#letters to maitimo

[memoriapraeteritorumbonorum]

Letters to Maitimo - II

People always claim they could never imagine themselves in your shoes. 

That your life and your responsibilities would overwhelm them and they would not even last a day as your substitute. 

I used to believe them. I used to think I could never measure up to the things you do — I could never stay afloat like you. I used to think I would sink and succumb to the unbearable weight of your duties. 

How unjust is it for us eldest children to bear the burden of responsibility, the sole reason being the time of our birth?

What makes us so different from our younger siblings? 

What made our parents think they could take away the most precious thing — our childhood — and replace it with the worrisome truths of adult life? 

Lately, my life has been swamped with these feelings, these seemingly unfulfillable duties. And Eru, I wish I could just disappear. I wish I could melt away into a loved one’s embrace and not think about the future, or how everyone will depend on me if anything bad ever happens. 

And yet, it is my deepest, darkest desire to be taken care of. To not be taken for granted. To be treated as though I was one of my younger siblings and not the eldest for once. 

And it embarrasses me so. This desire, this childish urge of mine to be swaddled and caressed. To be told how proud one is of me, after I have spent my entire life proving to myself that I do not need anyone to lean on. But that never happens. And so I continuously wander this never-ending circle of yearning and accepting the loneliness that will never fade — the soles of my feet are blistered. 

I see you and I see each and every little sting it took to forge you into the person you are today: honorable, wise, reliable. Even-tempered, diplomatic, just. 

Maitimo, my copper headed dear one, I just want you to know you can rely on me. You can let it all go if you want to, because I am here and I understand. Every eldest sibling is, that is what I wholeheartedly believe. 

We may not have our families to lean on, but we have each other. We are interchangeable, we are aware of the attributes it takes to be the eldest because we had no choice in the matter. 

And I assure you, we would last significantly longer than just a mere day if we were to be put in your shoes.

[camille-lachenille]

Day 1: childhood

[koyunsoncizeri]

My lovely star,

Though parted from you now, I spend my every breathing moment remembering your sweet face, your gentle arms. Your love redeems whatever darkness there is in me and calls to my light. There’s no end to my gratitude. I wish you knew how deep my devotion is, but is there a way to measure the depth of a raging sea or a bottomless abyss? I adore each single thing that you are, and if your feelings are at least as strong as a hundredth of mine, I deem myself the happiest lover who ever walked under the Moon.

Proud to call myself yours,

Maedhros

🥹❤️🤲 you cant imagine how i went from 😳 to 😭 then 🥹 !!!!! It's like you have read my mind too cuz im back in my obsessing over the gingerhead era 😭 this was soo SO lovely rhank you so much ahhh !!!¡ 🥹🥹🥹🥹

Proud to call myself yours

I'm losing my mind </3 </3 </3

(here is a quick sth as a thank u !!!this honestly made my day 😭)

Seems he already got a reply 😳 and he is enjoying it 😳

[sweetteaanddragons]

Stepford Smiles and Time Travel Wiles

Another fic I never got around to crossposting!

Featuring time travelling. Unfortunately, for most of the characters, they don't know that.

The door had scarcely closed when Feanaro rounded on Maitimo, eyes blazing. “You see?” he demanded.

Maitimo, for his part, was too busy blinking at the door his mother had just departed through to answer for a moment. “I see,” he agreed when he had gathered his wits. “Or I glimpse, at least. Atar, what happened?”

His father had abandoned his chair at the dining table to pace furiously in front of the windows. “She returned two days ago,” he said, gesturing toward the hall. “She has been like this ever since. About everything.”

”Everything?”

“If I declare Nolofinwe treacherous, she decries him and his mother. If I say the Valar are untrustworthy, she rants on the foolishness of giving ear to Melkor. If I speak of making swords - “ There Feanaro paused. “There we disagree,” he conceded. “She has been scolding me for not practicing with mine enough. She demanded one of her own and has been devoted to it since; she wonders that I do not do the same.”

When he had first learned she had left his father, Maitimo had felt as if the world was opening beneath his feet.

Somehow, this was not the relief he would have expected.

“Perhaps she changed her mind,” he said tentatively.

“I admired a song of Lauriel’s, and she praised it to high heaven,” his father said harshly.

Ah. His mother would never be rude enough to publicly express an outright distaste for any work made by a protege of Makalaure’s, but Maitimo was not the public, and he could be trusted to know what to keep from his brothers.

His mother could, of course, change her mind on multiple things at once.

But.

The energy that had propelled his father left him in a rush, and he crumpled against the wall, running a hand over his face. “I know she still wrote to you,” he said wearily. It was the first time he had acknowledged this. “Did anything she write . . . ?”

“We didn’t write of politics,” Maitimo said carefully. “Her art, mainly. Tyelpe’s latest projects. That sort of thing.”

His brothers’ projects as well, though that was a more careful line to dance; some of them would not be happy to know news of them had been passed on.

He had written of his father’s work, what little of it wasn’t political. She had never commented on it.

“But she was well?” his father demanded. “The separation didn’t - didn’t burden her fea?”

“It pained her, of course,” Maitimo said, even more carefully than before. “But I had no thought it would drive her to Lorien. It is not as if the bond was broken.”

“No,” his father agreed, abandoning the wall to slump into the closest chair - the one across from Maitimo, instead of his usual place at the head of the table. “No.” He frowned at where one of Grandmother’s tapestries hung on the wall, staring at it as if it held all the secrets of Amil’s heart woven within. “It is not like her,” he said plaintively.

It wasn’t, Maitimo agreed fervently, even if it was only in the privacy of his mind. When his father had half invited, half demanded his presence at supper tonight and said it was about Amil, he had expected anything but this.

“She may have just wished to reconcile,” he suggested soothingly.

Too soothingly; his father looked up sharply, biting words all but visibly forming on his lips before he swallowed them back and waved dismissively. “I should not have involved you in this,” he said instead. “It is not your burden to carry.”

His mother had expressed similar sentiments to him before in one of her letters. Maitimo heartily wished she had not; it had preceded a significant restriction in the information she passed on, and he could not fix what he did not know about.

“If something is wrong with Amil, it is all of our concern,” he said, retreating from ‘soothing’ to ‘rationality.’ “Or if something is right, it is all of our joy. I’m very glad you invited me to supper tonight; even with this . . . puzzle . . . it was good to see her again.”

This reassured his father as his other statement had not. “She wanted to see you,” his father said. “Desperately.”

This was not a surprising revelation. His mother had flung herself at him as soon as he entered the doorway and had not let go of his arm throughout supper. He thought she would be here still if Lauriel had not stopped by with word that Makalaure had safely returned from Alqualonde and was back at his own house in the city. Amil had not been content to wait for his and Aranel’s inevitable morning visit and had immediately gone to welcome them back.

His other brothers, he suspected, would receive a similar treatment when they returned from the various tasks their father had sent them on. He would have to see if he could send word to them first; he trusted Makalaure’s reception of this turn of events, but some of the others might need a few gentle nudges not to let their feelings about Amil’s departure get in the way of her return.

“If she is feeling so agreeable, have you tried asking her about this change of heart?” he tried.

His father shrugged defeatedly. “She said she had thought about what the next few years of her life would look like, and that she had decided that she couldn’t afford to waste time on the ice.”

Maitimo knew poets sometimes compared difficult relationships to ice. He had never considered his parent’s relationship in those terms, even over the last few years; he had tended to lean more towards ‘volcanic.’

“I wrote to Mahtan,” his father added abruptly. “She must have said something to him and Liriel before her departure; if it gave them reason for concern, surely . . . “

“Of course,” Maitimo agreed and made a mental note to write himself. His grandfather had retreated from Atar as tensions rose, but he wrote to his grandchildren as often as ever.

Or perhaps he should write to his grandmother instead; that way if Mahtan chose not to reply to his father’s letter there would be less of an obvious contrast.

There was reason for concern, as much as he hated to admit it, whether or not his grandparents had caught it. Amil had been almost as manic as Atar in one of his moods tonight, her usual quiet passion transformed into something too loud, too bright, too fierce.

Like magnesium burning so, so bright for just a moment, and then -

No. She was in Tirion again; that was good. She was back, and she was talking to Atar again, and Maitimo could set to work smoothing the way for everything to fall back into familiar shapes.

“I’ll talk to Makalaure in the morning,” he told his father. “He might have picked up on something. We’ll work this out; you’ll see.”

Things were one step closer to being as they should be; he wouldn’t let them fall apart again now.

Notes:

Meanwhile, Nerdanel’s perspective: Do I agree with Feanaro? No. But did arguing with him work last time? Also no. So if I am going to save my idiot family, I am going to have to go with them, and I am not risking getting left behind when they take off, so . . . time to let my husband pretend he married Farande. Feanaro, not so quietly sulking: I don’t want to be married to Farande. Nerdanel, oblivious: This is going great!

[cilil]

Day 1 ~ Daily Life & Customs

AN: For day 1 of @silmarillionepistolary. Yes, it had to be Cara for tax day, and yes, with Turgon. Thanks again to @elentarial for suggesting this pairing all the way back in December, I'm invested (pun intended) now.

𓂃🖋 Characters/pairings: Caranthir x Turgon 𓂃🖋 Synopsis: Caranthir is delighted to finally receive some personal correspondence - from his favourite cousin no less. 𓂃🖋 Warnings: / 𓂃🖋 Oneshot (~600 words) | AO3

Dear cousin, 

I hope you are well. 

The pen you gifted me proves to be wonderful not just for writing, but for inking my sketches and drawings as well, so I must thank you again. 

I have been making some progress with the tower I was designing, though I am not yet happy with the archway and window designs. Uncle Arafinwë was so kind as to ask Eönwë to take me to Ilmarin for inspiration, but Lord Manwë was more interested in telling me about the birds nesting in his towers than explaining the design. 

I am admittedly lacking inspiration of my own at the moment, so if you happen to have other ideas, please let me know.

Regards, Turukáno 

Carnistir read the letter several times, his brow furrowed in concentration and contemplation. It was quite like Turukáno to keep his correspondence short and to the point, yet another reason why he was — despite his sincere commiseration for his dear cousin's troubles — positively delighted to hear from him. 

Prince or not, Carnistir didn't receive many letters, and most of the ones that ended up on his desk were formal correspondence, either addressed to him or to one of his brothers. Tyelkormo and Makalaurë were particularly notorious for forgetting to take care of theirs, and Maitimo had recently taken to spending a lot of time with Findekáno and was less willing to help out. 

Thus many things fell onto Carnistir's shoulders, and private correspondence had become an even rarer treat. It made him feel important — even wanted in a strange and possibly pathetic manner, as he chastised himself — that Turukáno was indirectly asking him for help and opinions regarding one of his passion projects. 

Determined, Carnistir pushed a stack of papers aside and placed his new favourite letter in the middle, reaching for an empty sheet of paper to compose his response posthaste. While not exactly an urgent matter, it was not one to ignore for days or weeks either. 

Dear cousin, 

I appreciate your letter, and hope this one finds you well. 

If you would like my personal opinion, I am afraid I cannot say much without having seen the progress on your sketch. I would be happy to visit and have a look, though. 

What I can also do for you, if you wish, is arrange a meeting with Grandfather Mahtan and possibly Lord Aulë as well; surely they could provide some better insights. Let me know if you would like that, and I shall speak to my mother promptly. 

Regards, Carnistir

Carnistir hesitated before writing down his final lines. Briefly, he contemplated a warmer wording, at least a "yours" or "yours truly", but in the end decided the safest way was to simply mirror Turukáno's style. Besides, he didn't want to seem pushy or intrusive, not when he had such a golden opportunity to gain his favourite cousin's favour. 

He would accompany him to any meeting he might agree to, of course. It would certainly be helpful for his own studies as well, he justified it to himself as soon as the thought crossed his mind. If he was going to study the depths and nuances of things like trade, taxes and even the occasional textile work, something his family members liked to tease him about, some input on style, composition and architecture couldn't hurt. 

Waiting for the ink to dry on the paper to avoid any unforgivable stains or smears, Carnistir began looking for an envelope and sealing wax. He was going to make sure that his letter would be sent as soon as possible. 

Thanks for reading! ♡

taglist: @elanna-elrondiel @i-did-not-mean-to @saintstars @urwendii

[echo-bleu]

we'd laugh at the ghosts of our fears

On AO3 here

Findekáno laughs.

He laughs on the Ice, every day that he can bring himself to. He makes it into a habit. While his father and his brother only grow colder, Findekáno makes sure to thaw his mind whenever he has a chance to.

Findekáno laughs.

He laughs at Maitimo’s bedside. He makes it into a ritual. Maitimo slowly recovers, slowly grows less weak and terrified, but he has build walls around his mind so tall that nothing now reaches his face. He stays grave and quiet, and even when he quips and teases like before, no hint of a smile curls his mouth. So Fingon laughs for him, hearty and clear.

Fingon laughs.

He laughs on the hills of Dor-lómin. He makes it into a prayer. He listens to his laughter echoed by the mountains, and keeps a tight grip on the fragile peace they have achieved. He writes, every week, long letters to Maedhros, and in them he puts as much of that sound as he can in words. Maedhros needs to be reminded of the good.

Fingon laughs.

He laughs in the halls of Hithlum. He makes it into a weapon. He wears the crown on his head and the raiment of mourning, and he bares his teeth at the ambassadors of his fragile allies and his almost-enemies. He laughs in the face of the same despair that drove his father to his death, and he holds his kingdom by the sheer force of his will.

Fingon laughs.

He laughs on the plains of Anfauglith. He makes it into an elegy.

He laughs at the sight of Turgon’s host. Utúlie'n aurë! How he has missed his brother, how he has hoped!

He laughs when he finally glimpses Maedhros’s banners. How he has lived, how he has loved!

He laughs one last time, as Gothmog raises his great axe. He falls to his knees onto his muddied banner and looks up to the sky.

He dies with laughter still on his lips.

[annoyinglandmagazine]

@silmarillionepistolary Lord Maedhros of Himring

Prince Nelyafinwë Maitimo Russandol of The Noldor

I’ve sent my latest ledger alongside this and I believe you know by now that there is no chance of you finding a fault with it so let’s not shall we? You will not be able to prove anything with any group of accountants you can cobble together from those battle fixated imbeciles in your employ and it’s not as if I intend to withhold aught from you.

I agree begrudgingly that we must approach things from a united perspective, why I even agreed to give Celegorm a loan recently, for military matters apparently though I have my doubts, and I certainly won’t see a coin of it returned without having to write him much more persistently than I like to. He’ll yield eventually, he always does. Though it would be faster if you applied some pressure as well I’m close to getting Ambarussa on side and he’s always been putty in their hands so your assistance isn’t strictly necessary this time.

I am aware that when you talk about the risks of fighting amongst ourselves you are including the Arafinwean and Nolofinwean elements but I am simply electing to ignore that excessively ambitious request. The only ‘us’ that matters to any extent here is the seven of us and our followers and I think, considering I would say those relationships are all in a relatively good place presently, you should cut your losses and accept the win on that front.

You can’t fix all the Noldor, Maedhros, and the sooner you manage to accept that the better as far as I’m concerned. Besides, from what I hear of your own particular diplomatic skills in regards to a certain Nolofinwean you should have an in there no matter what the rest of us do. Curufin and I think you don’t take advantage of it anyone near regularly enough when all of Beleriand knows he would not refuse you any favour you may ask of him but I suppose that’s your own prerogative; we can count on his support on the more dire situations for your sake which is something in any case.

I trust my last shipment of wool will have reached you by the time you receive this; which is all for the better considering I have heard from reliable sources (Maglor but even so) that the weather has taken a sharp turn into an early winter. It was your decision to settle so far north when you could have shunted it on to those Arafinwean brats so you shan’t get my sympathy on that matter but it wouldn’t do for us to lose our mannish recruits to the cold, without all the soldiers we can get our position in the north will quickly become untenable.

In reference to your last letter I do wish that you would stop nagging me about said Arafinwean brats, Nelyo, I have been entirely well behaved in my dealings with them in recent months and am entitled to place whatever taxes I wish on my own exports. If they are unhappy with this they can go elsewhere, they certainly shouldn’t go whining to my older brother to get a discount on my perfectly standard rates.

The disparity you pointed out between their rates and your own was entirely unfounded as I am naturally giving you a discount as head of the house of Feanor and my boneheaded older brother who decided he’d like to freeze to death while fighting off Morgoth armed only with fury. So really you should be thanking me but I am used to receiving no gratitude for my efforts with this family so I shall let it slide.

As for the comparisons you drew between other rates and their’s, if you had time to peruse them I have a list of criteria for which I give lower prices and why they apply to specific groups, ledgers upon ledgers of meticulous, complex calculations, Nelyo dear. Dorothion just happens to meet none of them by pure chance.

On the matter of my trade to the west I think the plan you detailed in your last letter sounded quite satisfactory. I assume you have already begun on having the diplomatic groundwork laid down so we receive ample credit as the benevolent saviours of their economy for the deal I ran by you?

It’s rather ingenious I have to say, I’m sure your end of it will work perfectly and you needn’t worry about the wording of the deal itself, it’s quite brilliant if I do say so myself. Irreproachable really, Fingolfin won’t be able to find any justification to turn it down without looking hopelessly petty. Maybe have Maglor spread a bit of propaganda, some catchy song with subliminal messaging and the like, he’s quite useful for that I suppose. It’s a pleasure doing business with you as always.

I should pay a visit to Himring next summer if all goes to plan, I would only be staying about three months mind; it’s looking to be a busy year and I’ve already got two important trade deals lined up for the autumn that I should be east for at the final stages. I warn you this far in advance because I know your Fingon tends to travel north in the warmer months and I’m sure you would like to avoid any overlap after last time with Curufin.

I recommend you issue an official invitation for a state visit soon, it makes it simpler to write things off as diplomatic expenses on my payments to Fingolfin and it is going to be a hard winter after all. I look forward to it, I haven’t seen you in quite some time now, I miss you. Keep an eye on Maglor, his expenditure has been lower than usual recently and while it hasn’t crossed the threshold of a concerning change best watch for anything out of the ordinary.

No I am not giving you a source for my information on his accounts, I have my ways and I’ll leave it there. On an entirely unrelated note now would be an excellent time to see if Belegost may be more open to a military agreement with Himring than it was previously. I have my ways.

The Lord Caranthir of Thargelion

Prince Morifinwë Carnistir of The Noldor

[zealouswerewolfcollector]

Now a Quill, Now a Sword

Findekáno could see him writing this letter as clearly as if Maitimo were before him. Sitting with his back straight, head tilted a little, the fingers of his left hand drumming on the table as he pondered over the words. Findekáno could see him opening one of Elemmírë’s poetry books that he always kept on his desk to make sure he had not quoted her poem erroneously, even though he knew all of her works by heart. Findekáno could see Maitimo’s meticulously and richly embroidered sleeve smearing the ink on the sheet. Maitimo would huff in annoyance and roll his sleeves back, then start writing the letter anew. His letters had to be perfect without mistakes or marks.

Maedhros and Fingon's relationship from Valinor to Beleriand told through a series of letters

Link to the fic

Written for @tolkienrsb

Art: @melestasflight/ Melesta

See additional art made by melesta HERE

Story: HewerOfCaves / @zealouswerewolfcollector​

Rating: T

Warnings: Major character death

Relationships: Maedhros/Fingon

Characters: Maedhros, Fingon

Word Count: 11817

[eleneressea]

★ ☆ ☠ ♡ ♥ ▼ ☼ ൠ for Maedhros?

★ - sad headcanon

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

☆ - happy headcanon

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

☠ - angry/violent headcanon

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

♡ - romantic headcanon

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

♥ - family headcanon

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

▼ - childhood headcanon

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

☼ - appearance headcanon

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

ൠ - random headcanon

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

[sallysavestheday]

Throwback Thursday!

I'm in a kind of a grim Maedhros mood today, so have a little of him heading off for his ill-fated parley with Morgoth, in May 2023's I May Be Some Time. Here's a snippet:

Maglor knows it for a trap; he sings back the dissonance in the Music that the offer letter shapes, the dark tune bitter as it tumbles from his mouth. He pleads: Don’t go, don’t leave, what will we be without you? His hands shake as Maedhros presses the Regent’s circlet into them and folds his musician’s fingers around the band. He tries for humor, sweating: I am not Uncle Nolo, Maitimo. Second son or no, I have no wish to be King. Maedhros silences him against his shoulder, humming as Maglor weeps, breathing deep of the dusty sweetness of his brother’s hair.

Read the whole thing on AO3.

@searchingforserendipity25 @tilion-writes @melestasflight @emyn-arnens @theghostinthemargins would you like to share an older piece for a little more love?

[that-angry-noldo]

Fingon arrives unannounced.

It's not that he's unexpected, not really - not when Maitimo ends his every letter with "I miss you" and when Maglor practically begs him to come because "if I have to hear another “Finno used to call me Maitimo” I'm going to snap and ride to Hithlum myself". So, no. Fingon is pretty sure his cousins expect him any time, it's just that he's unannounced, and the weather is dark and gloomy, and he remembers why he hates the harsh snows of Himring so much - even if they're inevitably warmed by his cousin's bright smile and brilliant green eyes.

Maedhros' stronghold greets him with grim walls towering above him, howling night, and very confused, very startled guards. They hurry to open the gates for him and his company; Fingon wastes no time riding straight to the castle, shivering under the cold rain and anticipating a warm welcome.

He's greeted by a startled Maglor - Valar's sake, Finno, you could have at least sent a message! - and can't help but laugh at his cousin's antics as they walk through the castle, Fingon's hands still cold and his cheek red.

"It's good to see you again, Kàno," he says, placing a hand at Maglor's shoulder and smiling. Maglor huffs and shrugs it off, and Fingon grins again. "I'm sorry for arriving unannounced. You know I have little care for such things."

"Whatever," Maglor waves his hand, leading him through the corridors Fingon knows all too well. "You're here, and that's what matters. We knew you will arrive, so your room is warm and clean."

"I would use some warmth now. The weather outside is insufferable, Makalaurë. Why do I always visit during the winter?"

"I'll get some tea going for you, then. Are you hungry?"

"Not much. I'll survive this night, I'm sure."

They enter the room, and Maglor leaves for a moment, reappearing again quickly. Fingon takes off his cape, kicks off his boots and plumps into a chair, melting into the surrounding warmth; he opens his eyes at the sound of Maglor huffing, and grins at him.

"What? If you're making fun of me, at least do it out loud, cousin."

"Ah, it's just a memory - of how skittish you were when you visited first. You were afraid to breathe the wrong direction."

Fingon throws his head back and laughs. "You were none the better, Makalaurë! Besides, this place was so new, any stain was a pain to behold. It's more lived in now."

"Sure. Was your journey safe?"

"As safe as it could be in such times," Fingon sighs, and a shadow flies past his face. "I am here in one piece, and that's what matters. Where is your brother?"

Maglor rises from his place, walks to the door and takes a plate with two mugs of steaming tea from the servant's hands. "You know, you could have at least pretended you were interested in my company, Finno."

"Maglor," Fingon glares, and his cousin flashes a grin.

"Careful, I am still holding your tea."

"Give me that," Fingon scoffs. The cup is warm in his hands, and he sighs contently. His face softens. "I am glad to see you, though. I came here as much for you as I did for Maedhros."

Maglor shakes his head. "I'll pretend I believed that. Maitimo should return soon; the scouts spotted a small orcish group on the outskirts, and he wanted to deal with that straight away."

They sit for a while, enjoying their tea in silence. Fingon looks around the room again; everything here is done in Maedhros' uncompromised style, from wooden beams to soft furs to woolen blankets. His heart warms up; he might dislike harsh nature of Himring, but there is nothing he wouldn't trade for its simple and welcoming domesticity. He relaxes into the chair. For a second he wants to stay there forever, far, far away from any responsibility, far from his court and endless plotting and far from Hithlum, where everything feels cold and lonely and empty.

He sighs. Makalaurë squints.

"What bothers you?"

"Nothing."

"Mhm."

"That's true! Nothing bothers me, it's just - I'm tired, after the long way. Sure you understand."

"Of course," Maglor shrugs. "I do. It is a late hour - do you wish to rest?"

"Mmm. I think- I think I'd rather wait for Maitimo."

"Of course you do," Maglor smirks, and Fingon glares. "He'd sit by your bedside waiting for you to wake up if you didn't. He just loves you like that."

"Oh yes, he does," Fingon grins back, and leans forward. "Jelaous he's not waiting by your bedside quite as often, aren't you?"

"As far as I'm aware, I'm the one who lives with him under the same roof, Finno."

"And I'm the one who he sends letters complaining about that, Kàno."

Maglor glares, then scoffs and rolls his eyes. Fingon shakes his head.

"Well, since that's settled - what about you? You seem very... distracted, ever since I'm here. Do you have a new ballad on your mind? Should I tell my court to ready their tissues?" he throws himself back, winking to his cousin and taking a sip of his tea. Maglor huffs a laugh, and shakes his head. Fingon's heart stings with anxiety when he hears a bitter note to that sound.

"No, I don't think so, cousin. I don't plan to make it public, so your court is safe for now."

"Oh?" Fingon raises his eyebrows. "So there is a masterpiece coming. And what is it?"

There's silence. Fingon feels the shadows shift in the corners; unease settles into his skin, and he searches his cousin's face. Maglor looks down, his lips pursed, eyes sharp.

"A lament," he says, quiet, and Fingon takes a breath. Findárato, his mind supplies usefully. Findaráto, Findaráto, Findaráto.

"Of course," he says softly. "I should have known myself. I'm sorry, Kàno."

"Don't be," Maglor laughs harshly, and the wind outside howls. "I am coping quite well, if you wish to know. Maedhros, too. It was hard the first week. I kept trying to reach to him and finding nothing. I thought it was because of the distance before I- before I've known," Maglor sucks in a breath, shakes his head. "It never occured to me that he's- no longer- no longer alive."

Fingon looks away. "I'm sorry I didn't deliver the news myself. It was- a mess, to be sure. One day life was normal, and the other... the other day I recieved a letter from Orodreth, and- so much changed in the blink of an eye. I barely got the time to manage a word to you and Maedhros."

Maglor purses his lips. "Well. Time flies, people die. That's how it is."

But that's not, Fingon wants to protest, because he, of them all, should know - that's not, because one day you're laughing together and the other she is but a lifeless vessel under the ice, one day you celebrate the Sun and the other he lies in your hands, his heart not beating - one day you sign papers together and the other he dies, dies, burns together with your closest friends, and-

"Kàno," Fingon says, soft, and Maglor looks at him. "I didn't lie when I said I came here for you as much as for Maedhros."

Maglor, despite himself, forces a smile. "Maybe a bit less for me than for him."

"Oh, come on, I'm- Kàno!" Fingon throws his hands up in mocked rage. "I'm trying to be supportive here, and you- whatever. I- I have something you." He reaches back to his braids, black and gold, and undoes them, letting them fall on his shoulders freely. In his hand is left a thin golden hairpin - an elegant thing in the shape of a snake; he looks at it for a moment, then hands it to Maglor.

Maglor takes it, and his breath hitches.

"He gave it to me on one of my begetting days," Fingon says, then smiles weakly. "I thought - I thought I ought to give it to you."

"Finno-"

"I know how it is to lose a friend. And Finrod - he wouldn't object. I know he wouldn't." He smiles softly at his cousin. "I hardly wore it anyway. And, I know I said this already, but- I'm sorry. I truly am. None of this should have happened. None of us should have died, and Finrod - I - I never thought he would be gone so soon."

Maglor doesn't answer, still staring at the hairpin in his hands. Fingon watches him trying to collect himself, to come up with the words suitable, and shakes his head. "Maybe you should show me your lament, one day. I... I mourn him too."

"I can't find the tune," Maglor says, sharply, and Fingon is taken aback by his tone and expression. His cousin looks past him. "I can't find the tune. I can't find the words. They're there, but they sound bland. Empty. It's like - like I try to mourn someone who's still alive, except he's dead, and-" he takes a sharp breath, and his face pales. "Except that he's dead and I don't seem to accept it. I'm sorry, cousin, I don't know why did I react like that. I- thank you. For your gift. And- for everything."

Suddenly, Maglor frowns, then rises from his place. "Maedhros is here," he informs. "I can stop bothering you with my bland company." He strides to the door and openes it.

Whatever Fingon was readying himself for, he was not ready for a string of very deliberate curses that fall from Maglor's lips as something big and grey and wet storms into the room. "You rabid dog! You filthy animal! You- GET OFF FROM MY RAG, YOU LITTLE PIECE OF-"

The- dog? wolf? animal? - looks at Maglor with big sorry eyes, then shakes its fur. Fingon watches, amused, as pools of water start forming under its form. "Is- is this the werewolf you've been whining about all the time in your letters?"

The wolf circles the room few times, avoiding Maglor's grabby hands, stops for a second before Fingon, then whines and disappears as suddenly as it appeared.

"YOU PROMISED TO LOCK HIM UP, MAEDHROS!" Maglor's voice booms and echoes from the stone walls, and Fingon snickers at the absurdity of situation.

"I said I'd lock him up if he doesn't get any better," Maedhros says, walking into the room, and Fingon snickers again from how similar he looks to said wolf - soaked and grim, strands of wet hair sticking to his face. His eyes immediately fall on Fingon, and his feautures light up. "Finno!"

"Oh no, you don't get to Finno yourself out of this one! You-"

"Later," Maedhros says tiredly, taking his cloak off. "I'll lock him later tonight, I promise. He headed to your room, by the way. I recommend you check on him unless you want to sleep with a scent of wet fur on your sheets."

"You-"

Maglor storms out of the room, and Maedhros sighs. He looks in his direction for a few seconds, then shakes his head. Finally, his eyes fall on Fingon again.

"Finno," he breathes, smiling, and Fingon laughs.

[memoriapraeteritorumbonorum]

Letters to Maitimo - I

Author‘s note: All those opposed to winter say aye😔

-

Orange has always been my favorite color. 

I have always considered it to be the most authentic shade of warmth.

The manifestation of sunlight — of life itself, if you will.

It makes me feel complete. 

Nothing compares to the feeling of said light streaming down on my skin. In fact, my skin loves it so much, it eagerly tries to capture some of that warmth and tone until it ends up getting richer in color itself — is it not the rawest confession of its undying love for Anar’s light? 

Is it not beautiful how people seem to glow underneath that light? How their cheeks turn rosy and round, their eyes become shimmering orbs that see the world in the most delicious shade of cantaloupe. How life seems to lose all of its trials, and instead becomes nothing but bare feet on tall grass, holding hands with the winds of the East and laughter so heartfelt it makes up for the times spent praying for warmer days. Life would be nothing but a song written in the most poetic language known to elves, men and dwarves alike — even conjuring a genuine, loving smile upon the faces of the Valar. 

Naturally, I find myself enamored by your auburn headed grace, for it reminds me of times spent holding hands in the sun. When the air around me seemed to vibrate on its own, filled with that certain weightlessness unique to Laurelin’s season. 

I like to imagine you were born in the early evening hours. And Eru Illúvatar looked down upon your gentle soul and decided to tincture your precious hair in the very orange light that was cascading down onto Arda at that moment, forever capturing that buzzing feeling, that particular smell and color of warm sunsets and skies of bloody complexion. 

You carry that glow within you at all times. When you enter a room, time seems to stand still. 

I see you and I see Anar. I see him rise past the clouds, greeting me with that familiar feeling.

The essence of summer evenings is forever etched into my heart, and it longs for nothing more than to exist in that sphere of magic and lightness. 

When on crisp winter mornings, I am met with the harsh silver light of the snow blinding my tired eyes, your freckled cheek on my chest reminds me that summer is here to stay, manifested in your embrace. No matter how far away it may seem, no matter how harsh and cold the world around me feels, how the winds of winter burn my skin in the most unpleasant ways — internalized in my heart slumbers the memory of freedom, ease and exuberance. The memory of orange days.

And my heart rejoices at the thought of green grass, flower petals and clear skies, so beautiful and kind. 

I cannot wait for the summer to begin. 

[lovefairymina]

Dear Maitimo,

Here I am, late at night when all the world is sleeping, I find myself staying up and I think of you. And I wish on a star that somewhere, you are thinking of me too.

Every night I dream of you and I have a feeling I will keep on dreaming of you until you are by my side once again. If only I could dream within a dream, then perhaps my dreams would be longer, and I could stay with you for just a moment more.

Know that my love for you is as constant as the stars above, and that wherever you are, wherever you may be, we still look up and live under the same sky, so whenever you miss me, just take a look up at the stars, and know that I love and am missing you as much as I hope you love and miss me.

I love you, my Timo.

With all my love,

Y/N

Lounging on the balcony with a glass of wine resting on the table and your letter in his hand—his amputated hand running along the pages—he reread your words over and over again. Occasionally, he would pause to take glances at the stars in the sky to reflect like you said. Feeling a twinge in his chest at the yearning distance of your love for one another.

[melestasflight]

an illustration of a letter from Now a Quill, Now a Sword by @zealouswerewolfcollector for @tolkienrsb

We can't wait to reveal the main art and this beautiful story on September 8, 2023!

Fic snippet below the cut.

Northern Coast of the Outer Sea, 1450th Year of the Trees Dearest cousin [mentions of our kinship should be avoided] Beloved Finno [too intimate] My dearest Findekáno [he is not mine yet] Dearest Findekáno, So long has passed since our last encounter. I was away from Tirion with my family. My father was looking for inspiration for a new invention of his. It was fortunate as I had much to think about. If my calculations are correct, I shall be at home by the time this letter reaches you. I hope the wait was not too torturous for you. I wish I could put on the page all that I want to say to you. It would be easier, perhaps, yet I cannot deny myself the pleasure of looking at your face when we speak.  Please come to the grove at the Mingling. I will be eagerly waiting for you. If your feelings have changed during this time, or if I have misinterpreted your words somehow, I apologize for the letter. Do not hesitate to burn it then. I will not take offense and will continue being your devoted friend and cousin. Until we meet again. Maitimo

from Now a Quill, Now a Sword

[sweetteaanddragons]

Two and a Half Men: A Time Travel AU

“We could always try stabbing him,” Nolofinwe said.

“You would certainly have the advantage of surprise,” Feanaro said dryly. “Unfortunately, I think that’s the only advantage you’d have.”

He was accustomed to having a slight height advantage over his brother. 

It had been many long years since he’d been accustomed to Nolofinwe requiring two books in his chair to scrawl his latest idea on the parchment with which they’d all but blanketed the table.

Nolofinwe scowled at him.

His half-brother had once had an impressive scowl, as much as he hated to admit it. The effect was currently ruined by the chubbiness of his small cheeks. 

“You could help stab him,” Nolofinwe pointed out.

“True,” he agreed. “I could throw you at him. That would certainly take him by surprise.”

This was not, he begrudgingly admitted to himself, a particularly helpful remark. They needed to do something about Melkor, and if they were ever to move beyond scribbling ever more implausible plans in Sindarin, they needed to be proactive about it.

But they had been talking for hours, and he was quickly reaching his limit.

He pushed away from the table to check on the impromptu play area he’d constructed from every pillow in the library he could find.

Maitimo was still playing with his wooden letters. He had not yet spelled anything identifiable with them.

“I told you he didn’t come back with us,” Nolofinwe called from the table, having apparently decided not to navigate descending and reascending the chair. “Why would he have?”

“Why did we?” Feanaro shot back. “And I told you. He’s been crying more than usual lately.” He was not crying now, at least; there were no signs of distress at all on his solemn little face, except for the fact that it was solemn and had not once descended into giggles over the past few hours.

“You’re stressed. He’s probably just picking up on that.”

It was slightly odd to receive exasperated parenting advice from someone who was currently small enough to be literally - and easily - thrown at Morgoth.

(It was, he had to admit, a satisfying image. Give him a small sword, pick him up, and then step back to watch the chaos - )

(But Atar would have questions, so alas.)

He checked Maitimo’s letters for patterns one last time as he leaned down to pick up his son. If Maitimo had come back with them, he couldn’t imagine the stress of being trapped in such a small body, unable to communicate.

But so far as he could tell, the blocks were sorted purely by color.

“Very clever,” he praised the baby anyway, bouncing him in his arms. “You’ll be organizing supply chains in no time.”

A flicker of movement alerted him just in time to their approaching company.

His father emerged from the nearest labyrinth of bookshelves, smiling hopefully. 

Feanaro had to bury his face in giving Maitimo’s head kisses for a moment.

It was not the first time he had seen his father since his return. But it was still - he still had to -

By the time he lifted his face, he was almost certain it was normal again. In this one thing, he envied Nolofinwe’s younger form; no one thought too deeply about why a toddler’s face did anything. If Nolo appeared distressed, then a snack or a toy or a hug were quickly presented until it went away.

Feanaro, on the other hand, had been having a great many Significant Talks. Apparently it had been more concerning when he had frozen in the middle of the day and abruptly begun screaming than when Nolofinwe did it.

They were probably just lucky that no one had yet realized those two events had coincided perfectly.

“How did things go with your brother?” Atar asked, voice unbearably hopeful.

“We’re inventing a new language,” Feanaro said, to explain the notes. “Maitimo helped.”

Atar smiled indulgently at what was currently his only grandson. “Of course he did. Did you have fun, Nolo?”

Nolofinwe looked down at the so far dismal fruits of their labors and produced a world-weary sigh that almost made Feanaro snicker.

To his credit, though, he also produced the answer that would allow them to continue this collaboration:

“Oh, yes. Lots.”

[lamemaster]

Terms of Loving You (Chapter 2)

Pairing: Maedhros x Teleri Reader

Genre: angst and DRAMA~~

Word Count: 1.7k ish

Chapter 1

Summary: The blooms of the trees mingled and parted to mark the passing of time. No letter, no message arrived for Nelyafinwe. Stuck in an impasse, your story remained paused in Tirion's dining hall. That wretched hall.

AN: Oh boy do I love writing Maedhros in the real format of male species. Thank you all who read Chapter 1. There will be more chapters I think...? @a-contemplation-upon-flowers I hope you like this my teenage self would be very smug about her writing with the adult me.

"I find it quite unfair that my son Kanafinwe's singing and music are seen as talents beyond realms, but a princess who chooses to pursue dancing and theater is seen as indecent," none dared to look at Feanor in the eye. Even Makalaure stilled in his seat. He, too, had not stood up for you, despite being a peer. "And you, my son," Feanor addressed Maitimo, "I allowed you to attend court but not become one of them. It seems to me that you find these coots better than the rest of us. You, too, have become a part of them." A dangerous edge of challenge lingered in Feanor’s speech.

"Had she blindly agreed to everything," Feanor began, his voice laced with a mixture of scorn and respect, "I would have never accepted her as my daughter-in-law. But the Telerin princess is worthy of my respect." His words carried a fierce conviction, an acknowledgment of your strength and defiance in the face of an unjust situation.

Feanor's gaze shifted, piercing through the room as he continued, "She is more worthy than the elf who could not fulfill his marriage to my mother." His words hung in the air, a direct challenge to Finwe's own choices and actions. There was an edge to Feanor's voice, a bitter reminder of the past and the pain it had caused.

Feanor pushed back his chair and left the room in a flurry of motion.

Maitimo sat there, stunned and wounded by your words. His mind raced, trying to make sense of your objection, but he couldn't comprehend it. How could you accuse him of not loving you to the core of who you were? Hadn't he given everything he had to your relationship?

A surge of anger welled up within him, mixing with the confusion and hurt. He had cherished you, treasured you as his own, and now you stood before him, returning his gift as if it meant nothing. The ruby hairpin, once a symbol of your love, now felt like a painful reminder of your shattered bond.

He couldn't fathom why you would choose yourself over their love. Wasn't your love strong enough to overcome any obstacles? Hadn't you shared moments of joy, of intimacy, of vulnerability? He had believed your connection was unbreakable, but now it seemed fragile, ready to crumble under the weight of your disillusionment.

The bitterness of betrayal crept into his thoughts. How could you leave him like this, casting blame upon him without giving him a chance to defend himself? The rage within him grew, fueled by a sense of injustice. He felt wronged by your accusations as if his love and efforts had been disregarded and discarded.

Maitimo wanted to confront you, to demand an explanation, to make you see the depth of his love. He longed to shake you, to make you understand that he had given his all. But beneath the anger, a flicker of self-doubt lingered. Had he truly missed something? Had he failed to see your needs, your desires?

Confusion and frustration battled within him, tearing at his heart. He loved you, and he couldn't bear the thought of losing you. But he couldn't comprehend your objections, couldn't grasp why you had decided to walk away from your love.

For any relationship to work it required understanding and willingness to sacrifice, to give up… Maitimo had seen it work that way. One had to give up something to gain another. And you… you did not deem him important enough to give up your passion for him.

The blooms of the trees mingled and parted to mark the passing of time. No letter, no message arrived for Nelyafinwe. Stuck in an impasse, your story remained paused in Tirion's dining hall. That wretched hall.

Both struck by pride and ego, remained resolute. Maybe it was during those long days when the silence between you both remained, a testament to the impasse in your relationship, that rumors began to circulate about the King of Teleri searching for a son-in-law, a potential groom for the youngest Telerin princess.

'It wouldn't come to that,' restlessness and anguish filled Maitimo. Surely you would not agree to something like that. Despite whatever had happened, you still loved him as he loved you. There had always been such rumors about the royals.

Maybe that was the reason Nelyafinwe found himself attending every distant feast and festival. Just a glance or even a chance to speak to you would be enough. He was sure he could convince you. As for King Olwe… his search would end soon, and Maitimo would make sure of that. There was no one more suitable for you other than him. He was sure of that.

All he needed was a chance meeting where he would pour his heart out to you. He would show you his side of things. All that had been left unsaid and then… you would understand his intentions. His path and yours had to be the same.

Nelyafinwe's wishes came true soon. In a springtime celebration held at Taniquetil, he met you. Or more accurately, he caught a glimpse of you. Amidst a sea of giggling elleth, Maitimo caught a glimpse of you. His heart skipped a beat as he saw you, still as beautiful as ever. He wondered if you were aware of his presence or if you had yet to notice him. Hope surged within him, for in that moment, it felt as if the stars themselves had aligned to reunite the two of you.

Amidst all the signs of joy and merriment, Maitimo couldn't help but notice the subtle traces of sorrow in your eyes, the delicate curve of your smile that didn't linger as it once did, and the absence of adornment in your hair. He made a silent promise to himself to remedy it all.

Your eyes, your smile, and your hair—Maitimo vowed to bring back their radiance. He patted the ruby hairpin tucked away in his cloak, the symbol of your love. He knew he had to be the one to place it in your hair again.

You remained standing as the crowd around you dwindled. Many asked you for a dance, but you declined, and Maitimo couldn't help but smile. You would dance next to him. Only him.

Making up his mind, he stepped in your direction. With everyone lost in the merriment of the celebration, now would be the optimal time to talk to you. Whisk you away from all the noise.

"Did you fall off the horse and break your foot, or do you really just hate Taniquetil?" Maitimo stopped in his tracks. There stood in front of you an ellon, a Vanya lord, who smiled at you with an emotion that enraged Nelyafinwe. An expression that made the eldest Feanorian want to rip the ellon away from you.

You did not decline the ellon as you had done for the entire evening. "I might as well have broken my foot. You Vanya have horrid taste in music," your voice rang out, and for the first time, it was full of joy and mirth.

"How dare you, princess," with a faux-offended expression, the Vanya stepped closer to you, and Nelyafinwe clenched his fists. His head pounded as the scene unfolded in front of him. "I'm going to drag you to dance this instance," the Vanya whispered, his lips so close to your ear. Seething with fury, Nelyafinwe marched where you stood. This Vanya had to be stopped. There's no wa—"Don't threaten me with a good time, Agastya," your hand landed in the Vanya's hand, and the prince of Tirion watched as you stepped into the crowd of dancing elves.

Your steps were followed by the Vanya lord, whose hands held you close, whose smiles you returned like you had once done for him.

"This is what I wish for her," Maitimo noticed King Olwe, who stood talking to a group of Vanya and Teleri around him. "Isn't this what every parent desires? Your son and my daughter would truly complete each other," the world stopped as Maitimo heard the words fall from the Telerin king's mouth. "If not love, then may Illuvatar grace her with companionship such as this. What do you think, Vaisik?" The crowd erupted into cheers and congratulations.

Maitimo's heart sank as he listened to King Olwe's words. The realization hit him like a blow, leaving him breathless. The thought of you being with the Vanya lord, of completing each other, shattered the hope that had begun to bloom within him. His chest tightened, constricting with a mix of anger, frustration, possessiveness, and jealousy.

The sight of you dancing with the Vanya lord, your laughter and smiles filling the air, felt like a knife twisting in Maitimo's heart. Every graceful movement, every touch between you and the Vanya lord, ignited a fiery turmoil within him. He couldn't bear the thought of someone else holding you, of being the one to make you laugh and smile.

A surge of possessiveness coursed through Maitimo's veins, urging him to step in, to reclaim you as his own. He wanted to tear you away from the Vanya lord, to be the one who held you close and brought joy to your life. The jealousy that consumed him intensified, driving him to the edge of restlessness.

As he watched you, his mind filled with doubts and insecurities. What did the Vanya lord offer that he couldn't? Did he possess something Maitimo lacked? The fear of losing you, of being replaced by someone else, gnawed at him relentlessly. He couldn't fathom a future without you by his side, and the thought of you finding happiness with another fueled his restlessness.