#reminds me of the lamps of the Valar

[sauronpilled]

ROT

@angbangweek

angbangweek : injuries | scars

warning(s) : angst. detailed-ish description of an old injury. not-so-happy-angbang-depiction ( they're fighting and some regrets nothing dark. ). emotional wound as well lmao.

summary : when an old wound left unattended, it'll rot.

pairings : melkor/mairon.

@ervona ty to N for beta reading this fic 💕

In the great depths of Angband, Melkor sought refuge in his companion. Mighty he had been, now lay weakened in the chamber—blood spilled from the gaping flesh; a trail of defeat from the battle.

Rare it was for an Ainur to bear a pain only known to the Eldar. A great being such as he, would be left untouched in his strength, but as The Sun had conquered the darkness, his power dwindled. The kingdoms he proudly built, had been taken by the last remaining light of The trees—how The Valar mocked him so.

Mairon shed the armor that Melkor wore with care, looking upon the injuries on his body. His face unreadable as his fingers traced over the bruises and the scars on his Lord's vessel. Gentle was his touch, reserved only to him. It was the peace that he sought, before a discovery of a wound interrupted it.

Melkor expressed pain greater than that of The Eldar, as his roar echoed through Angband. His legions shivered when his voice touched them. He peered down to the thumb of his lieutenant where he saw a sickly brown gash, reopened once more.

"Fret not, my lord. It is naught but an old wound." Mairon soothed the dark lord with a honeyed song. A melody all too familiar in his present, though with the same detachement in his eyes. He brought forth supplies from the side of the desk, as he carefully mend the opened wound. He brought the stitches to his lord vessel carefully, piercing the skins together.

Melkor then, winced similar to that of a snake.

For once in his life, Melkor was shaken. Pride no longer settled in his heart, for uncertainty had taken its place. His lieutenant sensed this, for fear flickered in his golden eyes.

Mairon turned his attention from the wound he's tending, to the face of his lord. Even in horror, allure graced his vessel. Such a sight provided comfort to the uneased Melkor.

"You shall not leave me," Mairon then warned in his true voice, though void of any sound that are familiar to the ear, it trembled with a great fury. "You have taken me from the guidance of Aulë. You have taken me to a life of darkness, where I acted as a lamp for your cause. Then you abandoned me for the very light that detest you. Do not fool yourself, O Morgoth, for my presence comes not from your false promises, but from my own choices. I have sworn myself to you as Ossë once did, only that, I chose to wait for you. You are mine, as I am yours. Not even your undoing can take you away from me."

Melkor found bliss in the cruel reminder, for he smiled with joy. His darkened finger then reached for his companion hair, a sight full of glory for he shone as the flames that sorrounded them. Frailed he may be, yet his sweet voice slipped from his lips with a deep rasp. "How loyal The Admirable one is to me. Always there to assist."

"You do not listen."

"I do, my Admirable One." There was sadness in his song, before he continue to spoke. His finger traced from his hair to his cheek, then to his neck. "But I will not be here long. All that is mighty will be replaced. Time is ever changing. Death or The Void will take me, but I shall not forget you. For even in darkness I shall be there with you, for you have binded yourself to me. Your light shall be my company in my punishment."

"You can not leave me here for what you did to me. I served for you. I lived for you. I sacrificed everything for you." Despair now filled his words. His voice spreaded further and stronger than that of Melkor.

"My Admirable One," there was silence from Melkor, yet his smile remained. He then, laughed—a bright laughed that was honest of love. "You will do well. You are beautiful and mightier than me. I will remember you as you will remember me. My kingdom shall be yours. You will succeed where I failed."

A sorrow, so unspeakeable, and beyond the knowledge of The Eldar, filled the room. The fire dimmed and now the darkness held over the chamber. A kiss to his companion forehead, from the cold lips of The Dark Lord, as he embraced Mairon in his arms.

"As I'm healing in your abode; we shall make best of what we could have."

[cilil]

TSS2022 advent calendar [nsfw]

✧Treat Gift for Day 11 - Voyeurism✧

There he was, sitting in the middle of a clearing–Melkor, the fallen Vala himself, the Elder King's brother–and he was completely naked, legs spread wide and leaning against a tree as if it was completely normal for him to do so, not a hint of shame in his demeanor. And between his legs was one of the missing Maiar.

POV: Eönwë Pairing: Melkor/Mairon | Angbang Synopsis: After the fall of the lamps, Eönwë is sent to Middle-earth to look for missing Maiar. Things don't go as expected when he not only finds Mairon having fun with Melkor, but also discovers a few things about himself. Featuring: Dork Lords having kinky fun, Eönwë looking respectfully PWP/smut {minors DNI}

Also available on AO3

@officialtolkiensecretsanta

His mission wasn't easy, Eönwë knew and Lord Manwë had said so himself. Venturing out into the wilderness of Middle-earth, a chaotic and dangerous land ever since Melkor had returned and destroyed the lamps, and looking for lost Maiar, as several Valar were still missing members of their households. 

Following Lord Oromë's advice, Eönwë had taken his weapons with him, prepared to fight if he had to, and was determined to find and defend his fellow Maiar out there against whatever or whoever threatened them. 

He had sensed the presence of other Ainur in the area and followed their trail into the middle of a forest, keeping himself hidden upon realizing that one of them was, in fact, not a Maia. And it turned out to be correct, though what he had just found was something he definitely hadn't anticipated. 

There he was, sitting in the middle of a clearing–Melkor, the fallen Vala himself, the Elder King's brother, and he was completely naked, legs spread wide and leaning against a tree as if it was completely normal for him to do so, not a hint of shame in his demeanor. And between his legs was one of the missing Maiar. Eönwë recognized him immediately; it was Mairon of Lord Aulë's household, one of his best smiths. He was on his knees in front of the Vala and naked as well, covered only by his flame-like hair. His hands were tightly bound behind his back and Melkor was holding on to his hair, guiding his head between his legs until his lips touched his– 

Eönwë let out a quiet gasp of outrage and reflexively reached for his sword before he could stop himself. Was the Evil One kidnapping helpless Maiar to force them to perform such unholy acts? He wanted nothing more than to rush in and save Mairon, but he knew neither of them was a match for the mightiest of the Valar. 

Should he try to intervene anyway, tell the Maia to run away while Melkor was distracted? Should he call upon Lord Manwë for help? Or perhaps–  

"Please master..." 

Eönwë's eyes widened in shock when he heard Mairon speak. He had stopped licking and kissing the Vala's cock and was looking up at him with pleading eyes, lips slightly parted and glistening with saliva. 

"Please what, little flame?" 

Melkor was practically purring at the sight and ruffled his hair in a way that seemed... affectionate? 

"I want your cock, master, I want it inside me... please..." Mairon begged, batting his eyelashes at him and wiggling his hips to emphasize his statement. 

Eönwë didn't know if he should be more shocked about hearing his fellow Maia say such things to the fallen Vala or that he caught his own gaze wandering to his shapely backside. 

He is very lovely indeed–

No. I am not supposed to have such thoughts. Especially not in a situation like this.

Yet he couldn't help watching. 

"Not yet," Melkor replied, and patted the fire spirit's head to signal him to go on. 

"You need to work a little harder." 

Mairon didn't need to be told twice and returned to his task. Eönwë could hear his tongue working on the Vala's erection with audible enthusiasm and no matter how often he tried to remind himself that what the two were doing had to be sinful and wrong somehow, he couldn't stop staring. Melkor seemed to take great pleasure in this act, especially when Mairon took his cock in his mouth, eliciting a pleased growl from him. 

Eönwë noticed that he was beginning to feel warm, especially in his lower body. For a moment, he allowed himself to imagine how it would be to have someone kneeling in front of him and serving him like this, and he had to bite his lip to stifle a small moan. He hated himself for having such thoughts and feeling these strange things, but deep down he wished he was in Melkor's place right now. 

His reverie was interrupted by a low whine from Mairon–a sound that sent another wave of heat rippling through his core–and he watched Melkor pulling on his hair to remove his mouth from his cock. The Maia pursed his lips, pouting as if a delicious treat had been taken away from him. 

At this point, Eönwë was seriously doubting his previous assumption that he was forced to participate in these acts; in fact, he was getting the feeling that he enjoyed himself just as much as the Evil One he now called master. 

Aulë would be horrified.

"Well, little flame? Do you still want me to fuck you?" Melkor asked with a lascivious smirk. 

"Yes! Yes, please..." 

"Very well." 

Within the blink of an eye, he was kneeling behind the Maia and took hold of his hips, long fingers grasping his ass cheeks to spread them wide. Eönwë caught himself moving just a little closer to the clearing, the thought of catching a glimpse of something so forbidden exciting him more than he wanted to admit, yet his view was swiftly blocked by Melkor leaning forward. 

Mairon moaned in pure delight when the Vala's long tongue found his hole, dipping past the tight ring of muscle. 

"Ngh... master–"

If only he wasn't making such noises. Eönwë didn't know if he should curse these two for shamelessly committing such acts out in the wild or himself for spying on them, unable to tear his gaze away from their naked fánar and how they pleasured each other. Yet despite the indecency of their conduct, he couldn't deny there was a certain allure to it, beauty even; the way Mairon's back arched and toes curled in response to that sinful tongue working inside him, hands straining against their bonds, moans and whimpers spilling from his lips. So eager, so devoted, so helpless and receptive to the Vala's attention. 

Eönwë couldn't deny it anymore. He was intrigued by the spectacle, hypnotized even, and his fána was reacting to his arousal; it took all of his self-control not to touch himself right then and there. The rational part of his mind was screaming at him to leave as fast as he could, lest they noticed his presence after all, but his feet wouldn't obey him. 

Melkor had stopped licking Mairon and was currently taking his time aligning the tip of his massive cock with the Maia's well-lubricated hole, ignoring his impatient whining and incoherent pleading. 

Won't it hurt him? Eönwë asked himself, attempting to shake off the lustful daze that had taken hold of his mind in favor of feeling concerned for Mairon–or at least that was what he told himself. Deep down, he was curious to see what would happen and if being penetrated in such a way would be pleasurable for his fellow Maia. 

Judging by Mairon's cries of ecstasy as Melkor slowly eased his way inside of him, he did. The sensation appeared to be intense–his muscles were twitching and his brow was creased–but if he was in any pain, he seemed to derive pleasure from it. Not once did he beg for the Vala to stop, only begging for more. 

Eönwë wondered if other Ainur were like this too, if more of their kind enjoyed having their fánar bound and used by another. Perhaps he could–no, he didn't allow himself to continue the thought. Surely Lord Manwë would be horrified by what was happening here, more so if he knew that his own Maia was enjoying the view. As his herald, he shouldn't even entertain the possibility of engaging in such acts himself. 

But admit it, you want to, a voice at the back of his mind whispered. 

Yes. Yes, I do.

"Master! Master, please–" 

There it was again, the lovely sound of Mairon's voice trembling ever so slightly while he begged for more. Legs spread as if to draw Melkor into the seductive embrace of his elegant limbs, hole stretching to accommodate his cock, nails digging into his palms as the bonds around his wrists still kept his hands in place. But what drew Eönwë's attention the most was the lovely curve of slightly pursed lips as Mairon called the Vala master. 

It was a complete perversion of how Valar and Maiar were supposed to interact. The title should be reserved to Aulë, his rightful lord, and not be used in such a lewd context. Yet no matter how hard Eönwë attempted to focus on the indecency of it all, to rationalize it as unacceptable behavior and to be shocked that Melkor would corrupt these concepts for his evil purposes, he couldn't deny how appealing it was. He didn't understand why, but the mental image of having one of his fellow Maiar on their knees, calling him master or lord or another title of his choice and begging for his cock– 

Eönwë caught himself before his hand could stray too far and bit his lip. At this point his need was too great to ignore, he knew he wouldn't be able to resist touching himself, but not here. He had already brought enough shame upon himself and his lord as well as Aulë and Mairon by failing to intervene and bringing the Maia to his new home in Valinor–though he strongly suspected that Mairon might've refused to come with him even if he had somehow managed to get him away from Melkor. It certainly seemed as if he was enjoying himself in his current position. 

Deciding it was best to leave them be, Eönwë tore his gaze away from the two Ainur and fled from the forest. He didn't slow down until he reached the shores of Middle-earth where he stopped abruptly, staring at the sea in front of him in an attempt to calm down. It was in vain. 

I cannot return to Valinor like this.

Slowly, he turned around and walked away from Ulmo's waters until he found a secluded, hidden space to rest. Shame weighed heavily upon his fëa and his cheeks felt like they were burning when he finally gave in to his urges and started touching himself. Eönwë wrapped his wings around his body and buried his face in soft feathers as if he was attempting to hide his disgraceful actions from the world–as well as his own conscience.  

A beautiful fána bound by chains, writhing under his hands.

Eyes fluttering shut, mouth falling open, a voice moaning in response to his touch.

"Yes, my lord. Please take me."

Tight, wet heat engulfing his cock, caressing him, welcoming him inside.

And his vision went white, bright like the lights of Valinor, when he finally found his release.  

[notaheronoravillain]

Headcanon for Manwë and his happiness?

-@outofangband

Okay, I will be specific about this topic but here is the summary and conclusion : Basically the Solace and no conflict must be ensured for Manwe to be happy and furthermore, his reputation should be good. If those things are ensured, he is A+okay, cal, reserved and happy in my HC. The detailed version is under there and I devided this since it is very long.

**When you read this, please consider that I am a ‘true neutral’ alignment by some faith of mine and I really try my best not to act upon my emotions in real life but I think I already failed at that when I was writing this. But well I really want you to know that I don’t hate Manwe at all since he is just a character and can’t do no harm to me at all.**

(CW:This thing contains my own lifelong experiences and trauma as an INT- person, when you read ‘the comparison between Manwe and Melkor’, there it is. Please pass it if you are triggered but I can’t explain this properly in short message but : they just tell INT- people to shut up and care for their feelings but they don’t do the same for them. Just demanding them to do so but not giving them in return.) < - Also with a biased view on MBTI stereotypes.

First, I want you to know of my HC for Manwe’s personality to talk about this. Personality takes a big part of the definition of one’s ‘happiness’, so I really needed to tell you this.

I really think Manwe is a stereo typical INFJ so that means he has a big tendency to seek solace and peace. Those people tend to be reaaaaaaaaaaaaaalllllllllllllly sensitive around there environment surrounding them and I can really tell this since one of my closest friend is an INFJ himself. So, basically he needs solace and peace to be reseved self. Since introverts are said to be ‘tend not to express their thoughts or feelings outwardly’ and most INFJ people tend to wear mask very very skillfully not much people will notice if he is shaken or not, but he himself knows that so he will try hard not to lose himself so he will try hard to keep calm, which can mean, he will ‘moderate’ inhabitants of Valinor.

INFJ traits to wear mast masterfully makes him look like an innocent, calm, kind and fair ruler but in fact, those things are mask after all. Mask can resemble one’s true self for some parts and that can be intended but anyways, I don’t think he is the ‘good’ person to be a king because we all know what he did to Feanor. Even if he couldn’t get an idea to solve the problem, it was his responsibility to make things right not just oversee that and cry over Feanor threatening Fingolfin . < Yes, that is the moment what I thought  Manwe tried really hard to gain his good image over all people and he was afraid of his mask being slipped off. After the first kinslaying, Namo cursed the Noldor who had fled to Endor and I think if Manwe was really the good, kind king as he claimed to be, the curse may have been subtler than it should be.

So, secondly, this is why I think he grew up to be like this in my HC : Since the beginning of the time, his older brother, Melkor made a mass every single time he was with his kin and Manwe, the future king needed to clam down those angered by Melkor (Although I don’t think Melkor is evil and he is just a doomed idealist and just an outcast with a big horn effect on his reputation) so he became really sick and tired of his responsibility by the time when Melkor fell down the both of the lamps and Varda, who really does everything to block in Melkor’s way (I love her so much and you know this) keeps on and do Manwe’s work instead of him and that makes her the most revered of the Valar. The mighty Queen, who is able to do everything for her people. Who chose to be the shield against the threat. Yes, Manwe is the King but I think Valinor is a society with constitutional monarchy. The King is the symbol of Eru’s blessing all over Aman, the true ruler is his consort. And I think that can explain why those people in that world calls for Varda more than Manwe. He may be a good advocate for Eru’s will since he is made to be so but the ‘good’ in Tolkien’s world is just an ideal and I think it is not suitable for the politics. (And sadly, politics needs some necessary evil and I think Varda was really good at sugar-coating that with the Dogma. Which Melkor failed miserably due to his Horn effect of his reputation) By this, he can still take his mantle, and do nothing to trouble himself and his name, the blessed and perfect. If someone does nothing, nothing changes and it is peaceful. They can manage to keep their own good reputation as it always was. So I think that was why Manwe tended not to move by himself if compared to Varda and Melkor. His older brother needed move on just to be a king of his own right so he had to fight the world so he will have a big notoriety over his name and since that one is his bro and they resemble each other in their essence it will be much wiser to be like this. If he makes a move and fails to get a nice result, it will ruin his name because of this and this proved to be somewhat right by the Silmarilli-incident.

For more specific about the comparison between the brothers, I think Melkor, who is an INTP in my HC has realllllly bad social interaction with others since they don't mind what other's feel about their words and tend to speak the 'facts' (*but really, feelings never change all those facts I'm not sorry about this as an INTP_INTJ person and those angered ones never care about the feelings of people who told them the facts which annoys me to hell) And as many younger siblings watch them grow as an outcast because of this, the younger ones tend to have a really good social image. They never do that and 'care' for other's feelings so they all called as the 'good' ones. Some may say that can be a part of the leadership but to be a leader it needs much more than that and also, if someone is a thinker they really tend to think over other’s mechanism over feelings (and if they don’t they are not going to survive at the cold, hard reality. I ensure you this since I am that person.) they know that things by head even if they don’t really understand ‘why the hell are those people are angry over my actions’ but ‘to keep myself in better state, I will just shut up and pretend to understand you.’ (but seriously, those angry reactions makes them confused but no one ever cares for them and just tell they are bad and respect others feeling but they NEVER respect them after all and also their actions are likely to merely hurt just temporary ‘feelings’ not cause some big catastrophe over others’ life but yes the others tend to give them a big PTSD because of this and blame them not to respect them.) <That means, yes Melkor may learn the feelings to survive and if you really need to be a ruler you need to be a good strategist youself even if you have some other ones. So I think Melkor was a more of a suitable king who makes a much better politician and in my HC Varda is the best of these things. (+Also I always thing if Melkor was not brainy one himself, he wouldn’t even manage to survive. He really need to be cunning as hell and is really likely to be a good intellect. Otherwise, he won’t be able to manage all those things even if he have other people -including Mairon and Langon- helping him< For Manwe, he has more supporters than his bro and he has Varda, Yavanna and Aule on his side.) <<He really need to be cunning as hell and is really a good intellect in canon.These thing can be summarized like this : if you have a older sibling who is a thinker and an outcast you learn to have a good social image by not replicate the other one and that maybe considered as a part of the leadership but the leadership is not only defined by that and you need to think very hard to be a good king. (Yes I know that tendency to use feelings over the thinking is never about the intelligence but you will need more of a thinking ability to rule over since the politics are not the game of the good wills but more like the game of the desire and power. Basically the SILM is written by the elves and if there are people, there is politics without doubt. Also religion is likely to linked to the kingship in the old days so those to can’t be separated from each other.)

+I think Manwe somewhat resembles Enlil from Sumerian mythology and that means, Melkor really reminds me of Enki (not as pervy as Enki in my HC but still) and if you know the story of the mythology, you will understand why I told so. Stern rulers really needs lots of unfaltering devotion from his people and that really need a nice image and grand authority over them. Manwe is undoubtedly the sacred and his authority is ensured by Eru himself so it is likely to be easy to maintain if there are just Ainur in Aman, but with elves that was not easy at all. I think Manwe never had expected the challenge after he got his brother under himself and he must be frightened to face the situations so he really wanted to avoid it. I think the biggest reason why Feanor and the Noldor left Aman was this. If he is the King, no matter how he is shocked and can’t think how to make things alright he NEED to be calm and strong as the ruler. There is no consideration for this because that is how the responsibility of the kings work. Noldor can be frustrated of his reaction and they may think he can’t save them from Melkor and the threat of darkness. So some of them chose to find freedom and journeyed through the grinding ice : No one can protect them in Aman and that is the same in Endor, but at least there is a freedom in Endor not like in Aman.

Yes, in conclusion, Manwe will be Happy after all these conflicts are over since there is nothing wrong in Aman but I think that is too fragile to maintain. 

[elesianne]

A Silmarillion fanfic for @legendariumladiesapril

Story summary: Findis talks with Lalwen before her departure from Tirion; and an age later, Findis talks to Lalwen's broken memorial.

Wordcount: ~2,100 words; Rating: Teenage audiences

Some keywords: sister-sister relationship, some angst, flight of the Noldor, war of wrath

A/N: What is 'canonical': Findis, Finwë and Indis' oldest child, stayed in Valinor after the Darkening, going to live with the Vanyar with Indis. Her younger sister Lalwen (Quenya names Írimë Lalwendë) was close to Fingolfin and went to Beleriand with him. The rest is made up by me. Laurefindil is Glorfindel’s Quenya name.

Warning for major character death (’offscreen’), mentions of blood and discussion of death

AO3 LINK

*

Sister of mine

Tirion, after Fëanáro's oath but before the Noldor's departure

Findis sits on Írimë's bed and watches as her sister packs. Findis herself packed for her departure to Valinor days ago, but Írimë did always tend to leave things almost too late.

Írimë pulls an astounding number of blades of different lengths from a chest. She stows some of them in her pack and one long sword and two daggers in the sword-belt which lies on a table, waiting.

'That one for my ankle', Írimë mutters as she adds another short blade on the table and surveys the weapons.

Findis has sat in silence for a long time, staring at her sister and memorising the way she moves, swift and decisive, and the tone of her voice as she speaks to herself, low but melodious. Írimë inherited their mother's gift for song as much as Indis did, though unlike Findis she never cared much to use it.

Findis hopes she will never forget the exact colour of her sister's voice, no matter how long they are apart.

That voice shakes her from her thoughts. 'You can still change your mind, you know', Írimë says. 'And come with us.'

She must have misinterpreted Findis' bereft expression.

'My decision is as steadfast as yours', Findis replies. 'I am staying. Antaro and I will take mother to Valinor, and with luck and time and the help of the Valar we shall all heal from our losses.'

Írimë's expression tightens, and Findis knows that she is restraining herself. 'That is one way to react to father's death and the slaying of the Trees', she says.

'We believe it the wisest', says Findis with equal restraint.

Írimë sighs and sits on the bed beside Findis, her riding breeches dark against Findis' cream-coloured dress. 'I am going, Nolofinwë is going, and so is Arafinwë, and all of their children, not to mention our half-brother.'

Findis looks away from Írimë. 'Best indeed not mention him', she says.

Along with all the other things Findis mourns for, she still mourns the loss of the playful big brother that she once had, long ago for a short while when it was only the two of them born of Finwë's children. It is silly to mourn for something that existed only for a scant few years, and might not have had she been a boy, she knows; but it had sent chills down Findis's spine to watch and listen from afar Fëanáro agitating the Noldor, lighting a fire in their hearts that would lead them to folly. Or so Findis believes.

There had been no trace left then in Fëanáro of the long-limbed boy that he once was, holding his sister's sticky hand and dragging her behind him all around the palace, speaking to her of everything that he was interested in which was almost everything.

Írimë never knew that boy, but she is following Fëanáro anyway, though she goes out of love and loyalty for another brother.

They are all following Fëanáro, everyone in the family but Indis and Findis and her Vanyarin husband and two of their children.

'Your son is going', reminds Írimë, and oh, that may be the greatest grief of all for Findis, almost greater than her father's death at the hands of the fallen Vala.

'Laurefindil is a man grown', Findis says with a heavy heart. 'He makes his own decisions, as did all my children. He has sworn himself to Turukáno's service, and it did not surprise me. He always admired Turukáno most of all of his older cousins.'

Írimë lays a hand on Findis' knee. She is fire-hearted, not heartless, Findis knows, though her speech can be harsh.

'I spoke to your daughter', Írimë confesses. 'Tried to convince her to come, but she laughed at me and said that she is her mother's daughter at heart though I may not be mine.'

'That was not very kindly said of her, nor kindly done of you', Findis says. She is relieved that Malwafindë had not changed her mind. It is enough – too much – that one of her three children is leaving.

Írimë laughs, though her laughter holds little joy these days. 'I have always appreciated her sharp tongue, Findis, sister of mine. She says things as they are. I tried talking to her because she made, after all, a sword for herself as well as me and many others. I thought that she might have been wanting to go but too loyal to you by first instinct.'

'She is a smith. I think forging swords was as much professional curiosity as wanting to arm herself and her family and friends.' Findis tries not to care about Írimë's half-hurtful words, and her trying to make Findis's daughter leave. There has been enough discord in their family already. Findis does not want her possibly last private conversation with her sister to turn to an argument.

'Did you try talking to Tárion too?' Findis must ask. Her younger son, her late-born joy.

Írimë shakes her head. 'He is not quite of age yet: your child still, more than the others. I would not rip him from you even if he wanted to come –'

'He does not', says Findis.

They talk for long hours until the candles in the room burn low and Írimë has to light new ones. She does it hastily, before they are left without light. Though the darkness that these days fills all rooms and streets without candles, lamps or torches is not as suffocating as the darkness that filled their land after the Trees died, Findis and Írimë are both uneasy with lack of light now.

They speak, and they embrace, and they reminisce about some things that are not too hurtful, that do not rip open any fresh wounds. There are not many such things. They cry a little.

But after many hours comes a time when Findis has to leave lest her husband and son begin worrying about her.

In the doorway of Írimë's room, the light of the single candle in Findis' hands between them, she says, 'There will be no public goodbye between us, Írimë. I will leave Tirion before you do.'

'You, leaving me behind?' Írimë's eyes are bright. 'I would not have thought it.'

'Mother has decided she prefers to leave first.' Findis swallows. 'Wherever your road takes you, sister, may the stars light your way and the winds blow behind you.'

Írimë gives a little laugh, but it is a wavering laugh, halfway to weeping. 'Thank you', she says, and embraces Findis, not very careful with the candle. 'For you, I know that they will', she says.

*

During the War of Wrath      

At the end of the next Age, Findis finds her sister's grave after a battle in Hithlum.

The grave was once handsomely marked, she can see. But the great statue that once stood there on a plinth must have been broken years ago, for moss grows on the pieces of it that lie scattered on the ground and a layer of ash covers them. And though Findis tries, she cannot find her sister's visage in the weather-worn stone face with the nose broken off.

She kneels before the plinth and wipes dirt off the worn words that are carved into the stone. But her dirty glove only adds another layer of soot and half-dried black blood, and she cannot make out the words apart from a few that she recognises as Sindarin. That much she can tell – that Írimë Lalwendë, daughter of Finwë king of the Noldor when they were still one united people, was honoured in death in the language of the grey-elves of the land where she fought her last battle.

'They told me that you fought bravely until your end', Findis says. Speaking is difficult, and not only because of the ash swirling in the air. 'In many battles by our brother's side. As valiant as any of the house of Fingolfin, as they called him here. I heard that he and his children were the most feared by Morgoth. I have so much reason to be proud of them, and you.'

Findis bows her head. 'Námo is going to give my son back to us soon', she tells her sister's grave. 'I hope and pray that the rest of you will be forgiven, too. You too gave your lives in the battle against the enemy, and you defended these lands, and you and your swords – your too many swords and daggers, I once thought, Írimë, but you must have needed them all over the centuries.'

She breathes deep the foul-smelling air. There were two Balrogs in the battle today. The air is always especially foul after Balrogs have been vanquished.

'I was saying – you and your blades protected many here. Firstborn and Secondborn both, and even Naugrim; and they fought alongside you, people who our half-brother railed against.'

Findis will not cry, she will not. Her gloves and hands are too dirty to wipe away tears.

'This is the first time that you have ever been quiet when I talked to you', Findis says. 'No interruptions, no comments. How I miss your voice.'

She takes a dagger from her belt. 'You left this at home so I brought it to you. I thought for a long time that you must have left it by accident because it was your favourite, your favourite to throw and to unnerve our father by playing with at the dinner table. Flipping it in your hands.' Findis smiles at the memory. The smile pulls at the wound on her cheek, and turns to a pained grimace.

'It didn't take many battles of my own for me to realise that you left it because it was too small and light. A plaything rather than a weapon. But I brought it to you anyway because I thought it a better thing to leave at your grave than flowers.' Another painful smile. 'You never cared much for flowers, you weren't that kind of princess. And I never thought that I was this kind of princess, one that wears armour and bloodstains and the taste of her own blood in her mouth. But I found my courage and followed in your footsteps in the end, little sister.'

Findis stabs the dagger into the muddy ground before Írimë's broken memorial. She wishes her gloves weren't so dirty because the pearl-handled little dagger made in the days of treelight and bliss would be prettier without dark smudges. Even with them, it is beautiful, a whole thing in a broken landscape.

'In any case.' Findis takes another deep breath. 'This land will be destroyed by the time we are victorious. Or on the way to destruction, at the very least. The sea will come and cover all of this, all the graves of all the Noldor who fought till they lost the impossible battle. Did you know it was hopeless, Írimë?'

Findis looks around. There are other memorials, gravestones and statues here. All are broken and dirtied, all have lost the glory they no doubt possessed when they were erected. They speak only of defeat and desecration now.

'It is better, I think, for all of this to be washed clean', Findis says with her heart in her throat. 'Your grave, and Findekáno's, and everyone else's whose bones lie here and elsewhere in Beleriand. The land is lost, though the war will be won by the might of the Valar.'

There is only one thing left to say.

'I do not regret my choice, Írimë, though I came here to help end the war you started.' With a last gentle touch to the plinth that once bore her sister's statue, Findis says, 'I hope that you did not regret your choice either. It pains me to think that you might have, and died for it anyway.'

She rises, her knees stiff from kneeling in armour and from the long day of battle. She whistles for her horse and the grey mare comes, as lovely and valiant as she was when Findis brought her over from Valinor three decades ago though her coat is made greyer by the ever-present ash that makes the battles against Morgoth's forces even grimmer.

Ignoring her stiff knees Findis mounts her steed and spurs her to a steady canter, returning to where she left her troops. They will have to find a safe place to camp for the night, and tomorrow they will ride back to Sirion and rejoin the battle there. The last of the orcs and Balrogs that had sneaked into Hithlum have been defeated.

Findis looks forward to reuniting with Arafinwë at Sirion. When the ever-raging battle allows, she will tell him of their sister's grave.

[calendille]

I was tagged by @venwe ! and @zealouswerewolfcollector !

ao3 name: Kalendeer

fandoms: The Silmarillion, formely Asoif (am planning to go back to it after A Feast of Ashes to finish that fic that is only missing it’s last chapter lol).

number of fics: 20 on AO3!

fic i spent the most time on: A Feast of Ashes, soon to be 100k!

fic i spent the least time on: The Singing Man

longest fic: A Feast of Ashes. AO3 says it’s over 100k but in fact it’s just a bit lower (there’s a mid-fic summary inside).

shortest fic: Fight or flight

most hits (3660), most kudos (130), most comment threads (129), A Feast of Ashes

most bookmarks (25): Istaril and the Staff Dancer

total word count:      270367 according to AO3 but I do have some original stories in French that are, of course, not here.

favourite fic i wrote: A Feast of Ashes of course come up high, I don’t think anyone spends so many words on something they don’t like. For shorter stories, the Staff Dancer always.

fic you want to rewrite/expand on: The ward of Casterly Rock. It is actually not 13k like on AO3 but 34k on FF.net, and it’s missing its last chapter and an epilogue, which is ridiculous. So I am planning on finishing it once Feast of Ashes is done.

share a bit of a wip or a story idea you’re planning on: This is from a story called “the Archer and the King”, and I don’t know if I will ever finish it, so here is the beginning under the cut.

Tagging: @arianaofimladris, @amethysttribble, @cycas, @snowflake-sunflower

I have no parents, but I used to have a son.

He was a bright, delightful child, named after the brightness of fire. He laughed like water hitting rocks and lived like any day was worth it.

One day he disappeared, along with Olue’s boys. The Shadows took them while they were harvesting berries north of our camp. We thought them lost forever, cried to the cold stars and buried their belongings.

And then one day, the Bright Rider came, and we listened to his words with hearts singing, for the Rider told us our sons were in Mandos and we would find them back in Valinor. We toiled through the long March, through the abandonment of half our people. I lost my wife to the beauty of Endorë, and Olue his brothers Elue and Elmo to the deep woods. Despite grief and guilt, we crossed the wide sea toward the smiling faces of our sons.

In Valinor we found Light, peace and safety; we did not find our children. The Shadows had twisted their spirits beyond recognition. We visited them once, at the frontiers of Mandos, and never came back, for fear and disgust of what we saw.

I was barely relevant in this land of peace. My name is Tall-Bow, Swift-handed, in the tongue of my people Oruacano Tyelcompar. I am of the Unbegotten, of considerable height compared to my kin, crowned with hair the color of foam and eyes dark as a stormy sea. I am renowned as the best archer of the Lindar and have won most of the friendly competitions held in Valinor since our arrival. I am the head of Olue’s royal guard; not that it is of any use in Valinor. Until the Darkening I was an object to be displayed for ceremonies.

Now, I stand tall and stern behind King Olue’s shoulder, towering over Prince – no, King Fëanaro Curufinwë. His haughty features and burning eyes are carefully controlled, but his policed air is nothing but a fragile mask, barely hiding the churning grief under his skin. Each gesture is studied, each expression mastered, in way more fitting measured, stern Nolofinwë than the usually spontaneous High Prince. He sits with elegant nonchalance, flanked with the standing, rigid, tall body of his first son. Maitimo Nelyafinwë is as unarmed as I am, but we are both intended to look menacing.

“You shall not have our ships,” King Olue (Olwë on Fëanaro’s tongue) pronounces. “Nor shall we ferry your people across the sea.”

“You renounce your friendship in this hour of our need, then,” interjects Fëanaro. The mask cracks into a white, toothy, predatory smile. “Yet you were glad indeed to receive our aid when you came at last to these shores. You were grieved and empty handed. You would be dwelling in huts on the beaches, had my people not carved out your haven and built your walls.”

I cannot see my King’s face, but Olue is a placid and reliable elf. He must be calm and unreadable now, his skin soft and unwrinkled by anger.

“We renounce no friendship”, Olue answers as father would to his son. “Is it not a friend’s duty to warn his companion of his own folly? And when the Noldor welcomed us and gave us aid, your words sounded quite different. In the land of Aman we were to live as brothers and neighbors,” he reminds him with soft, controlled words that doesn’t seem to appease Fëanaro. “But as for our white ships: those are no gifts from your people. We learned that craft from the Lords of the Sea, from Uinen and Ossë and Ulmo, while it is unknown of even the greatest of your masters. The white timbers were shaped by our own hands, and the white sails were woven by our wives and our daughters. Therefore we will neither give them nor sell them, even to a friend. For I say to you, Fëanaro son of Finwë, these are to us as are the jewels of the Noldor: the work of our hearts, whose like we shall not make again.”

At these last words the Noldo’s face twists as if in pain. A dangerous glint seeps through his silvery irises, quickly smothered under the fragile pretense of calm and self-mastery.

“I hear you,” he pronounces, his voice dripping with disdain, and those are the last words Fëanaro and Olue will ever say to each other. The noldorin prince leaves in a flourish of blood-red fabric, his cloak billowing behind him.

Silence fills Olue’s study, disturbed only by the crackles of lamps. The King stands, glides to the windows with measured, slow steps. The song of the sea caresses our ears with the promises of Ulmo’s guidance.

“Fëanaro will come for the ships. He is fey with grief, led by anger, and always lacked moderation. He will come armed and determined to wrench them from our hands.” The winds blows through his pale hair and the sheer curtains. Olue’s words ring colder in such a peaceful night. “When he does, the mariners shall not resist. Fëanaro is to be allowed to occupy the decks. We shall not be accused of violence against he or his kin.”

He turns toward me, indecipherable.

“Once Fëanaro will have taken the ships, you will shoot him.” To my widening eyes and shocked mouth, he answers: “Fëanaro is leading his people toward ruin.  He is leading himself toward ruin. The Lord of the Sea sent me dreams potent with foreboding, whose biding I cannot ignore. Melkor is a Vala. Neither Fëanaro, nor any of his kin are and will ever be able to bring him down. If Fëanaro is sent to Mandos, then Nolofinwë and Arafinwë will be able to convince their people to go back to Tirion and wait for the Valar’s counsel.”

Sent to Mandos. As if killing the new King of the Noldor amounts to sending a child to sit in a corner! And yet… I am deaf to Ulmo’s songs, but Olue is not. Whose orders are those? My King’s or Ulmo’s?

“You speak of murder.”

“With great pain, and thinking only of his own welfare and that of his people. We both know that death is not the greatest peril awaiting them in Middle Earth. What fate shall Fëanaro find there? Shall we let the sons of Finwë meet the same end as our own boys? His people are safer in Valinor. The sacrifice of Fëanaro’s flesh is a necessary evil to save his soul.”

The shade of grief over his son haunts his eyes still. His was silver haired, just like Earwen. I can remember the softness of his golden skin, the pinkish lips and the baby-talk he still used. The memory of Olwë’s child awaken my own, those of a little body with his mother’s dark hair and my turquoise eyes, huge with youth. I see them laughing in my mind, until these laughs turn to cackles, their smiles into mouths like open wounds, their eyes delirious and hungry.

I see what monster Melkor will make of Fëanaro, his beauty twisted and grotesque, his naïve aggressiveness turned into genuine, blind and hateful destructiveness, his brilliant mind broken into slavery. I see monstrous darkness towering over the kneeling sons of Finwë. I see them strangled by chains and their children displayed flayed and disemboweled around their weeping bodies.

I turn in disgust and wrench myself from Olue’s stare. The apparition lingers etched into my retinas.

“The Lord of the Sea sent me these visions. We must act according to his wisdom, as genuine friends to Finwë. Despite Fëanaro’s clamors I do not deny our friendship. I do not forsake Finwë, he who welcomed us with open arms when we came here wracked by grief over my brother and plead with the Valar to allow us to see our sons. I do not forget our last conversation either. Before he exiled himself to Formenos, Finwë took time to explain his reasoning for abandoning his people for the sake of his firstborn. He had faith in Nolofinwë’s abilities to rule and none in Fëanaro’s chances to withstand the storm. He considered his firstborn a child, unable to live without his firm guidance, emotionally crippled by Queen Miriel’s death. Can we let a child lead the Noldor in these times? As brilliant as Fëanaro is, he is no King. He has no grasp of diplomacy and does not hold the heart of his people. His place is at Finwë’s side and in the caring arms of his mother.”

[arianaofimladris]

Reversed roles

I posted this story almost a year ago, but someone reminded me of its existance today and I feel like going back to this idea and maybe writing a bit more...

This is an AU ficlet with Feanaro reborn as a child and placed in Fingolfin’s care. Fluffy. Feel free to drop hints for me.

Reversed roles

 The first time the envoy of the Valar came, Nolofinwe was mortified. Like it usually was with them, there wasn’t really a place for arguing. Namo, Nolofinwe had to admit, seemed kind of desperate. He said he could find no one else for the task and he would not charge any of Fëanaro’s sons with it. All in all, it was a good thing to make a Vala owe you, so Nolofinwe finally agreed.

Which, in result, left him in charge of his brother. His elder brother, currently a pouting child with a charming smile, when he bothered to reward him with one. And, unfortunately, his far less charming personality and memories. Nolofinwe immediately understood why he was chosen. Nerdanel already had her seven sons in various stages of emotional maturity to deal with and it would be unfair to charge her and adolescent Maitimo with the care of Fëanaro.

When Namo’s servant brought his brother, Fëanaro was visibly displeased. He clearly found it humiliating that the Maia was carrying him, but as they were both told, the distance was too great for his short legs to manage. The Maia warned the second son of Finwe that he may face emotional instability and mood changes, then left. As if Nolofinwe had not known his brother.

‘You will not treat me like a child’ was the first thing he heard when they were left alone. He found it hard to follow when he was told so by someone who barely reached his thigh. His brother was no longer so imposing, no matter how hard he tried. At first Nolofinwe found it somewhat amusing.

They walked together across the inner yard to the main building. It was a smaller house Nolofinwe chose from time to time, when he wished to spend some time away from his brother’s court. Right now he was almost sure it was one reason more why he was chosen to be put in charge of Fëanaro. They were in quite a desolate place. Findekano and Findarato were going to drop by in the next few days, but Nolofinwe wouldn’t be really surprised if they were told by someone not to come.

“Where is your forge?” asked Fëanaro, looking around with interest.

“Have you ever known me for having one?” replied Nolofinwe with a question. “Besides, I will not let you go to any forge right now.”

“You will not tell me what to do!”

“What would you do in a forge anyway?” Nolofinwe deliberately knelt to be at the child’s level. “Sit on a stool and swing your legs? You are too small to reach most of the things and I doubt you have enough strength to lift, let’s say, a hammer.”

“I suppose I don’t,” agreed Fëanaro grumpily. “So, I am to stay with you. I hope you have some books at least.”

“I think you’ll find something interesting. I can show you the library, if you wish.” Perhaps it was for the best to let Fëanaro spend some time alone before trying to talk with him. It must have been so confusing to come back to life as a child. He himself had not had such experience, being brought to Anaire as a grown elf.

“That would be nice,” replied the boy politely. Definitely confusing, decided Nolofinwe.

“Then come with me, Pityanaro,” he said and chuckled as his tiny elder brother glared daggers at him.

xxx

Fëanaro seemed satisfied when he was given several lore books to study and a sketchbook. He seemed to be buzzing with various ideas and even though he was forbidden to use any kind of workshop, it didn’t mean he couldn’t make some plans. Nolofinwe was pleased to find his brother willing to explain what he was sketching, even if he was terribly frustrated with the clumsiness of his little fingers. Still, it was refreshing and oddly pleasant to see him working, even if he looked ridiculous sitting by Nolofinwe’s desk, way too big for him.

The second son of Finwe decided to return to his studio and leave Fëanaro to his projects, as he was obviously thrilled to be able to create again, even with his limited possibilities. He left the doors open, so he could hear his brother, should he need anything, but he doubted Fëanaro would require anything anytime soon.

xxx

There was a loud thunk!, a startled cry and then something hit the floor. Judging by the muffled whimper, a very stubborn, childish and Feanorish something. Nolofinwe shook his head and went out to check on the damage.

There was a broken shelf and a big, heavy book laying on the floor. Several smaller books were tossed around and in the middle of this chaos sat Fëanaro, doing his best trying not to look distraught. The boy sniffled once, twice, his eyes welled with tears. He wiped them away angrily and stood up, when a muffled sob escaped his lips.

“What’s wrong, Fëanaro? Are you alright?”

“N-nothing,” sniffled his elder brother and Nolofinwe immediately realised his mistake. Never, ever act around a hurt child as if something serious happened, or else they would flood in tears before you know it. It seemed that he had just triggered the childish part of his brother.

“You know, it is quite alright to cry if it hurts,” remarked Nolofinwe more casually, following his brother as he stumbled on the corridor, books and all the mess forgotten.

“It d-doesn’t!”

“You have splinters in your calf. AND you are dripping blood on the floor.” Nolofinwe easily picked his brother up and placed on his hip. Despite his claims, Fëanaro subconsciously sought comfort and didn’t really oppose when Nolofinwe hugged him more closely and carried him to the bathroom.

“Now I am dripping blood on you,” muttered the boy matter-of-factly.

“So you are.”

Nolofinwe seated him on a chair and went to seek for some clean towel and a piece of bandage. When he turned again, Fëanaro was already fumbling around his leg, trying to remove long splinters.

“Let me.” Nolofinwe knelt beside him, seeing how his brother’s hands were shaking.

“I know how to do that. I have seven sons!”

“You’re the size of your youngest boys right now, the last I saw them at least.”

“Can I go and see them? And play with them?” This time he didn’t manage to fully hide his interest; the child part of his older brother was showing again, whether he liked it or not.

Nolofinwe smirked. Fëanaro spent half of the time performing his usual tasks (or at least attempting, as much as his small body would let him), but then came the moments when his childish part took over and he did things adequate for the age he looked like. Then, of course, he would deny anything had actually happened.

“Not now, certainly. Leave those scissors, they are too big for you. Don’t act like a child and let me do that.”

xxx

“I wish to see Nerdanel,” stated Fëanaro after they finished their late dinner.

Nolofinwe arched his eyebrow, trying hard to ignore the tiny legs swinging under the table and occasionally kicking the chair.

“You’ll see her once you’re a bit bigger,” he replied calmly. “I know you miss her, but she is far too busy with your sons to charge her with you as well.”

That was a really charming pout that appeared on his brother’s face. Fëanaro stared grimly at his plate for a long time, sulking.

“So they screwed again,” he muttered angrily. “The Valar. They should have let me out first, so I we could deal with our children together, like we once had.”

“Have you known the Valar to be always right?” asked Nolofinwe and he was rewarded with a surprised smile. “And... You know, I am not going to strangle or poison you. I am trying to get things... better,” he said finally.

“I know. So should I,” sighed Fëanaro and a tiny hand grasped Nolofinwe’s fingers. “I am glad to be out of there. I just want to return to my family.”

“Soon,” promised Nolofinwe. “And besides, it wouldn’t look well if I sent you back to Mandos, would it?” he said teasingly. “Hey, Fëanaro! I’m just jesting!” he called, alarmed, as the boy ran to the window and stared in amazement.

Fëanaro ignored him, still staring. Nolofinwe joined him and saw the full moon slowly raising on the sky. The child seemed to be utterly mesmerized.

“This night lamp is magnificent,” said Fëanaro in wonder. “It’s absolutely beautiful.”

“It is,” agreed Nolofinwe. He picked his brother up so he could see more clearly. “And it doesn’t obscure the sight of the stars.”

Fëanaro was enchanted by the silver light of the moon. Nolofinwe remembered that the Halls of Mandos were a shadowy place with nothing real around the bodiless fëas. His brother was taking being alive again surprisingly well, but no wonder he was so caught up with the sight of something he had never seen directly before.

The evening was warm and pleasant, so Nolofinwe decided to take his brother out. He still kept him in his arms, but Fëanaro didn’t really mind that, too busy watching the moon and all the stars he didn’t know, including his Silmaril. Seeing that, Nolofinwe sang a praise for Elbereth. He walked through the garden, enjoying the silence and the company of his not-so-awful elder brother. Before he knew, Fëanaro’s childish part took over him and the boy fell asleep in his arms.

As he did so, Nolofinwe nestled him more comfortably and carried him back to the house. It was only after he placed Fëanaro in a bed when he was hit by the sudden realisation. As interesting as this experience was, no one told him how long it was going to look like that before his brother would be an adult again.

[nurantarenendurath]

The Fall Final Part

Almaren was breaking apart. Giant waves came over the holy land and destroyed the mighty palaces, the nice gardens, the shiny lights. Mairon watched without any emotion as the halls of Aule were drowned by the sea.

He was flying above Almaren and wasn’t bothered by any of the Valar or their servants. They all were way too busy to save themselves and their precious belongings. It only showed how pathetic they were. Mairon knew that everything he was going to create would be better and more beautiful than anything in Almaren ever was.

With a shake of his head he turned away and headed to the north of Arda. Melkor told him, that they were going to meet there after the destruction of the lamps. Gothmog and Ungolanth were flying right behind him. No annoying light was exposing them to the eyes of the Valar.

“Farewell you degenerates”, muttered Mairon rather harsh. He had to admit, that it had been quite hard to see the disappointment in the eyes of Eonwe and lord Aule. But neither one of them would’ve understood how he felt. This was a fact.

Mairon made his decision and there was no going back. He was part of the darkness now and he would’ve lied if he said that he didn’t like it. “How are we supposed to see something in this damned darkness”, complained Gothmog and growled a little.

“You are a spirit of fire, if you need light, make it”, answered Mairon shortly. He didn’t have the time for such nonsense; he had to focus on finding Melkor. That wasn’t that difficult tho, since the Valar had an immense Aura, which could be seen from very far away, but only for those who knew his powers.

It didn’t take very long to find Melkor. His power was so intense that Mairon was practically drawn to it. The Valar was standing far in the north of the world, near some dire mountains, which were very close to the edge of the world.

As Mairon landed, Melkor lifted his mighty arms. “Lieutenant you war worth thousands of Valar”, he claimed and laughed. “Those lamps broke like sticks under my hands.” Mairon laughed with Melkor. “All because of your power my lord”, he joked.

“Oh well, I’m quite amazing you are right”, said Melkor with a little smile. “Don’t think too much of yourself”, ordered Mairon. “How couldn’t I, considering the fact, that I own the most beautiful thing in all of Ea.” With this words, he hugged Mairon, and kissed him on the forehead.

“Melkor, the others”, reminded Mairon. “I’m very sorry blacksmith”, lied Melkor, he wasn’t sorry at all. “I’m just very happy.” He smiled an honest bright smile. “Finally I don’t have to hide anymore. The war can begin.” Mairon nodded. “It can, all of the Valar heard my words.”

“How did it feel”, asked Melkor. “Amazing, I felt…powerful.” It was the perfect word for the situation. “You will get even more powerful, my precious”, promised Melkor and pointed at the mountains. “These mountains will be the place for our own castle, our own fortress.” He made a well placed pause. “Utumno.”

“Sounds great”, smiled Mairon. The Lieutenant of Melkor, the most powerful of the Valar. “But, although I agree with everyone else, that you are indeed admirable, your name shall be a different one, for our enemies. Do you have any ideas.” Mairon nearly laughed. “Eonwe called me Gothaur”, he answered. “Yet, I would prefer…” He stopped and thought for a moment. “Sauron.”

“Sauron”, echoed Melkor. “So it shall be.” The newly named Sauron nodded. “I should get started. The fortress won’t build itself.” Melkor laid his arm on his shoulders. “We shall build it. Together.” This single word was so beautiful, that Mairon couldn’t resist. He kissed Melkor shortly. “Together.” They smiled at each other and walked towards the mountains.

Both of them were surrounded by a powerful Aura full of fire and hatred towards the Valar. They began with their work. The first steps were made. Mairon had fallen and risen again. As the dark angel of Melkor. The one who arose in might.

Sauron and Melkor

Last Part of the Fall

Thanks for the support :)

Part 12: https://nurantarenendurath.tumblr.com/post/180240627528/the-fall-part-12

Part 13: https://nurantarenendurath.tumblr.com/post/180558380098/the-fall-part-13

[wynja2007]

Gondolin, the Hidden

Chapter One: Birth

The birth of any City requires the blood of three individuals; a woman in childbirth, a warrior, an old person. This is the real reason there were few elven cities; elves were created immortal, and although childbirth and battle hold similar risks for elves as for humankind, old age is not something they know, just the weariness of ages.

Beautiful Tirion of the musical voice, he was born from the wisdom and sacrifice of one of the Maia, who foresaw the need for Cities, who had heard them sung softly in the Song of Creation, but it had been a brief threnody, growing stronger only when the theme of the rise of Men joined the melody. This one had thought it worth his life to take age upon himself and sit in the tallest tower of the city until the weight of his borrowed years crumbled him to dust that blew away through the open windows to be carried in the high winds across the land. Some settled like a blessing on the streets of Tirion, sparkling and glinting gold in the corners, for this was where his heart had ever dwelt.

(But some of his life force carried across the continent to fall elsewhere, to prepare the ground for further sacrifices).

The mother of Fëanor, Míriel Serindë, died shortly after he was born, but the deliberate sacrifice of all her strength to pour it into her fine, bright, doomed son began sooner, so that it was childbirth, his birth that began the process which took her life, and her essence of death was caught by the Maian sacrifice and mingled in the earth, waiting for the birth of the City. A son of Tirion, new to weapons and armour, died at Alqualondë, defending his friends amongst the shipbuilders, weeping as he saw friend turned against friend, brother against brother, and prayed for an end to kinslaying. (The same events saw the birth of Alqualondë from the ashes and flotsam of its broken fleet just a few days later, while Valmar, first of cities in Valinor, was last to gain her personification in the darkness following the silencing of the lamps.)

The Maia’s sacrifice, then, gave three cities the chance to grow and thrive. But this story concerns Gondolin, firstborn city of Middle Earth.

*

He was nearly born from the ice.

So many deaths, so much emotion, such need, calling out to anyone who might help, the sense of knowing the help sought would not come. The despair, the need, the need.

He stirred in Vinyamar, turning and stretching and testing out the bounds of the dark womb around him, but something held him back, some power outside himself, something with pity in its heart and awareness of his nascent agitation.

Finally, though, it was on the plain of Tumladen when the land shook, and shook, and shook that finally he broke free of the earth and stretched and stood tall, bewildered and exhausted from his difficult gestation and long-deferred birth.

Around him was a wide spread of the greenest grass, crossed with rivulets and streams. Above, the sky was unbearably blue and the sun was warm on his naked back. Around his feet, bursts of colour; Larkspur in bloom.

He felt a tug, a yearning in his heart, and started to turn, seeking the source, allowing his gaze to roam the landscape. There!

In the middle of the plain, walls of sheer stone rose up, forbidding and stern, beckoning, crowned with the towers and turrets and fine-made walls of Gondolin itself. Young as he was, new as he was, he could taste the people, their hopes and fears, their loves and their rivalries, the sense of relief, the sense of dread, and he saw himself reaching out to nurture them…

He smiled and set off towards the cliffs.

*

‘My lord? Can you come? There is something happening.’

Ecthelion, Lord of the House of the Singing Fountains and Captain of the Great Gate nodded and picked up his helm. He followed the sentry from his office – in reality a desk outside the armoury – through the passageways to the lookout point. His companions jokingly referred to it as ‘The Eyrie’, but such an appellation always made Ecthelion shiver; his friend Glorfindel spoke often of how he thought they were not so much blessed by visits from the eagles, birds of Manwë, as spied upon by them…

He repressed a shudder. They were all on edge, the secret city barely finished, the people still so recently arrived that sometimes they missed their way, still, nothing was familiar yet, nothing felt safe and so anything out of the ordinary was a cause for concern. The earthquake, in the night; had it been a warning? A sign that Morgoth was moving in the depths of the earth far away, sending his evil through the ground to shake them, to seek them out…?

There had been deaths that some said boded ill; a warrior, injured on the way and grimly hanging on to life, his wounds healing and breaking, had finally succumbed to injury and breathed his last on the plain. Then an elleth nobody had known was here had fallen, somehow, from the walls, and the saddest thing, the saddest thing, was that she had been about to give birth, but it was too late; the child had quickened, and died before any help could come. Ecthelion made a mental note to try to find a faster way down to the plain than the current system of tunnels and stairs and slopes with defensive corners and reminded himself he was not a superstitious elf, he knew a sign from the Valar would not come as an earthquake or an unexpected death, but as a formal, direct approach, a message or a visitation. After all, there had been another death, that of one of the oldest, earliest-born elves, who had travelled to Valinor and back again, and who had become world-weary and had said surely, this was what it felt to be old, and had faded, just two days ago. No. Not all deaths were bad, sad though they were for elves.

Ecthelion pulled his long, black hair back out of the way with one hand and passed under the archway that led to the lookout post before sliding his helm into place with the other; it was a fine piece of workmanship, decorative and elegant, and part of the uniform, but it was also topped with a high silver spike that sometimes got in the way and to constantly scrape it against the stonework was embarrassing.

At the lookout, the sentry saluted smartly, hand on heart, and stood aside. Ecthelion passed through to find the narrow ledge crammed with his warriors, all with bows drawn, arrows nocked and trained on a figure that seemed to be erupting from the greensward.

Ecthelion caught his breath; they were all jittery, fearing discovery, exposure. The king’s standing orders were to shoot first and question later; but there was something about the way this individual moved, the way Ecthelion’s heart had lifted…

‘Sir?’ The voice of the captain of the archers was tremulous, tight. ‘Orders, sir?’

Ecthelion stared at the figure. Tall, strong, gleaming in the sunlight with golden hair that shimmered and fell in waves to his waist, naked and obviously unarmed, he had begun to move slowly towards the cliffs below the lookout post. Slowly, but not cautiously; it was more that the individual was unused to walking, his feet sliding through the grass as if the landscape was flowing around him, carrying him forward.

As if he was part of the land…

Something, an unconscious connection in Ecthelion’s mind…

‘Send for Lord Glorfindel.’

‘Sir?’

The captain was right to question him; it was against standing orders, the stranger, by rights, should be lying dead and bleeding on the plain by now. But…

‘Keep your weapons on him, but do not fire yet. I think this is not an enemy.’

*

The message: ‘The Captain of the Great Gate demands your attendance, my lord,’ found Glorfindel, Lord of the House of the Golden Flower, in the midst of debating with his sisters on the merits of yellow over blue as a colour for the Festival of Spring, so that it was with some relief that he headed out. He paused to collect his sword and helm, slung his bright red cloak across his shoulders, and was on his way to the Great Gate before his sisters even had time to complain.

He had time on the way to consider the summons from his friend, his more-than-friend Ecthelion; the formality, the use of his military title rather than his name or even his House title made it clear that this was not a social invitation. Ah, well. Thel’s duty tour was over soon, and there’d be time then to meet and dine and talk and all that could follow after…

He did not blink as he went from bright sunlight to dark, torch-lit passages as he entered the tunnels leading to the Gate, his eyes adjusting easily, but he did slow his pace as he considered the wording of the summons again. Not a social invitation, fine. But… it was odd. There was no strategic reason that Glorfindel should be needed here; if it was something serious, then Turgon, the king, should be informed. So why call him…?

Well. He’d soon find out.

*

‘Lord Glorfindel, there you are. Take a look and tell me what you make of this, would you?’

No friendly greeting, no ‘Hullo, Findel, old friend,’ no wink, no touch of hand on arm… but even as he assessed this, Findel was making his way to Ecthelion’s side. Together, they looked out.

Glorfindel spoke first.

‘Company?’

The stranger was closer now, so much nearer to the wall that the angle at which the archers had to hold their bows had steepened. One or two of the guards were glancing anxiously at their captain as they strained to keep the target clearly in sight.

‘Apparently so,’ Ecthelion said in an almost-laconic tone. ‘Remind you of anyone? Anything?’

‘The hair, could be mine…’

‘Don’t flatter yourself!’ A whisper, a flash of a grin that made Findel stifle a laugh as Ecthelion continued. ‘He broke free from the greensward and has been making his way towards us steadily ever since.’

The stranger was near enough now to make out features, details. His ears had the pointed tips that all elves had; his eyes seemed to shine and glow and there was something to him that reminded Findel of a long-ago, long-missed lord…

‘Tirion. He reminds me of Tirion the Fair.’ Findel gave a half-sigh, half-laugh. ‘I had thought him a Maia at first, until they explained to me that he was the City, its heart and fëa, walking amongst us.’

Ecthelion nodded. ‘I never met any of the Valinor Cities, but I remembered your descriptions of Tirion the Fair. What do you think?’

‘I think…’ Glorfindel paused, thinking. Every city had its City in Valinor, of course, the embodiment of the settlement, its soul, its streets, its people’s fëar all wrapped up and walking about through its own byways and highways. ‘If he is, then your arrows won’t kill him. But if he’s… what? Newly hatched, newborn? He could be angry, and although he may be vulnerable, he will still be dangerous. And besides, do you think it’s polite to make our first action on meeting him to shoot at him? Turgon’s standing orders be blowed, I think we need to talk to this fellow first, at least. Maybe offer him a pair of leggings before we all go cross-eyes from trying not to look…’

Behind Findel, one of the watch suppressed an anxious laugh; others took it up and a glance around showed several of the archers grinning; the tension was broken, at least.

‘Very well. Send to Stores, spare tunic and leggings…’

‘Extra-long,’ Findel said. ‘And probably extra-large, too.’

*

They argued in official, formal tones about who should take the garments.

‘This is my watch, my lord Glorfindel,’ Ecthelion pointed out. ‘It is my duty, and my responsibility, to investigate.’

‘Yet we all know that if you do so, you will be countermanding your orders, Lord Captain of the Great Gate. This is not my watch-post, and therefore while you may protest my actions, your life would not be forfeit for such disobedience. Nor would mine, since I am simply investigating, and the archers are watching with you in command of them.’

‘Yet the paths and tunnels running to the plain are many and finding the quickest way will be difficult for you; I have the knowledge to reach this… individual more swiftly.’

Suddenly Findel relaxed, grinning.

‘Oh, I know a faster way than the tunnels,’ he said, and vaulted over the parapet wall, the bundled garments tucked under one arm.

Gasps from the guard. Ecthelion shook his head, striding forward to look.

‘The Lord of the Golden Flower has not jumped to his doom, never fear,’ he admonished them. ‘Make way, there!’

Glorfindel was seated on a narrow ledge just below the wall, booted feet dangling over the void as if he cared not a jot for the danger. He glanced up and back at Ecthelion, grinning.

‘If this is our City,’ he said, ‘I’ve nothing to fear. Watch him carefully… Ai, but he looks so young! See how blue his eyes are? Bluer than mine, even!’

‘Never!' Echtelion leaned forward to whisper in Findel’s ear. 'Never was there anyone, nor will be anyone, with eyes as blue as yours, my lord of the Golden Flower!’

Glorfindel grinned, but continued. ‘…And freckles, whoever heard of an elf with freckles…?’

Lifting a hand, he waved to the probable-City.

‘Greetings, down there!’ he called out. ‘I wish to parley, may I join you?’

*

Things were happening; people were clustering, there were… things… sharp, pointy things… arrows, directed towards him. He felt the intention, the wariness, sensed the leader’s hesitation, his unwillingness to take life without need. Compassion. It was good, good that one of the first emotions he felt from his people was compassion; somehow, he felt it would form him into a compassionate city…

…but there was fear, and weariness of fear, and he could also sense that these, his people, had been afraid for a long time.

He continued on his slow progress towards the cliffs.

A new arrival, a golden, shining figure, and he felt his heart swell and reach out; this one, whoever he might be, he was precious, he was beloved, he was dear to someone… he mattered…

The golden person jumped over the wall and sat, apparently unconcerned about the drop beneath; he could feel that, sense it even as he was aware of curiosity and intelligence, warmth and friendliness. A lifted hand, a wave, a call…

He waved back, looked at the rocks of the cliff and thought of how a person might get from a ledge to the ground in safety. The rocks shifted, slurred, melted and reformed into a stepped pathway down which the friendly golden creature could descend.

A murmur from the watchers above, but the golden one was descending, unfazed by the sudden stairway’s appearance.

The new-born City waited, a stirring of impatience troubling him. But above, there were still pointed things aimed towards him; although he felt strong enough to withstand such minor things as they seemed, and the intent behind them was not malicious, it seemed right to wait here until he knew more.

So much was still unknown, just guesses at the edge of knowledge.

Finally the figure reached the lower steps, jumped down the last two.

‘Hullo! I’m Glorfindel,’ he said, smiling, and there was no doubting the warmth behind the words, the… wonderful, happy feeling… ‘Here; some clothes for you. It’s a bright day, but still a little cool and we didn’t know if you’d be like an elf, or impervious, or what. So. Welcome to Gondolin… you are our City, I take it?’

‘Gondolin. I am Gondolin.’ The new City took the garments, shook them, tried to work them out. ‘This is Gondolin?’

‘This is Tumladen the plain surrounding the city. Look, here, this… you step in, one leg in each side. Sit down, might be easier.’

Gondolin frowned, concentrating, finding out the ways of the clothes. The leg coverings tied in front, and the tunic tied at the neck, and the fabric felt strange against his skin, confining.

‘I am Gondolin. Where are my spires, my towers, my fountains? Ah, I can feel them I can… there are markets and wide squares, armouries and fine houses… it is beautiful!’

‘Well, we like it,’ the golden one said.

Gondolin turned to him, taking him in.

‘Glorfindel. Golden hair, you are beautiful. Bright blue eyes and elegant ears. Strong but not heavy with muscle. You are a fine person.’

Glorfindel laughed.

‘Well, you’re not so bad yourself, you know. Better hair than me, bluer eyes, although Ecthelion says otherwise.’

‘Ecthelion?’

The City repeated the name, taking into himself all that he could sense of the bright warrior in Glorfindel’s heart. It was like to his own emotional response to Glorfindel, and he wondered if he would feel for all his citizens as he did now, if it were a normal, usual thing.

‘Yes, Ecthelion, Lord of the Great Gate, amongst other things. You know, you could have got into awful trouble, emerging like that, if it hadn’t been him on duty today; I’ve talked to him of my City, Tirion – my first City, that is. You’re my City now. But what I mean is, there are orders… to protect the city, that’s all, but that all strangers should be… forbidden entry and… not allowed to leave.’

‘This is a riddle. How can one not leave and yet not be admitted?’

Glorfindel shrugged. ‘Orders are for the guards to shoot first and ask questions afterwards…’

‘Another riddle, Glorfindel. For how…?’ Gondolin felt the hard meaning of the phrase, the sense of regret from the glowing, beautiful elf before him, and understood. ‘They would not harm me. No ordinary weapon could harm me.’

‘Well, no. Probably not. But you’re… new. I understand that newborn Cities are more fragile than those who are established. Anyway, that doesn’t matter, what matters is that Thel – Ecthelion, knew of Tirion through me, and wondered it perhaps you were our Gondolin.’ Glorfindel smiled, but his eyes were anxious. ‘Do you mind waiting here while I tell him it’s all right? Then he’ll send for Turgon, probably, our king, and… oh, you’re probably hungry and thirsty. You wait here, and I’ll be back in a few minutes.’

‘I…’ Gondolin frowned, puzzled at how suddenly he did not want Glorfindel to leave, at how much he wanted to stay at his side. Realisation dawned. ‘I love you, beautiful Glorfindel.’

Glorfindel smiled and twisted his shoulders, as if he felt awkward.

‘I love you, too. Or I will; you’re my City. And you’ll love all of us; we’re your people. So that’s all right, then. Only it might take a little time, with some of them. It’s been a long and hard road to get here.’

*

‘So…?’ Ecthelion asked as Glorfindel vaulted over the wall and onto the watch platform.

‘If this were my command, I’d stand them down. We have ourselves a City.’ He grinned suddenly, shaking his head as he saw the blank expressions on many of the guard. ‘What that means, essentially, is that Gondolin – or Gondolin, our new city – is important enough, vital enough, that it’s become personified; that individual down there, on the Tumladen – he is our City. He will walk with us, talk with us, share our fears and hopes, support our king. He will feel our pain, and he will strengthen our walls, he will care for us and we will care for him, and we will be the stronger for that. Now, someone should take meat and drink to our City, he will be hungry and he’ll want to meet you all as soon as possible. And if I may make a suggestion, we should send to Lord Turgon and give him the joyful news.’

‘And it is a matter of joy because…?’

Glorfindel clapped Ecthelion briefly on the shoulder, his eyes shining.’

‘Because, my dear Captain of the Great Gate, Cities don’t just happen at random; this means that Gondolin is here to stay!’

Notes:

With grateful thanks and acknowledgement to thecitysmith for permission to take their wonderful idea from 'Paris Burning' and re-imagine it for Tolkien's Legendarium. As well as the stories here on AO3, many wonderful tales for this inventive and fascinating new concept can be found on tumblr.

This story is in no way connected to, or dependent on, the amazing 'Hands of stone or hands of tallow' by consumptive_sphinx and our concepts of the City are a little different. But read it, read it anyway.

[gurguliare]

do you have any thoughts about almaren and the years of the lamps?

Despite my random anti-BOLT streak a while ago I LOVE Melkor tricking Aule into building the lampposts out of ice. Aule probably thought it would save on server cooling. I also really like the silly-sounding idealized layout of Arda itself, with Almaren at the center, ringed by lake, ringed by land, ringed by sea, ringed by The Walls Of Reality, ringed by trillions of spiders, my perfect bullseye of a Tol Galen callforward.

I … I like the motif of doomed parties? I vaguely headcanon the aftermath of Tulkas and Nessa’s wedding as the moment when Sauron and a bunch of others openly defected, for I can’t remember what timeline reasons besides that I wanted to reference both events in my Finrod/Andreth fic and thought the combination would be funny.

The wiki page reminds me that 1) the Valar decided not to do any further world-renovations post-lamp because the Time Of Sentients approached and they were afraid of fucking things up for the babies and 2) Cuivienen was formed by the fall of one of the lamps, which paired to the first point is the most classique Eru passive-aggression.