#miriel writes

[miriel-elenna]

Dean didn't expect to make it three years.

Hell, let's be honest, after all the bullshit of his entire life, he hadn't expected to make it to the wedding, a wedding, any wedding. He'd given that dream up years ago, because no one in their right mind would look at Dean Winchester and think, yeap, that's they guy I'm gonna marry.

Lucky for Dean, Cas was crazy. Crazy like a fox. Which worked just fine since Dean wasn't exactly on his rocker either.

Dean was determined to not take any day, any second, for granted. He had plans. Schemes, even. He was gonna rock Cas' socks clear off.

It all started before the sun came up. For once, Dean was the early riser, too excited for the day to sleep too much. The February morning dawned clear and cold as Dean snuck around their house, quietly pulling things out and setting things up.

The breakfast nook was set up just so, the sunny yellow table cloth, flowers in a vase, and a new, leather-bound journal carefully placed beside Cas' plate, a honeycomb decorated pen clipped to the cover.

By the time Cas rolled out of bed, the coffee was already made and the bacon had just finished cooking. Dean poured batter into the Death Star waffle maker, one of their awesomer wedding gifts, as the floorboards creaked, announcing Cas' entrance into the kitchen.

Dean turned around, Cas' coffee mug in his hand, the special one from Jack that only a parent could love. Cas' eyes were still sleepy but soft as he looked at what was waiting for him.

Dean grinned and held out the steaming mug, "Happy anniversary, sweetheart."

Cas smiled and took the mug, taking a slow sip and then setting it down on the counter behind Dean. He reached up and placed his hand on Dean's cheek, drawing Dean into a slow, tender kiss.

"Good morning, my love," Cas said, voice still rough with sleep. They kissed again, impossible to stop at only one. "Happy anniversary," Cas murmured as two kisses turned into three, four, five.

The waffle maker beeped, time and space re-asserting themselves.

"Don't want the waffles to burn," Dean mumbled, before diving in to steal one last kiss from Cas' smiling lips.

Cas hummed and leaned back before Dean could steal another. "Wouldn't want to waste all of your hard work." He grabbed the plate of bacon off of the counter and took it to the table.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Dean grumbled with a grin. "Just save me some of the bacon this time, okay?"

"I make no promises," Cas said around the crunch of smoky, salty, meaty perfection.

"Love you too, asshole," Dean laughed, the sound of Cas' chuckle music in his ears.

The rest of the day went off without a hitch, Dean and Cas trading surprise gifts. When Dean went out to his wood shop to do a little work, soft new work gloves were waiting on his bench. A sturdy leather messenger bag, the White Tree of Gondor worked into the flap, was hanging on the hook by the door, a replacement for Cas' old, threadbare foraging bag. New boots were sitting by the back door when Dean came in for lunch, black and shiny and almost too nice to wear outside. Cas was wearing the belt that Dean had left coiled in the drawer, with that gaudy purple "Cowgirl" belt buckle leftover from their bachelor party, the one that matched the pink buckle stored in Dean's top drawer.

Dean might've had to open that belt up, get down on his knees, and indulge in a little afternoon delight right there in the kitchen. It hadn't been part of the plan but who gave a damn. The sight of Cas above him, panting, eyes closed and face flushed as he came down, was worth a little detour.

Or a long detour. Whatever. It was their anniversary, they could fuck if they wanted.

Dinner was candle-lit, because Dean was a romantic, goddamnit. The pot roast had been braising low and slow for most of the day and Cas had made the best cherry pie that Dean'd ever eaten.

Soon enough they were lazing on the couch, lamplight golden around them, watching the fire in the fireplace flicker and spark.

"I have another present for you," Cas said as his fingers combed slow and lazy through Dean's hair.

"Well ain't that lucky, cause I've got another one for you, too," Dean drawled.

Getting up from the couch was hard, but Dean'd been waiting for weeks to unveil this last gift.

The bundle he pulled out from its secret hidey hole in the back of the closet unfurled into a long leather coat, soft as butter and lined with wool.

"Oh, Dean, it's wonderful," Cas said. He pulled a box out from behind his back and they traded bundles.

Dean set the box down and lifted the lid carefully off. His eyes went wide when he saw what was inside, and he couldn't help bouncing and clapping his hands, just a little.

"Is that what I think it is?" Dean asked, voice a little breathless and a touch giddy.

"I'm afraid I've played right into your cowboy fetish," Cas said with a long-suffering sigh. He reached around Dean and pulled the cowboy hat out and placed it on Dean's head. It fit perfectly. Of course it did.

Cas' arms were secure around Dean's waist and he dropped a kiss on the back of Dean's neck. "I love you, Dean."

Dean turned in his arms and kissed him soundly on the lips. "I love you, too. You're the best thing that's ever happened to me."

He pulled out of Cas' arms and grabbed his wrist, tugging him urgently toward the bedroom. "Come on, buddy. I've got a cowboy to ride."

Cas groaned, but followed quickly behind him. "I've created a monster."

The hat, of course, stayed on the whole time.

Now posted to AO3 as Three Year Gone

[olessan]

The Lord of the Rings: The Rings of Power

Míriel + Elendil + Flourishing Touch

[meluiloth]

For @silmarillionepistolary day 7, Remembrance and New Beginnings! Artwork at the bottom.

Night has fallen. The lamps have been turned low, the house cleaned, the bedtime routine completed; all Maglor and Maedhros have left to do is tuck the twins and read them their customary story.

They look so small wrapped in the red wool blankets, like two little birds in a crimson nest. They are quiet, too, waiting patiently for Maglor to ask his routine question: “Now, what story would you like tonight? Or would you rather hear a song?”

“I want the one about the Sun and the Moon!” Elros pipes up, scrunching the blanket in his hands eagerly.

Maglor smiles. “Is that what you want as well, Elrond?”

Elrond, the quieter twin, looks bashfully down before murmuring, “I’d like to see the picture book…”

Maglor shares a confused look with Maedhros. They did not own any picture books. “What do you mean?” Maedhros asks.

Elrond tips his head. “The one in your study,” he says. “It’s got gold string around it and lots of pictures on every page.”

Maedhros frowns. “You know you are forbidden from entering my study,” he reproaches.

Elrond bites his lip. “Yes, I know … I just saw the pictures and thought they were pretty.”

Maglor sees the telltale signs of a lecture in Maedhros’s expression, so he swiftly says, “Perhaps we can excuse it this once, if you promise to ask before you touch our things.”

Both Elrond and Elros nod emphatically, and Maglor leaves the room to search for the ‘picture book’ in his brother’s study, which is packed with volumes, scrolls, and papers. Maglor thinks it will take him forever to find the book Elrond described, if it exists at all, but surprisingly he easily locates it in the first bookshelf: a worn book of red leather, tied with a fading gold ribbon. It is familiar to him, but he cannot recollect why until he brings it back into the twins’ room. Maedhros’s eyes widen when he sees it. “Grandfather’s sketchbook? I thought that was lost ages ago!”

“It was in a box in the back,” Elrond supplies.

Maglor looks down at it, a stab of nostalgia and old grief passing through him. “I thought we never even brought it,” he murmurs.

“Can we read it?” Elros asks, leaning forward curiously.

Maedhros frowns, his reluctance clear. There are many memories neither of them want to relive, the life and death of their grandfather among the most heartbreaking. But many of the memories Finwë recorded in his beloved sketchbook were his happiest, from both his life and the rest of his family’s. And the two young children looking up at Maglor are also Finwë’s family … and he wants to share something of his life that is not just the blood on his hands.

The spine of the book cracks softly as he opens it, and the yellowed paper releases a small puff of dust, but the artwork on the inside is still as lovely and life-filled as the day he penned them.

Maglor explains each piece as he showed it to the twins, and lets them look as long as they like. Even Maedhros sometimes asks him to wait a little longer on certain pages, the heavy, dark look in his eyes brightening when he remembers his childhood in Valinor.

It is well past midnight by the time they reach the last pages, and all of them are surprised to see that they are all in full color, when all the previous pages have been only graphite sketches.

“Who are they?” Elros breathes, tracing his finger delicately over the meticulously painted faces.

Maglor swallows, his throat and his eyes clogged with tears. His brother, too, is at a loss for words.

“It’s them,” Elrond says, looking up at the Fëanorians and then back down at thd drawings. “Maglor and Maedhros are right there … but Maedhros looks different …”

It was true. Maglor and Maedhros, along with all of their brothers - still alive and smiling radiantly - and their parents. On the other pages, their cousins and uncles and aunts, before any of them had suffered the horrors of Morgoth.

“That is us,” Maedhros murmurs. “That was us then. We were so happy..."

“What was it like … then?” Elros ventures.

Maglor smiles. “I will tell you.”

“Tomorrow night,” Maedhros interrupts. “It is very late, and if you are to understand a word we say, you must be well-rested.”

[nighttimepatrons]

Not Without Maedhros

Thinking about a Fingon fic set in Mandos where Fingon is ready for reembodiment but won't leave the halls without Maedhros. Never mind the fact that he hasn't actually seen Maedhros's spirit yet...

The only way he can tell the passage of time is the influx of spirits into the Halls, the halls get larger to accommodate them all. Surely Maedhros is around here somewhere.

It's about Fingon being asked if he's consider Life again and he says he has, but he'd like to wait for Maedhros first. He does not want to leave without Maedhros.

More spirits enter and he waits.

When asked again he is indeed ready for Life but it is disturbing to him that it as taken this long for Maedhros to find him. So he reaffirms that he is waiting, he will not leave without Maedhros.

Spirits come and some start to leave.

The asking stops, and in its place he is told: "it is to leave these halls", "you have lingered long enough", "you can feel the yearning for Life in you, go on, it's time to go". He always says the same: Not without Maedhros, not withouth Maedhros, not without Maedhros.

It seems impossible, but the population of the Halls actually seems to decrease.

And yet he waits. He waits until all of his family has walked out of those great, beckoning doors. He waits as his fellow spirits dwindle around him.

He waits, until he is alone in the vast, silent halls.

[aadmelioraa]

When your oldest brother dies on a religious crusade just as you feared he would and your father refuses to deal with his grief just as he refused to deal with it when your mother died (you were a baby btw) and then again when your other brother left home (because your dad was impossible to live with) and in spite of feeling entirely abandoned by your dad you use your newfound higher status to put yourself out on a limb in order to downgrade his punishment and that of your close friend despite grieving their involvement with the queen who led your brother to his death but instead of your father acknowledging your pain and your attempts to do what you believe will bring justice he lashes out at you by comparing your current position to the horrific way your mother died…just Eärien things

[drrav3nb]

Something More, Something Holy, Something Sacred

Since returning to Númenor, both Elendil and Tar-Miriel had become the target of Ar-Pharazôn’s true ambitions. By using the late King’s death as an excuse to dethrone the Queen Regent, as well as the enormous losses incurred in the Battle of the Southlands, Ar-Pharazôn hoped to prove that Tar-Miriel was unworthy of holding power in Númenor. But in a moment of fierce resolve, she managed to challenge such a notion in court, proclaiming that if she could not turn such transgressions into gold then she would willingly relinquish her title and abdicate the throne. Believing that she would fail and humiliate herself beyond repair, Ar-Pharazôn agreed to her demands but allowed her only one month to prove his claims to be false. And so, since then Elendil and the Queen have convened at sunrise every morning, hours before court was held, in order to get ahead of matters concerning the public, the economy and military endeavours. But outsmarting such a devious politician was a task unlike anything Tar-Miriel had faced before, one in which she was severely unequipped.

Read the fic here

[silvantransthranduiltrash]

Honestly, i can just imagine legolas being in imlardis and, you know, he’s vibing, he’s chilling, he’s teaching a cool sword move to Arwen

Untill someone says smth along the lines of “elleths can’t/shouldn’t fight”

And he just:

Legolas: ya’ll know that the first ever elf, and i mean back at lake cuivienen, not feanor’s rediscovery, to forge a sword, to creat one is an elleth, right? Like, that’s not a secret.

Sexist: *splutters* p-proove it.

Legolas: well, for one said elleth is still alive and kickong and vicious to boot. For another, ask literally any elf that was an adult back then and they’ll tell you the exact same thing, and 3rd. Said elleth’s bloodline has consistently produced battle maniac elleths who are on the short list not to fuck with.

Legolas: like i said, it’s common knowledge. It’s not my problem if you didn’t so much as ask.

Legolas: you know it’s even more ironic that you aparently don’t know bc said elleth is Miriel Therinde’s mother, and is most known for her Hinryo Muta Swords, and for her contribution to the Goko’li weapons.

Arwen: …. Wait, you said that all the elleth’s fem ofspring are battle maniacs-

Legolas: like i said: it’s really not my fault if ya don’t do basic research.

[imakemywings]

What Comes Naturally

Fandom: The Silmarillion

Characters: Indis, Miriel

Summary: Two queens of the Noldor discuss motherhood.

Length: 2.9k

AO3 | Pillowfort | SWG

“What a trial motherhood was,” said Míriel in the understatement of several Ages, leaning back with a huff, so that she almost knocked Indis’ nose with the back of her head. “Not that you would know.”

            “Not that I would know?” Indis echoed, her brows arched. However, she refrained from further remark, and Míriel elaborated. Since Míriel’s return, Indis had gathered that at times, Míriel would give explanation only if you kept quiet. (Other times, she would explain regardless of whether one wished it or not, but this was likely only with technical matters. On Míriel’s first day in the palace, Indis had received a three hour lecture on the function of various parts of a loom after fatefully inquiring how Míriel found her old tools.)

            “Well,” said Míriel, and despite her dismissive tone, Indis felt something rawer in her voice now, facing away from Indis, than she had heard from her all that day, more even than when she’d had Indis’ hands between her legs. “Elfinesse the realm over praises your sweetness and care; I assumed that motherhood and nurturing came naturally to you.”

            Indis resumed combing through Míriel’s sleek silver hair. Beyond the open windows, a dove whistled. The rest of the house was still and relaxed in the warmth of the sunlight as the day eased towards evening; perhaps the slowness of the day had led to this thoughtful (for so it was, even if Míriel feigned otherwise) conversation.

            “Perhaps,” Indis allowed slowly. “Though ‘naturally’ does not mean ‘wholly without effort.’ The joy of it came naturally, certainly.” Míriel said nothing else, and Indis, with great restraint, held back from probing or trying to change the subject.

            “For my part, I believe pulling teeth would have been a simpler and more rewarding task,” Míriel said at last into the silence of the bedroom.

            “Surely it was not so terrible,” Indis objected, then cringed. Míriel snorted mirthlessly.

            “Whatever Finwë told you of my efforts, certain I am that he was kinder to me than I deserve.”

            Indis worked carefully through a small knot near the ends of Míriel’s hair. “You were ill, Míriel,” she said gently, at length. Míriel grunted.

            “Yet still I was a terrible mother,” she said. “Even Fëanáro knew it, though he has since forgotten.” Indis opened her mouth, but Míriel silenced her before she could get in the air to disagree. “He always preferred Finwë,” she said. “Even as a babe in arms. How he wailed when I held him! And nothing could I do to calm him! At times I thought at the least he would eventually tire himself and then be content, but he seemed to have an endless reserve of energy for screaming, and the volume!” Míriel winced. “He could drive me to tears for want of a moment of quiet! So of course in the end I would give him over to Finwë, and it seemed at once he would be smiling and reaching out with his little hands and laughing! I cannot recall that he ever laughed for me. He must have, I suppose, but I…” Míriel trailed off, almost confused. Indis was not sure if her memories were muddled by virtue of her rebirth or the illness which preceded her death, or both.

            “Finwë had a way with children.”

            “I was told and told and told how naturally motherhood came, once the babe was born,” said Míriel, and Indis could picture the wrinkle of her flat nose. “Naturally! Not to me, but to Finwë, certainly. He seemed always to simply know what Fëanáro wanted, and if he did not, he would figure it out, or find some suitable substitute.” She shook her head.

            “You would have come into it,” Indis insisted. “If you had had the time. You would have learned.”

            “Perhaps. But if I must learn, then it was not natural.” Doubt shadowed her words. Again, she fell silent, and Indis forced herself not to fill it. Early evening light slanted through the windows, turning the mantle to gold, lighting up the dust motes floating around the bed curtains. Míriel lifted a hand as if to chase them with her touch; there were still times when she seemed amazed to be in the world again, to have physical sensations like touch and sight and sound (Indis, in the very new days, had found her by the fountain in the yard, weeping profusely over the sound the water made burbling up in the bowl of it, and often early she had touched Indis as if expecting her to dissipate beneath her fingertips.)

            “I cannot say I was ever one who weathered failure gracefully,” Míriel said then, as Indis slid off the bed and went to the bottles and jars on her vanity. “I was failing at motherhood and I could see it, and I felt sure the baby and the rest of the city knew it too. And do you know? I resented him. I gave everything of myself to this child, and he would only smile for his father, and he made everyone whisper behind my back—or so I thought, I haven’t an idea if it was actually true—and even when he was quiet for me, he looked at me with these great accusing eyes as if to say he knew I was the worse parent.”

            “Míriel…” Indis began uneasily, fingers lingering over the cosmetics. “Babies don’t…”

            “I know, Indis, I know,” Míriel snapped. “But as you say, I was ill, and in my illness I was convinced this child whom I had given so much to bring into the world loved me not, nor would, and every day it seemed I could not escape my failures. I asked for him less and less; I felt the more I left to Finwë, the better for the child.

            “Still he would come and see me, but even then I felt he disliked me. A-times I could hear him in the yard with his nursemaids, running and shouting and laughing as children do, but when he came to me, he had to play quietly, or not at all, for Mother’s head hurt, and Mother was tired, and Mother needed to rest. What joy is there for a child, sitting in a dark sick-room with a feeble shade of a woman who never knew how to be a mother?” Míriel lapsed into silence, scowling.

            “You know he loved you,” Indis said quietly, returning to the bed with a small vial. She dabbed a bit of osmanthus oil from the vial onto her fingers to brush through Míriel’s hair. “You were his mother, and he loved you without thought for your condition.”

            “What does a toddler understand of love? They know only safety and joy, or the absence of them. Love? What complexities of love could be grasped by such an infant? He knew that his father made him happy, and I did not; for him, what deeper considerations could exist?”

            “I disagree,” Indis said. “I think he loved you even then. Perhaps he did not understand it, but he did.”

            “Truly you think a babe can comprehend some notion of love?” Míriel asked, twisting around to look in skeptical astonishment at Indis.

            “I do,” she said firmly. “Truly you believe they cannot?”

            “A child who can barely string together a sentence, know love? Next you shall tell me mice and horses know it!”

            “Must one be able to articulate the feeling to feel it?” Indis asked.

            “I believe one must be able to understand it!”

            “I disagree,” was all Indis said.

            Míriel shook her head. “Yours is a gentle spirit I think,” she said. “Better not to comprehend an absence of love. I see why Finwë chose you.”

            “Gentle, perhaps, but I should think not naïve,” Indis replied with a hint of an edge. “I do not speak out of blind hope, Míriel.”

            Míriel regarded her a moment, and then said: “No, I did not think so. I would not accuse you of that. Perhaps it is only that I have grown cynical. No—perhaps that I always was.”

            There were things Indis could have said then—about the vain effort of cynicism to protect a weary heart, about Míriel’s struggles, about the necessity of not closing oneself off to feeling—but instead she just took Míriel’s hand and squeezed it.

            “I will not say I have never felt it, for that would be a lie. But you were telling me of Fëanáro’s infancy,” she said, and Míriel nodded. Still she was quiet a moment, and Indis thought the interruption would be the end of Míriel’s sharing, but then she continued.

            “Yes…the more my illness took me, the less reason girded my thoughts, as you can see. As my weariness grew, I convinced myself that I was doing him a favor; that he would, truthfully, be better off without me. One can always convince oneself that one’s desired course of action is also, coincidentally, the best for everyone else, isn’t it so?”

            Indis bit her lip against the desire to interject that that it could never have been that Fëanor or anyone else would have been better off if Míriel were dead.

            “What a little fool he was, too,” Míriel went on crabbily. “To think he had the fortune of a mother such as yourself walking into his life, and he pushed you away for want of me! I should pinch him if I could. The real tragedy would have been if you and I had traded places!”

            “I think you are too hard—”

            “All of that rather makes it sound like I cared not for him, doesn’t it?” Míriel let out another long sigh. “It isn’t so. He was the flesh of my flesh, how could I not love him? Or at least…in the beginning. At the end, I do not believe I loved anything. I had not the capacity any longer.” Indis was neither combing nor braiding, simply running her hands through Míriel’s hair in hopes of soothing her. “But there it is, you see? I think no matter how ill you were, Indis, you could not watch your children sobbing at your bedside, could not hear them begging for you to come home, to be a mother, and feel nothing.”

            “I do not think you felt nothing,” said Indis quietly. Míriel’s shoulders tensed.

            “Was it not near enough? Nothing he said, nothing Finwë said, would change my course. I broke his heart, and I knew I was going to do it. And out of sheer stubbornness, I refused to return once I had done it.”

            “You were—”

            “Yes, yes, I was unwell,” Míriel said forcefully. “And yet, I was myself still. I was not deprived of my faculties. I was aware of the consequences of my actions.”

            “Such knowledge may become subordinated to extended pain and discomfort,” said Indis. “We are, after all, still physical beings. True thought is difficult when one’s mind is focused on the struggles of the body.” When Míriel said nothing, Indis added: “I know not that I could have done otherwise in your place. I have never felt as you did then.”

            “I feel quite assured you would have borne it with more grace.” Míriel’s tone was breezy, and Indis could not discern if there was something heavier beneath it or not.

            “I know that you bore it a long time,” said Indis, beginning to weave Míriel’s hair into a set of braids. “I tend to doubt very much I could have managed so long.”

Míriel leaned back slightly into Indis’ touch, relaxing a little. “It felt like a long time,” she murmured. “Stars, it felt like such a long time. It was only a few years. But it felt so terribly, terribly long.”

            “I think ‘tis a credit to your love,” said Indis, “for Finwë and for Fëanáro, that you endured so long as you did.”

            Míriel said nothing, and Indis worked the second braid down to the tie. She thought back to what Míriel had said earlier. It had never occurred to her, in all her morose anxiety that she would never live up to the exalted former queen of the Noldor, that there was anything Míriel might have felt similarly about, looking at Indis.

            “I know you would have been a good mother to Fëanáro, if he had permitted it,” Míriel said at last. She twisted around on the bed to look at Indis. “And I am grateful, for what you did do.”

            “It was not much,” Indis demurred. Fëanor had not allowed it to be much, and at some point, Indis had given it up as a lost cause.

            “I fault you not for that,” Míriel said with a wry twist of her mouth. “When I died, I had hopes that Fëanáro would turn out to be like his father. Everyone likes Finwë. How could anyone not? In fact, I believe he was sometimes overconcerned with how well he was liked. And Fëanáro looked so like him, even as a child! Unfortunately, it seems he took after myself, and so I have great pity for you.”

            Indis could not help but giggle at this, try as she might.

            “I see you trying not to laugh,” said Míriel. “But you ought; ‘tis true. Finwë was liked and I was a bitch.”

            “You were liked!” Indis exclaimed. “Even still, you have scant idea how the Noldor lamented your absence.”

            “Mm. Liked, perhaps, but likeable? No, that was never me. If anything, I was liked in spite of myself. I never did understand why Finwë chose me.”

            “He was amazed by you,” said Indis with a smile. It was good, when they could speak comfortably of their pasts this way, without rancor or injury. “That never changed. Nor do I disagree with him.” Míriel’s lips curved into a smile as well, softly fond, and Indis found herself saying: “Do you remember how he would smile, that one particular way, where you could just imagine what he might have looked like as a child?”

            Míriel’s smile grew. “Yes, I know the look,” she said, flashing teeth. “Ah, but how he charmed me with that! He was a beautiful thing, wasn’t he?”

            “I will tell you,” said Indis, “I saw it very rarely, but once or twice, I have seen Fëanáro smile that way.”

            Míriel’s eyes grew distant, as if she were drawn into a dream, but her smile remained, close-lipped once more. There was such a silent ache about her that Indis could not resist throwing her arms around Míriel’s shoulders to embrace her from behind, squeezing her tightly as if to give physical reassurance that she was not alone. Míriel’s loose robe slipped down her shoulders at Indis’ touch.

            “But he was clever like you,” Indis whispered to her. There had been a time when she could not have spoken of Fëanor this way, when her anger and bitterness against him overbore any of the sympathy she had harbored for him in his youth. Half of her children and all her grandchildren he had stolen from her, and never had he missed a chance to spit in her face if he could. Yet there had been a time too when she had seen the better in him, and empathized with his pain, and there was almost relief, in speaking of him with Míriel, in purging the acidity of her wrath. It did little good, she reminded herself, to dwell perpetually in anger, even if the object of it would walk no more among them. Nothing in her garden grew of her anger. “I saw it in the work you left behind. Your minds ran the same paths.”

            “Pity the boy,” said Míriel ruefully. “And his father too!”

            “I think neither of them would have had it any other way.”

            Míriel put a hand over Indis’, and rubbed the back of Indis’ hand, slowly returning from that dreamy place where she at times withdrew to, as if her mind were still making sense of how much had changed since she last lived in truth. It was some moments before she spoke again.

            “I understand he was difficult for you,” said Míriel. “And for that I apologize...I am still…still learning of the full extent of all that transpired…” Míriel’s voice had grown thicker, and Indis could catch a glimpse of the grief that the queen tried so doggedly to shield from view. “I spoke again with your grandson several days past; he told me a little more of the fortunes of the Noldor in Middle-earth…” A place they never would have been but for Fëanor’s rebellion. Indis knew that Finrod would be cautious in what he shared, but Míriel was sharp enough to fill in many gaps. She knew how much ruin had come of Fëanor’s actions, if she did not yet know every detail of it.

“And I have spoken a short while with his wife.” Indis had hoped that Míriel and Nerdanel might share something of a grief the rest of the Noldor were not keen in hearing of, but as neither of them was particularly inclined to spill their hearts to a stranger, she could not say yet if introducing them had done any good. “But ‘twas you that knew him in his youth. Could you—would you—tell me something else of him, of my son?”

            “Of course,” said Indis, loosening her hold on Míriel. She eased back down onto the mattress and sat beside Míriel so that she could still hold her hand. “What would you like to know?”

            “Anything,” said Míriel. “Everything.”

[thescrapwitch]

Chapters: 3/9 Fandom: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Fëanor/Nerdanel (Tolkien), Fëanor & Míriel Þerindë | Míriel Serindë, Amras & Amrod & Caranthir & Celegorm & Curufin & Fëanor & Maedhros & Maglor (Tolkien), Fëanor & Mahtan Aulendur Characters: Fëanor (Tolkien), Nerdanel (Tolkien), Sons of Fëanor, Mahtan Aulendur, Yavanna Kementári, Míriel Þerindë | Míriel Serindë Additional Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Second Chances, Fourth Age of Arda (Tolkien), Healing, Good Parent Fëanor (Tolkien), Gardens & Gardening Summary:

Re-embodied before any of his sons, Fëanor is placed under Yavanna’s responsibility and tasked with tending a small corner of Valinor. To heal the land, to plant new life, and to help what grows as the seasons change. He is confident that he can do so easily and earn forgiveness for his children.

But, as Fëanor will quickly discover, a garden is not a simple thing to manage, and neither is returning to life.

[sauronpilled]

unrequited besties ( tar miriel and mairon )

[miriel-elenna]

Fine Wine

The series so far...

Dean found the picture wedged in a corner of Baby's trunk. It was him, circa 2002, or somewhere thereabout. It's some old polaroid shot, overexposed and grainy. Just him, tilted and off-center, poleaxed expression on his face.

He grabbed it and shoved it in his pocket. Didn't wanna look at it, definitely didn't want to think about it. Some stuff couldn't be changed so it was best kept buried.

Course, that's not how it ever worked. The image, specter really, kept popping into his head at the randomest moments. He'd be sanding a table or opening the fridge and that face would stare back at him out of his mind's eye.

The thing was, he'd forgotten most of his early twenties. Not on purpose and not for any real reason. He just didn't think about them that much. It'd sucked, sure, but compared to the rest of his life the trauma didn't really stack up. It was a time that he'd lived through, no more, no less.

What he did remember, in sighs and sepia tones, was the wide open road and the scent of lighter fluid, how lonely he'd been and how old he'd felt.

But that guy in that photo, Dean wasn't sure he recognized that guy. That guy looked like a kid, the kind Dean'd never gotten to be. Some dumb son of a bitch who thought hungover was the worst he'd ever feel.

He can't get over it, the distance between the kid he could see and the guy he remembered being.

One day, Cas found him staring at it. He'd pulled it out and set it right in the middle of the kitchen table, propped up against a carpentry book Cas'd dug up at the thrift store. It was too easy to get lost, not in the memories, but in the emotions, the emptiness.

Almost like poking a bruise, the dull ache, the electric jolt, the sharp feeling that papered over some kind of empty void deep inside.

Dean heard Cas step into the kitchen, his footsteps always loud and purposeful. He felt Cas walk up behind his chair and rest a hand on Dean's left shoulder.

"Handsome son of a bitch, isn't he?" Dean said, tone light but voice a little too rough.

Cas hummed. "I haven't seen this one before."

"Yeah. Found it laying around." Dean tapped the corner absently. "Kinda wild that I was ever that young."

Cas hummed again, a deep, thoughtful sound, and absently combed his fingers through Dean's hair.

Dean let himself lean into that touch, if only just a little.

"Time comes for us all, I suppose," Cas finally said.

Dean leaned back and twisted around to get a look at Cas' face. Cas' hair was thicker and wilder than it used to be, dark with streaks of white. He had a beard no, too, a littler grayer than his hair, and lines that creased around his eyes and mouth as he concentrated.

"Even for you?" Dean asked in a voice just a little too serious to be a tease.

"Especially for me," Cas promised, eyes staring into Dean's, deep and blue and earnest.

"Yeah. Okay." A weight lifted in Dean as the moments ticked away, counterbalanced and lightened by the steadiness in Castiel's eyes.

The emptiness, that loneliness, had been his only companion for a long time. His one real friend for large chunks of his life. But he could release it, let the good times now fill up the holes that solitude had left behind.

"Here you go." Dean picked up the photo and handed it over. "You can stick it in with all of the rest."

Cas held it carefully, long fingers gently gripping the lower edge. "As you wish."

[cilil]

AN: @niennawept reminded me that UFO can also be read as "unfinished object" among crafters which gave me an idea. Thank you, friend!

┊ ┊ ┊ ⋆★ Prompt: UFO | Indis x Míriel ┊ ┊ ★⋆ Synopsis: Indis holds on to Míriel's last work. ┊ ◦★ Warnings: / ★⋆ Drabble

The queen's last project remains unfinished. 

Indis holds it in her hands as she's done countless times, studying every detail of Míriel's masterful work. It's beautiful even in this state, and she knows how marvellous her other works are. This one would've been too. 

She's contemplated trying to finish it for Míriel; to honour her, to ease the pain that comes with leaving what you love behind. But Indis has decided not to, worried that she could never do it justice. 

Thus she keeps it safe instead, waiting for the day Míriel returns so she can give it to her.

There's something about small acts of care and kindness between fellow ladies that has me in a chokehold. Anyway. Thanks for reading! ♡

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

[morvith]

I stumbled on this post by @velvet4510 : "If Míriel had lived, would Fëanor still have followed the same dark path?"

I voted "no" because so much of Fëanor was shaped by his abandonment issues.

...pause for a moment as I contemplate Fëanor growing up well-adjusted.

But, let us imagine for a moment a perfect word.

A world where Miriel doesn't die after giving birth to Fëanor and Finwë still gets his large family (The other children of Finwë will maintain their original name for clarity’s sake)

So Miriel does not die, but the birth still leaves her fragile. It takes her a long time to recover and decide that she wants to try again, so much that there is a big age difference between Fëanor and Fingolfin

Which, not that unusual among Elves, I bet it's not uncommon for siblings to have about a century between them.

However, when Fingolfin comes along, Fëanor isn't just of age, he is fully established: he has found his craft, maybe he is not a master yet but at the very least he is well on his way to it.

He definitely panics at the idea of his mother being pregnant again, since he remembers his early years when mother was recovering - how weak and wan she looked, how easily she tired. There are arguments about it, but eventually Miriel puts her foot down and points out that this is her decision, she wouldn’t do it if she did not want to or feel up to it, and that's final.

But, perfect word: Miriel's second pregnancy is much, much, much easier than her first one.

Same for the pregnancies that follow. Her difficult first pregnancy becomes something to tease Fëanor about - within the family only, of course, but still. Imagine that.

Fëanor does not go down the same dark path. That  does not mean that there is no dark path, or that it's not somebody else who takes it.

Maybe in this universe Melkor can't get his claws into Fëanor because he simply feels zero resentment for his younger siblings. Why would he?

It's not like his parents do not give him attention and if one of them is busy, he can always count on the other. 

Did he get some jealousy pangs? Yes, sure. He is not perfect. But he probably kept them to himself and thoroughly regretted them once he had his own children and got to see parenting from the other side.

But what about Fingolfin, the second son? The one who grows up in the shadow of his oldest brother?

The one who is still doing all the paperwork because Fëanor is off creating and can't be bothered. The one who is taken for granted, the one who will never be considered for Crown Prince because....well, why would he? He is the second born, after all. 

And he is Not Fëanor.

But perhaps that doesn’t work, either. 

Perhaps in this world, because Fëanor and Fingolfin are similar, they end up being close. Perhaps Fëanor here does appreciate all of Fingolfin's hard work, and since this is Fëanor we are talking about, you know he would not be quiet about it.

Imagine Fëanor taking Maitimo to meet Baby Makalaurë and whispering, "I hope you will grow up to be great friends, like me and your Uncle Nolofinwë."

So Fingolfin is out. What about Finarfin? The third son, the last child, the one overshadowed by both his older brothers? 

What about Findis? Or Irimë?

Maybe it's Fëanor who dies trying to defend his masterpieces. 

Maybe it's Finwë who, mad with grief, stands before the Valar and swears a terrible oath.

(with many thanks to @wings-of-indigo)

[maglor-my-beloved]

Hair Braiding

Characters: Fëanor, Míriel

Words: 227

Warnings: Canonical Character Death

Read on Ao3

Fëanáro hums softly as he draws the jeweled brush through his mother’s hair, fine and gleaming as spun silver. In moments like this, he can almost pretend she is merely asleep – her face is peaceful, serene, her skin warmed by the golden light casting her in a soft glow, and some childlike part of him hopes that she will open her eyes at any moment, smile at him, embrace him. Oh, he knows she will not. Once, his hope had been within reach, but now… His father had asked why he still visited her, tended to her, when he knew she would not return to this body. Fëanáro had asked why Finwë did not. Once Finwë had been the one to brush her hair, braid it, as a spouse should. He claims that in ceasing he merely respects her wish to be parted from him, but Fëanáro knows better. “You need to leave behind you grief,” Indis had told him, when she did not think Fëanáro could hear. “You cannot cling to her, when you have a new family.” Well, Fëanáro has no new family, so he clings. He grieves. Someone has to, lest she be forgotten. He brushes her hair until it is soft and silken-smooth, weaves it in the elaborate braids of the Queen of the Noldor, and places the gleaming crown upon her brow.

[poetryinmotion-author]

ANOTHER full length novel wip???? In MY Google Docs???? It's more common than you think

[aadmelioraa]

Compiled the fanfic I wrote during Season One before we get new episodes. Cheers to Season Two!

HOME - 1.2k, rated G

Set during 1x03. On the journey to Armenelos, Isildur prepares to tell his father about his plans to defer.

ONYA - 2k, rated T

Set during 1x04. After confessing the shame of his dismissal to Eärien, Isildur spends a restless night in the streets of Armenelos.

MOONRISE - 1.9k, rated T

Pre-canon fic. Valandil watches Isildur adapt following the loss of his mother.

MATCH - 1.6k, rated G

Pre-canon fic. Isildur’s closest childhood friend Valandil has spent the summer away from home. When he returns, Isildur wonders if Valandil wants to remain friends at all.

PREDICTABLE - 1.5k, rated E

Pre-canon fic. Isildur gets in trouble, again, and drags Valandil down with him—again. Valandil is patient, but even he has limits. Isildur needs to learn his lesson, one way or another.

FORGIVEN - 1.8k, rated G

Set during 1x05. Still upset after his recent conversation with Isildur, Valandil rushes to the scene of the explosion.

ASH - 1.3k, rated T

Set during 1x07. Valandil makes his way to the Númenórean camp, fighting an uphill battle against the weight of grief.

PREPARATIONS - 1.8k, rated M

Set during 1x06. On the second day of their voyage, Elendil shares an evening with the Queen Regent.

THRESHOLD - 1.3k, rated T

Months after returning from Middle-earth, Elendil continues to grapple with his loss.

READY TO SERVE - Elendil x Míriel x Valandil, 2.2k, rated E

Valandil finds himself intruding on a private moment between the queen regent and her captain. Unless he isn’t intruding after all…

ALONE - Valandil x Eärien, 3.6k, rated E

In the wake of Isildur’s death, both Eärien and Valandil struggle to carry on. 

UNDERSTANDING - Galadriel x Míriel, 600 words, rated M

Before Míriel departs from Middle-earth, she requests an audience with Galadriel.

ALL THIS AND HEAVEN TOO - Isildur x Isildur’s Wife, Isildur x Valandil, 8.2k at 4/10 Chapters, rated M, Status: INCOMPLETE

Fearing the real Númenor may be lost forever, Isildur and Anárion, along with their families, retreat to their childhood home. There is plenty of work for them in Rómenna and no shortage of perils in Armenelos. But despite the danger, Isildur finds himself drawn back to the capital one fateful night. Valandil, now a Captain of the King’s Guard, finds his former friend in the courtyard of the White Tree engaged in what appears to be a suicide mission. Forced to either turn Isildur in to save himself or risk everything to save Isildur's life, Valandil makes a decision that will echo through the chronicles for centuries to come.