. Maitimo does not deserve it; Maitimo deserves a cage, to be left to his misery.

There is a voice in his head, familiar and fresh like clean water is fresh, that tells him it is not so. Maitimo knows it is wrong, for the only kindness he deserves is pain and punishment, and Káno understands it well.

He sits at Káno's feet, and makes himself feel grateful.

...

"Nelyo," Káno says, "Nelyo."

Maedhros' head is in his lap, head cradled in his hands. Maedhros clings to him, despite himself, despite his tears, despite sobs tearing themselves from his throat. He is a wounded animal; a dying beast, and if Káno has any mercy he will bring a knife to his throat.

Or maybe Maedhros will bring both of them down, clawing at Maglor until the end; maybe the knife will go through both of their hearts; maybe they shall face darkness together, drown together, burn together.

"Nelyo," Káno calls, "Nelyo,"—and then he sings.

Maedhros falls, falls, falls.

[tanoraqui]

Incomplete list of name origins/motivations of the House of Finwë, according to me (and sometimes canon). Any names not listed were given for normal “parent liked it and it fit the baby (fathername)/young child (mothername) well enough.”

Original Brady Bunch:

Finwë (epessë, "hair/crowned guy") - as discussed here

Miriel - [normal name origins]

Indis (mothername, "bride") - true maternal prophecy. “She’s going to fuck her way into trouble and, if we’re lucky, fuck her way out of it”

Fëanáro (m, "spirit of fire") - not prophecy so much as really really obvious right away Curufinwë [I] (fathername, "clever finwë") - Finwë, proudly watching his son build cities out of blocks: “He’s like me but even more clever!”

Findis (f, [finwë+indis]) - Finwë has the naming instincts of Bella Swan and we should mock him so much more for this

Arakáno [I] (m, "high chieftain") - warning label Fingolfin was a very bossy toddler; Indis thought it was adorable and was sure he’d grow into it (he did)

Lalwen/Irimë - [both normal name origins]

Ingoldo [I] (m, "the noldo") - spite. born 2 months after Nelyafinwë due to total lack of parental coordination. Indis looked Fëanor straight in the eyes while introducing his new, distinctly blond and Vanya-looking baby brother to him. Effectiveness as a warning label is entirely accidental.

Fëanorians:

Nelyafinwë (f, "third finwë") - spite Maitimo (m, "well-shaped") - Nerdanel: Attention, everyone! I have made the PRETTIEST BABY EVER!!;

Makalaurë (m, "golden voice") - Nerdanel, proudly: Yes, his beautiful voice is very loud [functional warning label]

Tyelkormo (m, "hasty riser") - warning label Nerdanel, loving but strained smile: My newest beloved son. Will not. Stay. Asleep. :)

Carnistir (m, "red-faced") - Nerdanel: Lookit how red his little face gets when he cries! Don’t you just want to squish it even more?!

Atarinkë (m, "little father") - Nerdanel, delighted: FËANÀRO, IT’S A BABY YOU!; Curufinwë [II] (f, "clever finwë") - Fëanor, awed whisper: holy shit you’re right, it’s a baby me

Ambarussa & Umbarto Ambarto (m, "red-topped" & "doomed" "up-exalted") - as told in The Shibboleth of Fëanor: Nerdanel, desperately ignoring the growing sense of true maternal prophecy: They’re both redheads! Fëanor: Beloved, you can’t give them both the same name. Nerdanel: Yes I can. Fëanor: No you can’t. Nerdanel: Yes I can. Fëanor: No you can’t. Nerdanel: Fine, his name is Doomed, are you happy! He’s doomed to a terrible fate! He’s going to suffer and die alone! Fëanor: Haha you mean fated to great things, upwardly mobile, right?! Nothing has ever gone wrong when I ignore you, and probably nothing ever never will! Ambarussa, jointly, as soon as they're old enough to speak: We like having the same name actually also, Telúfinwë (f, "last finwë") - Fëanor: "Okay, even I think we should probably stop at 7"

Fingolfinians:

Findekáno (f, "hair[crowned] commander") - a little bit of spite ("Finwë" + "Arakáno"), but mostly Fingolfin liked how it sounded and didn't realize until it was too late that he'd just swapped the syllables in Kanafinwë, and had to pretend real fast that he didn't care

Turukáno (f, "strong chieftain") - Fingolfin decided to lean into the káno root for his kids, and he likes how this name sounds and he doesn't care that it's the same root at Turkafinwë! Not everything is about Fëanor!

Írissë (f, "[something] femine") - Fingolfin, standing on top of a roof, holding baby Aredhel up like Simba: "WE HAD A GIRL!!!" ("Ir" from Anairë)

Arakáno (m, "high chieftain") - Anairë: haha holy shit, Nolo, he's a baby you

Finarfinians:

Findaráto (f, "high/noble finwë") - Finarfin shortly before his first son is born, moving around scraps on paper on which are written root words: "Okay so it has to include 'fin' and a part of one of my names which is not 'fin' (how stupid would two 'finwë's sound in one name!), but it for the sake of individualism it shouldn't be literally my name nor, preferably, Nolofinwë's... Ingoldo (m, "the noldo") - warning label: Eärwen, preventing her son from trying to eat his fourth very child-chokable random gem from the ground today: "Ara, he gets this from your side." (Effectiveness as a warning label for nude werewolf combat is entirely accidental.)

Angrod - [normal name origins]

Aegnor - [normal name origins]

Artanis (f, "noble lady") - Finarfin standing on the opposite roof, holding baby Galadriel up like Simba: "GIRL! GIRL! GIRL!" Nerwen (m, "man maiden") - Men already barely understand Elvish gender, especially as filtered through the Professor. We cannot begin to conceive of what Galadriel was doing with it, nor should be be so hubristic as to try

Grandchildren, birth order according to me:

Orodreth (m, "mountain climber") - warning label: if this child is not given something to climb, he will Find Something to Climb

Celebrimbor (f, "silver-holding/handed") - named after his mother, Maltrinbor ("gold-holding/handed") Curufinwë [III] (m, "clever finwë") - Maltrinbor, proudly watching her son gnaw on jewelry: He's going to be just as crafty as his father and grandfather!

Celebrindal (e, "silverfoot") - I don't care that canonically it's because she went barefoot; it's because she lost both feet to frostbite on the Helcaraxë (when the ice cracked and she fell in frozen water and Elenwë dove in to save her, a task at which Elenwë did succeed at cost of her own life), and shortly after reaching Middle Earth she got silver prosthetics (Curufin made the first model after Maedhros glared at him really hard)

Maeglin/Lómion - [both normal name origins]

Etc:

Finduilas (f, "hair + ?? + leaf"?) - [normal name origins]

Ardamirë (m, "jewel of the world") - true maternal prophecy (more vibes than literal vision, but she knew he'd hold a Silmaril) Eärendil (f, "friend of the sea") - Tuor: [loves Gondolin but wants to show his son the sea so bad]

Elros & Elrond ("star foam" & "star dome") - to both the Noldor and Sindar, a mothername is more intimate and meaningful than a fathername. But for the Noldor, the fathername comes just after birth and the mothername comes later, when the child's personality is more evident. In Sindarin custom, the mothername comes at birth because who knows the child better than the mother who has just been holding its fëa as close as possible for 9 months? and the fathername comes later. Elwing and Eärendil named their children together: Elwing chose to name them both "El-" for her family; and Eärendil named one "-ros", which like "-wing" means "foam/spray"; and the other "-rond", "star-dome" for the sky that is most beloved to admiring Elves and sea-navigators alike.

Celebrian (m, "silver queen") - Galadriel named her first, Sindar fashion, and named her partly after Celeborn because she is in fact a romantic sap. She suspected early that Celebrian would never be a queen in title, but she never wanted to shut down the option

Elladan & Elrohir ("elf man" & "elf rider[mannish root[" - half-blooded children both, Elrond and Celebrian also named their firstborn sons cooperatively - "El-" less for Elrond's family directly than because Celeborn would be so disappointed if they discontinued this tradition which dated back to his king, Elu Thingol; and "-adan" and "-rohir" for the Men of Númenor, lost and saved alike, whom they had both loved

Arwen (m, "noble maiden") - "Ar-" for Artanis and Arafinwë. Celebrian: "I have the weirdest instinct to go stand on the roof and shout about how she's a girl?" Elrond: "So do I! That'd be so weird, though. Anyway, you choose a name entire, for I must have my own for this one..." Undómiel (e f, "evening star") - mirror to Elros's daughter "Tindómiel", "dawn star" - both, of course, being the same star: Gil-Estel

[searchingforserendipity25]

Music, Too That Sweet Madness. on ao3.

for @maedhrosmaglorweek. many thanks to @thelordofgifs for the beta.

-

"There art thou, dear heart."

"Nelyo, Maitimo, my lord Russandol! Have you fled likewise? I have fled to wander the shade a while, singing something less full of verve and cheer - I fear I shall go a little mad otherwise. Do I look mad?"

"Less wild about the eyes than Father, if that be any consolation."

"Some! Glad he is, and furious I think also; his laughter stung the eyes. His best beloved child, come into his own -"

"How happily wed is our brother! It does him good to have his eyes full of another face, that looks less like his own. And his wife has a fierce enough heart to dispute him for herself, which is better than might be expected."

"I would pity her more, if she looked less pleased with the contention for possession over the prize! They are gone now to their own joining, and only the revelers remain. I trust the spirits are high still. Didst enjoy the leaping and the dancing, and the dizzy stirring of the Mingling's own air?"

"The arias I liked well, for the power in them was fairly wielded; and the effect and impressions was most convincing."

"That is all! Meager praise thou givest me. Convincing - thou hast such a suspicious eye for artifice, not at all like our parents' child."

"Aye, indeed, what a dreadful lack of artistry is my heart - so suspicious it seems to me perhaps thou hast sung too convincingly. Wilt thou be unwell?"

"O, assuredly! Calling so much delight shades the spirit to weariness. 'Tis a rare skill, unfettering all the joy that might be found in a gathering, in fair and measured fashion. Skill has a price, and great singing demands its sacrifice. Tonight I keep my voice still, though tomorrow it may be ground to silence."

"Yet I note silence is not in your repertoire tonight!"

"Am I being too unpleasant? Be sure not to leave my side, even if I am."

"Was thy walk such a lonesome time as that?"

"Not so very much, I thought; till I saw thy height and breadth in the shadows coming towards me through the grass, up the path I left barely trodden upon the ground. Then my heart was glad. Perhaps I am not kind; but I would not like to be without thee, tonight."

"Thou shall be without me, as long as thou likest."

"That is false, but sweet falsity. I was unjust. Thou hast thine own artificiality, brother. I wonder at times -"

"Aye?"

"We are a people made for delight, are we not? In habits. It would not be such an effort to singers, if it were the true disposition of the Quendi."

"The rituals of wedding covenants are not those of our regular days. Though indeed 'twould be most convenient to have thy voice employed in willing the thoughts of all those who hear it - still it is not done, as a manner of domineering, for all the tiresome slow work of our courts might tempt it."

"Maitimo, for shame! Thou ought not make me laugh at tyranny. In truth I ought not speak inauspicious things, on such a day! My voice is very mighty."

"So it is!"

"Though not enough for a compliment, I gather."

"Thy singing rings still, and echoes in every graceful embrace, and all the twirling gestures and generous words. If that is the flattery thou wish’st, I can offer it, and know myself accurate. And thou were most helpful besides, in keeping together our parents and all the company guided in the most useful configuration of conversation, in the hosting and the leading of the dancing meters. My work was made easier for it, and our brother's wedding more joyful. Is this better?"

"Very! Fine tithe, for all my efforts. It went quite well, did it not? Perhaps I ought to be wed myself, now the order of efforts is charted terrain, and not so daunting."

"Thou dost surprise me. Shalt thou be wed, Káno?"

"Oh, I expect I shall. I have many friends, thou know'st; I am very beloved."

"So thou art! None love thee better than I, as none came to thee, here in the dark, when singing laid a shadow upon thy heart; but I suppose that is a high standard I mark."

"None!"

"I have made a good study of our company tonight, as thou know'st; and none, I say."

"Prove it! Say thou shalt not wed, not without my word of approval."

"That is not a just preposition, for I would not wed any thou didst not love also - while thou, Káno, wouldst not think to wait for my approval."

"That is true enough, I cannot be cross - but only because I know thou wouldst never give thy approval, even were I very happy. Thou seest, Maitimo, for all thy deliberation, and scorn of jealousy - I know how thou hast been made in our father's image."

"Makalaurë, thou hast made thyself drunk with thine own words."

"I do not know how Therindë did it. If I died, I would not wish thee to be happy, and glad, and wed whom thou likest and had many children. I would wish everyone who loved me to wear ugly clothes always, and be very unpleasant. Like Father."

"Thou art drunk. Dearest, say not such things. I am not to die."

"All the same. Thou must promise. Not to give thyself away - without my regard. For I too am very covetous, thou know'st, and I would have a say of such things, in death and love alike."

"So I swear - if thou shall come with me, and rejoin the revel. This dark wandering does ill to thee, I see, when thy spirit is spent and drunk with singing."

"So sworn?"

"So sworn, on thy own heart! Which, as we have so cleverly decided, must be shared, and mine likewise. I mind it less than I thought I would. But then thou hast ever been mine own minstrel, and with song I must share thee as well as I might."

"That is true; that I shall not be sorry for.” 

"Only do not be wed so soon! Nor can our household take the changing of the tides so soon, without a good arranging of affairs. I have arranged one such occasion already, and would have a time before taking up this hosting of joy once more, lest I turn mad myself, for far longer than it takes the effects of a Song of Power to fade in the air."

"I shall not. I do not at present have the heart for love. O, Nelyo! Is it possible to sing too well and too long of joy? I fear - and this is not singer's weariness alone - at times it does seem a store that may be spent."

"Come near, dear one. Rest here against my breast - thou art dizzy on thy feet! A long walk that was, for one so spent, and so heavy at heart; yet this spell shall soon pass."

"That is no consolation, and thy kindness I judge not very convincing, for my part. It always does come back."

"I know. So it is with the line of Therindë, each in our time. Think'st thyself alone in this malaise?"

"Never! I know thee, better than thou at times.”

“A lofty claim!”

“And true. What business, I might ask, has our father's eldest-born son evading the crowds, and the pride of a good task, and all the pleasure of company, to hunt a mislaid thing of his when it goes walking by itself? At least a hound thou couldst leash decently, and a wife might be commanded as decree the Laws - so too a servant likewise."

"Káno, thou dost speak worse than unkindness, and more than madness."

"Still thou art the one who speak as master of the household! Ai, here my lord Russandol is eager to lift a noble finger, and order my silence. He shall not have it - tonight I cannot silence myself, even when I wish it, and know it to be best."

"And so I must not have my anger roused, then? I love thee best - still thou dost make that a trial."

"Leave it - I know. Dost thou think I do not? In the morrow I shall be good, and come sit with my head upon your knees, and apologize. Thou know'st I shall. Does that satisfy?"

"It shall satisfy, when thou dost obey as I called."

"Very well! I shall follow, if thou likest. Let us return to the gathering, and hope the Mingling wanes fast. The light wounds my eyes, tonight; I fear I shall weep, and it is a vain singer than cries with his own song as the cause.”

[thelordofgifs]

a fic where maglor (or elrond, or anybody else) manages to stop maedhros from jumping into a lava pit?

I’M SO SORRY THIS ISN’T WHAT YOU ASKED FOR. I DIDN’T FIX IT I MADE IT WORSE.

“If none can release us,” says Maglor, “then indeed the Everlasting Darkness shall be our lot, whether we keep our Oath or break it; but less evil shall we do in the breaking.”

Maedhros looks at him searchingly, and Maglor holds his breath. At last his brother says, “You are right.”

“And?” Maglor asks, not yet daring to smile.

Maedhros steps forward and rests his forehead against the top of Maglor’s head. “Very well,” he says quietly. “Let us surrender to Eönwë. We will go home.”

“Thank you,” Maglor breathes, tears of relief beginning to sting at his eyes, “thank you, thank you—” And he knows what he is asking of Maedhros, knows that it is selfish, knows that his brother is so, so tired: but still he is willing to do this, for Maglor’s sake, and that means everything—

He wakes up.

***

“Wait,” says Maglor, when they spy the guards outside the tent where the Silmarils are kept, “we can’t—”

“We have to,” Maedhros says, tonelessly. His sword is already drawn.

“Not like this,” Maglor says, “no more slaughter, Nelyo, please—”

But Maedhros cannot listen to him, he cannot see another path out, and so Maglor summons up all the power left to him and starts to sing a lullaby: and Maedhros, who after all is so tired, drops to the floor in a dead sleep.

He does not wake until Maglor has dragged him far away from where the host of the Valar are camped; and he is furious, but by then it is too late, and Maglor cannot bring himself to regret it—

He wakes up.

***

They are surrounded, the startled dismayed faces of Elves who knew them long ago encircling them, and Maedhros and Maglor’s swords are wet and bloody but that will not avail them against so many.

“Halt!” comes a clear voice, and the crowd parts before the Herald of Manwë. His shining, terrible face is hard to look at directly.

Maglor sees his chance.

He drops his sword, drops the box that holds the Silmarils, flings himself at the Maia’s feet. “We surrender!” he cries, in a voice that is yet strong and supple, although all other blessings are long fled. “We surrender to the justice of the Valar – we will answer for our crimes – only spare us now—”

He does not raise his head to see Eönwë’s expression, nor the contemptuous ones of the rest of the host, nor even Maedhros’ own: but despite the reckoning that is to come, something in his heart is easy now, for he has put himself, defenceless, at the Maia’s mercy, and hence bound Maedhros too, for Maedhros will not leave him—

He wakes up.

***

“I suppose,” says Maedhros, “we might at least look upon them now.”

They have run some distance from the camp; there will be nobody to chase them down when the light betrays them. Maglor opens the box.

It is empty.

Maedhros makes a choked sound.

“How strange,” Maglor says mildly, “there must have been a mix-up in all the confusion.”

“You!” says Maedhros, outraged: but he is laughing a little as he speaks. “I thought you collided with Elrond by mistake!”

“He’ll give them to Tyelpë,” says Maglor. “Elrond understands, Nelyo. And if Tyelpë holds them—”

“We’re free,” says Maedhros, and he does not sound as though he knows what to do with that. But he is here, and starting to smile, and his grey eyes are clearing as he looks out at ravaged Beleriand, his gaze skimming over the rents of fire in the earth—

He wakes up.

***

His hand is burning, burning, and he can barely think, and Maedhros is standing at the edge of the chasm, the unforgiving light of the Silmaril making clear the terrible despair on his face, and for once in his life Maglor cannot summon up the words—

“So!” he says at last, and just in time. “So Varda Elentári marks us unworthy! But even if she hallowed the jewels she did not make them, Nelyo, they are our father’s work, and the right to them will always be ours.”

“Do you really believe that, Káno?” Maedhros asks, dreadfully soft.

Maglor doesn’t. He knows what he is. But he was a mighty wordsmith once, and the son of the foremost loremaster of Tirion besides, and he knows how to turn arguments to his own end.

“We crossed the world to get away from their false idea of judgement,” he says firmly. “Why listen to it now? And – and – come away from the edge, Nelyo.”

“Yes,” says Maedhros, and then with more certainty, “yes—”

He wakes up.

***

Maedhros is wavering at the edge of the chasm, the Silmaril blazing in his hand, the fire licking up behind him. He is always blazing, this brilliant brother of his, and surely – surely – nothing could ever snuff him out.

“Nelyo,” says Maglor. “Nelyo, drop it. Please.”

His own Silmaril is lying on the ground at his feet. He has given up everything he has for it, accursed thing, and it will not take the last person he has left; it will not take Maedhros, he will not let it.

“They burned him too,” says Maedhros, voice dry and desolate. “Morgoth. I saw his hands. They were black and withered.”

His own hand is crumbling, now. Still he will not let the Silmaril go.

Maglor’s face is wet with tears. “You are not he,” he says; “you are not as bad as Morgoth, Nelyo.”

“I cannot have dealt out much less death than he,” Maedhros counters.

“But you are loved,” says Maglor, “even now – if you would only step away from the edge – I love you, Nelyo, please—”

Maedhros stares at him. Stands very still. Opens his charred and ruined fingers, at last, letting the Silmaril fall into the fire. Looks down as if there is nothing stopping him from following it.

“Nelyo,” says Maglor, and Maedhros looks back at him and takes a step forward and away from the fire and then another and another until he is crashing into Maglor’s waiting arms—

He wakes up.

***

His hand is burning and his soul is burning and Maedhros, standing at the edge of the chasm, is burning too; or perhaps he was always burning, the eldest son of the Spirit of Fire. It was always going to end like this, Maglor has always known it, and yet – because he is selfish, because a part of him still believes he can cheat the shape of his own narrative – he cannot quite accept it.

There is nothing left to him, now, no clever arguments or impassioned sincerity or cunning tricks; and his throat, like the rest of him, is burning, too much so to beg anymore. Is he already screaming? But Maedhros is still standing there, his form wavering like a mirage in the heat from the fire. There – there – gone.

Maglor is screaming now, unquestionably.

Perhaps, he tells himself, perhaps it is just a dream, like those he had, repeatedly, after Maedhros was rescued alive from Thangorodrim: and he digs his nails into the terrible burn on his hand, for surely the pain will ground him, and now, now he will wake up, he must wake up—

He never does.

[welcomingdisaster]

WIP Wthursday!

tagged by @melestasflight a little bit ago, thank you for the tag! <3 have a self indulgent whole-ass scene from ch. 4 of sparrowhawk, haha.

It is only when Maglor’s eyes focus, and his bearing seems quite returned to him, that Maedhros breathes in deeply and demands, not bothering to lighten the anger in his voice, “What was that, Káno? Is there something you’d like to share with the rest of us?” 

Maglor swallows. Maedhros steels himself to feel no pity for his torn voice, for his obvious exhaustion—it is easier than it ought to be, and part of Maedhros regrets that. 

“I left my body,” he says softly, “just for a little bit. Mind—mind touch. Ósanwë.” 

“Quite plainly,” Maedhros says, his voice flat. “What did you call on us, Maglor? How did you know? Why? What sort of—what sort of gamble, what sort of risk—”

He reaches to grab Maglor by the shoulder, shaking him against the wood.  “I,” Maglor says, “I heard, I. I had a feeling.” 

Maedhros waits for further explanation, feeling his anger soar as nothing comes. He drops his hand, sinking his fingernails into his palm. “Had a feeling? That thing—oh, I do not even know, some ghastly spirit, some dead wizard, some ghost—you know it and you speak to it and you call it upon us and you say naught, you say naught to me—! You hide your thoughts from me, you sing sad songs you haven’t thought of in an age, you know something and you do not tell me!” 

“The pale wizard,” Maglor says, his voice barely above a whisper. 

Maedhros blinks, the wind taken temporarily out of his sails. “What?” 

“The pale wizard,” Maglor repeats, “not the dead one.” 

Maedhros feels his whole body flash hot, coiled tight as though preparing for another fight. Fingon catches him hand before he can grab Maglor’s shoulder again, tugging him away sharply. 

“Ros,” he says, “Ros, let him breathe.” 

Maedhros turns, and grips instead Fingon’s arm. Knows his grip is bruising, knows that his anger rises beyond what is right, what is proper. But he can no more swallow it down than he can stop the tide, or beat the moon down into the seawater. 

“He doesn’t keep things from me,” he cries, “I am his brother, I am his lord, I—you do not keep things from me, Káno—”   

But plainly he has. Maedhros chokes on the betrayal of it. Imagines peeling away Maglor’s skin and seeing the traitor hiding underneath, imagines listening ears and prying eyes, imagines— 

“Ai,” Fingon cries, his voice sharper, “Elbereth, let go of my arm before you break it.” He pries Maedhros’ fingers off him, catching his hand in both of his. Squeezes, none too gently. “You are going for a smoke, ‘Ros.” 

Maedhros hesitates, feeling the waves of anger pulse shake through his body, bringing him to the verge of tears. But Fingon pushes him, and he rises to his feet. Fingon lingers just a moment, running his hand over the back of Maglor’s head, where he had hit the tree as Maedhros had shaken him—Maedhros flashes hot at that, with guilt and with anger—then squeezes Maglor’s shoulder and stands. 

i'll tag... @theghostinthemargins @zealouswerewolfcollector @eilinelsghost @searchingforserendipity25 @that-angry-noldo @polutrope @meadowlarkx @grey-gazania & anyone else who desires!

[tilion-writes]

@maedhrosmaglorweek

Maedhros & Maglor Week, Day 1: Treelight After his torment, the Treelight in Maedhros’s eyes is faded and strange. But there are times when it flickers back to life again, and Maglor’s heart is glad. Ch. 1: Maglor sings for Maedhros as he recovers at Lake Mithrim. Ch. 2: In Himring, Maedhros learns to draw again. Ch. 3: Elrond and Elros ask their captors-turned-guardians to give them father-names.

Excerpt:

“It’s me,” Makalaurë says, softly.

Maedhros’s eyelashes flutter. His shoulders, almost imperceptibly, relax.

“Káno,” he says.

Not a question. Over the past few months, Maedhros has recovered some of that iron certainty that once graced his every word, a laughing confidence beneath the skies of Aman. No longer does he gasp and flinch and barely dare to speak louder than a whisper, or more than a word.

The voice is, perhaps, Maitimo’s. But the rasp it carries is not—that horrible, gravelly rasp, as though every word is forced through knives. As though the smoke still lingers in Maedhros’s throat.

“Hello, Russo,” Makalaurë murmurs, and ever so carefully, reaches out to take Maedhros’s left hand. His only hand, now. His right arm, the stump still wrapped in bandages though the fear of infection has passed, rests awkwardly over his stomach. 

Maedhros tenses, at the first brush of Makalaurë’s hand, but then relaxes. His eyes slide open, and settle on his visitor.

They are not his brother’s eyes.

They are gray. That is, perhaps, the only recognizable feature about them. Gray, their father’s sharp and piercing and brilliant gray—and dulled. The whites are bloodshot; the skin around them is sunken, shadows hung like bruises beneath the red-rimmed, sagging almond-curves.

The echo of the Trees is still there, if Makalaurë squints, but it is . . . faded. Hidden, shadowed by exhaustion; tucked away between the glint of distrust and the quiet, otherworldly, horrible hint of almost-Orcish yellow glow. 

There, too, is the echo of the Silmarils. Fainter, a glimmer where the Trees are a shine; caught in the splinters of his silver irises, like their father’s fingerprint in the dust of the world. Between the two of them, Maedhros is the latest to have looked upon the Silmarils, and the worst part of Makalaurë’s heart envies him for it. 

“Do you always watch me sleep?” the ghost of his older brother rasps. 

Makalaurë raises a brow: “Do you always pretend to be asleep?”

“Only when I have the energy.”

(Full fic on ao3!)

[hyperactivepuppy]

AAAAAAAAAAAAA I'M REREADING THE FIRE WITHIN AND GOIGN NUTS. JESUS FUCKING CHRIST MY BOY IS DOING BAD

OMG thank you! this makes me so excited and happy you have no idea 🥹. ahhh poor Shoto is NOT having a good time in that fic. and he’s going to continue to have a bad time poor guy 😭

[meadowlarkx]

Hi!! For the kiss asks, Maemags and 'out of love' pls?

Maedhros’ eyes were on him—he could feel them even when he turned upstage. As the last swelling chords rang out to the shiver of the timbrels, Maglor arranged himself in a languid pose, his hair falling riverine over his shoulders.

He had wanted Ossë’s role—it had seemed to him more dramatic and dynamic. Yet Uinen had the better arias, long pieces persuading her beloved to forsake Melkor’s service and return to her side, and so her role was given to him.

Ossë’s actor, a sturdy nís of a stonemason’s family, rushed to him. Maglor threw his bangled arm about her shoulders. Applause burst out, and around them, the silk-simulated seas quieted to stillness. The crystal lamps brightened: the spell was broken.

Turning fractionally, he sought out Maedhros’ gaze and found it at once. His brother’s handsome face stood out in the crowd just as the brightest stars arrested attention amid the firmament. He was still watching. Maglor fought not to smile as he slipped away through a cunning opening in the fabric.

When he stepped out into a Mingling full of iridescent damselflies, Maedhros was waiting for him with an armful of flowers even before he reached the festival’s dressing rooms.

Maglor grinned and ducked inside, knowing Maedhros would follow, and then the flowers—lovely though they were, and fragrant—were forgotten. When they parted, Maedhros’ mouth was smeared reef-turquoise and he bore a hint of Maglor’s amethyst blush upon his high cheekbone.

“Thou wert radiant.”

“Nothing thou hast not heard before,” Maglor demurred. He liked, when he could, to steal away Maedhros to mark the paces of scenes with him. All in the name of practice, of course. “Besides, I still think the harpist should have been replaced in the orchestra. He lagged on each trill.”

Maedhros smiled a small secret smile, the sort that was only for Maglor. Maglor’s heart glowed.

How could what they shared be wrong—if it made him feel thus? He had heard others speak of the joyful instinct that lighted their own fëar, urging their feet towards the path that was right for them. That was Maglor’s only religion, and it guided him in circles ever around and beside and back to the nér he craved.

“Very well,” Maedhros was saying, entertained, “I will tell thee again that thou art beautiful, and a better harper besides.” And he kissed Maglor again, returning the turquoise paint.

Maglor caught at breath, as he often did after Maedhros kissed him. He had blushed at Maedhros’ archness, but Maedhros had kissed even more color into his cheeks. He managed, though, to flutter his lashes. “Oh? Thou wouldst yield to my pleas?”

“Thou knowest me, Káno,” Maedhros said, crowding him against the vanity. “Can I ever deny thee anything?”

[a-world-of-whimsy-5]

The many faces of grief

Day 6 prompts: Loss | Betrayal

For: @silmarillionepistolary

Rating: Teens and Up Audience

Character: Fingolfin

Themes: Angst-ish | Loss | Comfort | Hints of Russingon

Warnings: Major character deaths prior to the beginning of the story

Wordcount: 1.7K words

Summary: Fingolfin writes in his journal after settling his children and his people along the northern shore of Hithlum, and discovers something is troubling his oldest child.  

A/n: Nicknames: Finno – Findekáno/Fingon | Turco-Turukáno/Turgon | Írri - Írissë/Aredhel | Káno – Arakáno/Argon

This is also available on AO3

Arakáno Ñolofinwë’s journal

30th day of Coirë, year 2 of the First Age.—‘Tis the first time in a long while that I have been able to put my thoughts on parchment. We have finally established our camp along the northern shores of a great lake, and our people now have an opportunity to rest.

But not to find peace. The host of Fëanáro had been here before us. We saw it in the blackened firepits that littered the area and the tattered banners that were left behind. Not knowing what became of them, I commanded our scouts to ride forth and bring with them any news of my half-brother, Fëanáro, his sons, and their followers. These riders returned not long after. They announced that the sons of my half-brother and those who had followed them had established their camp along the southern shore of the same lake. Neither hide nor hair, they said, could be found of Fëanáro himself. More than one voice rose in alarm. Many others rose in anger. I will not condemn the others for their displeasure and their fear. After we stayed behind in Araman, my people and those loyal to Arafinwë held on to the hope that there was still a sense of honor lingering in the Fëanorians and that the ships would be sent back to ferry the rest of us across the great sea. Alas! That was not to be! The swanships, those fabled vessels of white and jet and gold, were put to the torch. I can still harken back to the dreadful sight that greeted us upon that fateful hour, when the horizon was kindled and glowed as if aflame. Great was the lamentation that followed! We were betrayed and abandoned to our fate. And we did not return. We could not do so. I could not do so. I also could not bear the thought of leaving those loyal to me at the mercy of my half-brother and his rash counsels. The children of Arafinwë refused to forsake my own, and my own...my own...

Great is the pain that lingers in my children’s hearts and mine. We spilled blood unrighteously, and the price for spilling such blood was death and torment. And we have already begun to pay. Many perished during that great trek across the grinding ice, including my own daughter by marriage, lady Elenwë. Turco is consumed by grief. I can see it in his eyes and I can feel it in the anger that taints his voice whenever he speaks of Fëanáro and his sons. It is the same anger I feel whenever I think of Káno, my youngest child and the darling of his mother’s eyes, lying dead and bloodied on the shores of Lammoth. We gave him as proper a burial as we could manage, and I pray his spirit has found its way safely to the Halls of Mandos. I pray that he finds peace, and I pray that the Valar, in their mercy, may find it in their hearts to pardon him and all those who perished along the crossing. It is too much to expect, given the doom we brought upon our heads by the doings of our own hands. However, I must hold onto the hope that redemption is still possible for even those accursed like us. As for the children of Arafinwë… they seem to bear us no ill will for the role we played in the slaughter of their mother’s people. I must confess, however, that there are times when we dare not to even look upon them, for our shame is that great. But enough of that for now. I must send our scouts riding again. I must ask them to speak with those loyal to Fëanáro and report back to me all that they are told. I pray that they are allowed to return to us unharmed.

32nd day of Coirë, year 2 of the First Age.— Our scouts came back with dark words. Fëanáro had perished during a great battle, stricken to the ground by Gothmog, Lord of the Balrogs. His spirit burned its way through his vessel of flesh and blood, turning all that remained of him to ash. I wept for him, strange as it may seem. Fëanáro was my brother. Despite our troubled past, despite all that he had done, he was my brother. Now I will not see him until the long years of my life have come to an end, and I must answer the Great Judge’s call. Perhaps this is a good thing. Perhaps it is best that we do not see each other until the hour of my demise has passed and my spirit makes itself known to Lord Námo. Bitterness and anger and grief still cleave to my heart like choking vines, and had Fëanáro lived, my words and my actions upon our meeting would have given rise to new conflicts, and that is something we could ill-afford while we stumble our way across this strange new land we must now call home.

This was not the only dreadful news we received. My nephew and my half-brother’s heir, Nelyafinwë, was taken captive soon after his father perished. He was captured during an ambush devised by Lord Morgoth. No one knows what became of him, and many among his followers fear he was dead. Makalaurë, Fëanáro’s second son, now rules as our king.

“The great songbird of the family now wears the crown of Finwë,” Turco spat while we dined on what our hunters could find. We had to abandon some of our provisions to ease our crossing. Others were consumed. Now we must start our lives anew with the little that remains to us, and with what we can find here. “By all rights, father, it is you who should wear the crown. You are far more worthy of it than he.”

“Whether I am worthy of it or not, it is of little consequence in the end,” I returned. Then I caught a glimpse of my oldest. His face was pale, and his eyes were red and glistening with unshed tears. He was deeply troubled, and he had been deeply troubled since our scouts returned to us with the news they carried. “Makalaurë is king. He has been anointed in accordance with the laws and customs of our people. We need to learn to make peace with it while we still can.”

“Better him than one of the others,” said Írri. “Makalaurë can be reasoned with, brother,” she added when Turco scoffed in derision. “And he is the one least likely to deal with us falsely.”

Turco did not agree. “He is not the elf you knew, sister. None of them are. Their fair hands are tainted with the blood of the innocent.”

“Our fair hands are tainted by that same blood, my son,” I reminded him. “But I understand your apprehensions. I also agree with your sister. We will be better off if we deal with Makalaurë, and not the others. Now I wish to speak with Finno alone. Pray excuse us.”

My other children took their leave of me, but only after I extracted a reluctant promise from Írri to never wander beyond the borders of our camp. This land was no Valinor; none of us knew what lurked in the shadows. And I am not ashamed to confess that I cannot bear the notion of losing yet another child.

“You wished to speak with me, father,” Finno said after others had come in to clear the wooden slab that served as a table and clean the cushions that served as chairs.

“Yes.” I made myself comfortable on the cushion opposite his. “You had been distraught since our riders returned with their news about the fates of Fëanáro and Nelyafinwë; I could see it in your eyes. Pray tell me what troubles you.”

“It is a trifling matter, father.” Finno accepted the measure of water I poured for him. He waited until I served a measure for myself before he continued. “I was merely thinking about...”

"Nelyafinwë. Your beloved,” I finished for him. My son was startled. He opened his mouth to speak, to refute me, no doubt. I raised a hand to silence him. “Do not attempt to deceive me, my son. I know of your trysts with him and how you often conspired to meet him before Morgoth poisoned us all with his lies.”

He drained his cup in one swallow. “How, father? How did you know?”

I poured another measure of water for him and wished we had some wine left in our stores. “I saw it in the looks you would give each other and the little bruises that would appear briefly whenever your robes moved out of place.” I took a sip of what I had in my cup. The water was cold and fresh. It revived me a little. “Then there were the times you left the palace during the hours Nelyafinwë left by himself, claiming he wished to hunt. You were not as discreet as you thought you were, Finno.”

My son had the decency to look contrite. “I thought we were so careful,” he whispered.

"You were not careful! Not in the slightest!" My anger flashed. My child hiding a secret that could have ruined all of his prospects had it made its way into the light chafed at me in a way I could not describe. "Pray tell me, why did you choose him? Why did you choose Nelyafinwë as a companion? He was your kin by blood, not just by marriage! If others found out you would have been ruined! And after all the ways his father scorned us... does loyalty to your own family mean nothing to you?"

Finno flinched back, startled. It was the first time I had spoken sharply to any of my children. "It means everything to me, father. But why did you keep silent all these years?"

"I wanted you to come to me of your own accord instead of keeping such damning secrets to yourself. But no matter. It is finished now. It is finished now, yes?"

"Yes, father," my son murmured. His voice wavered. "It is finished. Nelyafinwë is gone. Pray forgive me, father, for wounding you with my indiscretions." 

When I heard his appeal for forgiveness, when I saw the agony in his dulled eyes, what anger I had ebbed away, and compassion took its place. I studied Finno keenly. He was grieving. Worse than that, he had to grieve silently and without the comfort of others.

“Tell me the truth, my son," I began, softer this time. "Do you love him still, even after all that has been done?” 

“Yes, father. I thought what I felt for him died during the crossing, and...” My son said no more. A low moan of despair escaped his lips when he buried his countenance in his hands and began to weep. I could not bear to witness his distress. I went to him and gathered him into my arms.

“Grieve for him, my son.” His hands clutched desperately at my back, even as his tears continued to fall. “It is only right that you do so." 

“Will you think poorly of me if I do so?” He breathed hard, as if he were trying valiantly to compose himself. “Will you think poorly of me grieving the death of one who betrayed us?”

“I will think nothing of the sort," I assured him. “You love Nelyafinwë. I may not understand why, my son, but you love him. And I insist that you come to me whenever your grief threatens to overwhelm you. I will help you bear it.”

[echo-bleu]

(except it's Saturday for ten more minutes, and also it's more than six sentences)

The wall behind them is a memorial to the days of the Darkening, a list of names of those who died and a celebration of those who fought. Nelyo’s own name is among the latter, a long-dulled reminder of the battle that cost him his right hand and his brother. Kánafinwë Makalaurë Fëanarion, he traces on the other side, right below the names of his grandfather and his father. And one line below, Artanis Nerwen Arafinwiel. The list goes on – twenty-three names, and all but the first four have long left the Halls of Mandos. Neither Finwë nor Fëanáro will come back before the Second Singing. But for his brother, Nelyo will never stop waiting. “Are you ready yet, Káno?” he murmurs, the crown resting on his head heavy and cold. “What is taking you so long to heal from?” His finger slips on a crease in the carved name, and for an instant, his whole hand burns. White light blinds him, and heat laps at his feet. Káno screams, pain and rage mixing in a terrible wail so very far from his beautiful singing voice. Nelyo gasps. What was that? He can’t place the memory. The day of Morgoth’s attack on Formenos is a haze of pain and terror, and he’s not sure what was real and what wasn’t. He lost track of Káno sometime after an enemy blade sliced his wrist clean through, and never knew exactly how his brother died. “I miss you. It’s been so long, but I never stop turning to speak, expecting to see you at my side. Ingoldo’s songs are never going to be as good as yours.”

I have little time to write but my brain came up with a new AU anyway. What do you think is going on here? Reversal AU? No exile AU? Something else?

[sadlybeans]

Náro

prince of the noldor, certified chaos incarnate

I am 🎶 way too lazy 🎶 to draw detailed things 🎶 so I just drew this 🎶 in a comic style 🎶

✨ Headcanons ✨

Suffers from chronic baby face. Is often mistaken to be Curvo or Tyelpe by people who don’t know him.

Short hair. Convenient for working in the forges, excellent defence against rowdy children.

Brown skin like Finwë, but looks like a miniature of Míriel.

S h o r t

(Y’know, the average noldo is about a head shorter than Nelyo -commonly used as a measure unit. Well, Náro is the height of an average sinda, which makes him about two heads shorter)

(I cannot emphasise enough how short he is. The only person in the family of his height is Káno)

Hates (wearing) jewellery. Will not use earrings, rings, bracelets or necklaces, but can be convinced to wear a circlet.

✨some more headcanons that have nothing to do with his appearance✨ that are also placed in my personal AU and therefore might be conflicting with canon but i don’t care because i’ve run out of fucks to give, it’s eight am and i haven’t slept in twelve hours

Speaks tons of languages. Will use all of them at once when excited or angry (Nerdanel is never amused by this).

Cannot be trusted to write formal letters and documents. Partially because of the above fact, but mostly because he is the equivalent of a kinder aged child and should not be given important stuff.

Discipline the children? HA. No, he’s sitting down in the corner with them because he’s an enabler and could never say no to a cute pouty face.

Helicopter parent.

Actually allows the kids to socialise with their cousins. What do you mean? Of course he isn’t doing it to have his gaggle of little monsters corrupt Ñolvo and Arvo’s well behaved kids, why would he do that.

Cried for a week straight when he found out Káno was making heart eyes at Findo.

Then he spent a fortnight locked up in his forge and came back with a set of two identical daggers he gave Káno without explanation.

Constantly asks Tyelpe to spy on Nelyo and Finno because goddammit he wants more grandchildren.

Gets drunk easily.

He’s the type of drunk who cries for everything.

He will also constantly ask for Nerdanel like an excited puppy.

Overgrown cat behaviour. And no, he does this sober.

Extended family dinners with half siblings? Will -naturally- push Ñolvo’s cup/utensils to the floor ‘by accident’. Blackmailed by Finwë to stay in Arvo’s house overnight? Slams doors, pushes furniture around, drops shit on the floor. In the middle of the night of course.

Takes the slightest casual comment about a new craft/art that someone is doing as a challenge to do it bigger and better.

Nerdanel can’t sew for shit. Náro embroiders cute little details in the boys’ clothing.

Can’t paint or draw for shit. His sketches and plans for his work are incomprehensible and look like they were drawn by a toddler with Parkinson’s desease. Only the Valar know how the fuck he manages to create exquisite beauty out of that.

Handwriting is damn illegible. He can actually manage something presentable if necessary but he rarely gives enough fucks to do that.

Ambidextrous but instead of being proficient writing with both hands he can’t write with either.

ok i’m tired so i may write more later

wait one more

HE LOVES HIS WIFE AND CHILDREN. that’s it thanks

[doodle-pops]

*Maglor and reader walking in the gardens*

Maglor: oh by the way,  have you finish the music homework from last class?

Reader: shhhhh this is a sacred place,  we don't talk about such things in here

Maglor: as your teacher I--

Reader: shhhhh *puts a finger over their mouth* sacred place sacred place

Y/n always escaping their music lessons *smh* can't blame them tho

Minaaa! Good luck on the second week of finals 🎉🎉

-👻

Shhhh Káno, this a sacred place where we speak no such things unless you want to hit by a branch. Káno and his obsession over his music 🥴 sigh smh. This boi

[thelordofgifs]

share a lil of boats! eyes emoji

(WIP titles ask game)

boats against the current is actually my oldest WIP, having been languishing since something like December 2022. This is an AU where Maedhros doesn't swear the Oath! It's still in the very early stages of the plot, but here is some fallout:

It is only after, once the debate is won and they have returned to the house in Tirion to pack, that he has the chance to speak with Maglor again. The fell light that blazed in his brother’s eyes as he swore is all but gone now; he is just Maglor, his slim form almost blending in with the shadows as he slips into Maedhros’ chamber, his mouth wavering. “Why didst thou do it?” he asks. “I could not,” Maedhros says again. “Oh, my Káno, canst thou forgive me?” “Thou knowest I already have,” Maglor says, tiredly. “But… he is very angry.” “It will pass,” Maedhros says. “It always does.” “Not this time, perhaps,” says Maglor. “Nelyo, how couldst thou? When we all saw—” It was intolerable, the sight of Fëanor’s face as they broke the news of his father’s death to him. The memory is imprinted on Maedhros’ eyelids as surely as is the sight of their grandfather’s broken body. “I am loyal,” Maedhros says, voice shaking. “I know,” Maglor says. “I know. I would never doubt thee.”

[hyperactivepuppy]

You told me to do my homework but I decided not to haha suck it nerd

So that’s where you disappeared to. To stalk my tumblr…. 🤨 Pear do your homework right now this is an order