#the silmarillion fanfic

[searchingforserendipity25]

Daeron/Maglor "...because the world is ending"? 😚

Hi @polutrope <3 This one one has been living in my docs as Daemags date night (the night to end all nights) for a month. Here it is at last!

The Night to End All Nights

Daeron had been deep into the roadless deserts, when Arien fell - her last blazing sunset had lit the dunes with dreadful beauty, rose sand purples and a red redder than red.

Then, the quiet. Handfuls of stars, snuffed out one after another.

He made his way onwards. Once, the land had not been desert; once, there had been paths of cobblestones paved with sound craft, and there had been chariots, carriages, riders and companies making their ways from glorious cities whose names were lost in the dust, removed from the world entirely, if not for Daeron's memory.

Daeron lived much in memory, now. There the dry well, there the empty streets of the empty city. Here, a deep-rooted peach tree had grown, where only a gray husk remained - he had gathered wild fruits from its generous boughs, shared them with an old enemy in the shelter of its shade, licked the juices from his fingertips and wrist and mouth until he shook as finely as the green leaves in the summer breeze.

Wherever he passed the land groaned with its own undoing.

Beleriand had been thus ruined, in its moribund years; but this was a ravaging wasting sickness, not a wound upon Arda to be solved with the amputation of one continent or another. Above and around and in all places a hundred, a thousand birds flew madly, till they dropped exhausted upon the last grass of the last spring.

The matter of the sky splintered and rained down great boulders of iron that shook and shattered the earth, smoldering with a fell fire, all the hard stone of the mountain ranges shaking and shaking like a single fevered body, bound up in strange resonances of power. One fell near enough to him that the raised dust clung to his lungs and fouled his throat for a time: and then Daeron grew afraid, for a time, shaken from the clear, beautiful rage against Morgoth into fright.

The cough passed, slowly.

The very air grew colder, made cruel without the sun. The waters grew wilder, without the moon; and all creatures grew despairing and violent, in the absence of starlight.

Still: Daeron went onwards. There was a great epilogue to judge - he was not a light-hearted critic, but he did intend to be there at the end, and at the start as well.

And he had an appointment to keep. They had agreed on this, a long time ago, and Daeron for his part was determined to cross crevasses as needed not to be the faithless one.

He had not thought Maglor would fail to be there. Not truly, in any case - not this time.

The land leaned towards the gaping of the world, its old longing for water calling out so starkly it was almost a song. This place had been full of life, once: a lake with many small islands, many new-made voices raised in song rippling the waters.

All the little water that remained reflected only darkness above, darkness around. Not enough remained of the waters of Cuiviénen to be drunk. Daeron’s torch lit it like the flare of a false moon, fading as passed it by.

It was quite beautiful, in its way. All things were unraveling to Song at last: the last fields of grass clinging to the cliff-side called out a rustling wind-song even as they turned to ash, glorious a rush of Music with the memory of the seed’s patience in winter and the growing rush of spring turning to the conflagration of summer.

Daeron closed his eyes. Did he weep, at the beauty of it? He could not sing. It was not time, yet; his voice curled thick and urgent in his aching throat, waiting.

They met at the very edge of the shoreline, where the whitewater rush of the shattered Encircling Sea broke into the gaping maw of the Void. The fall was very steep, the precipice very high, taller than any tower ever wrought. The sound of the water was an unnerving, slithering quiet, for it fell through fogs and mists; and the fall had no end.

A single raised light flickered, there where crumbling stone and air met, but the burned hand that held it up did not flinch from the licking slants of wind-swept fire.

“You are late,” Maglor said, chin raised. His voice, too, was less splendid than it might have been. Certainly less proud. Daeron’s heart turned in his chest, treacherously fond. “And I see you have not even brought any wine, either.”

“It was your turn to bring the wine,” Daeron pointed out. His words rasped in his throat a little, at the start. “I brought it last time."

"Forgive me! If it is any consolation," Maglor said. "I crossed the lands where the marketplace where those sweet bean pastries you loved once stood. Alas! Nought but ruins remain. There, here, everywhere! I had half a mind to start without you."

"That is well enough," Daeron said. He felt a little drunk already, dizzy with terror and Maglor's proximity.

His face caught the torch light, his eyes very bright. Maglor smiled at him. It was an effort - he could see the ancient grief moving in his face, a depth like the strata of the earth being pressed away to make room for it.

They had met on appointed dates two dozen times altogether. By the white piers of Belfalas or the moors of Arnor, sharing the same flask under the vibrant stars of Rhûn’s fields. Brushing knuckles; pressing their mouth’s where a touch had been, in the indulgent absurdity of second-hand lovemaking between two ancient creatures.

They had met. Not many times, but often enough; and always at the parting, regardless of how sweet or how bitter it might be, there was the renewed promise. We shall meet at the end! Even when it had been said in contempt and fury, and the end of the world not long enough to suit the day’s rage.

It passed, the anger. When one lived as long as they did, it grew very difficult to cleave to anything for very long. Grief was a habit, and singing duty and care and craft; all the rest passed and thinned as mist in the sun. Until they met again - until they met each other, and all colours grew bright, the winds colder, the summers gentler.

Daeron waved it away, lightly, light-hearted. O, he felt mad, trapped against the great maw of the black night - but a strange thing very like a laugh trembled on his throat.

"I know I shall! That is not my concern. I knew you would not start without me,” Daeron said. "I could not doubt it. And yet I am glad that I was late; I could not know how much of gladness remained, before I saw your light in the dark, waiting."

“Then I am glad," Maglor said, and the salt that clung to his hair prickled Daeron's nose when he neared. "Though it was a cold wait, and the journey colder still. You give me too much credit. For once! But I could not tarry. There was nowhere else to walk to, nor any other place I could wish to be."

“It is quite beautiful,” Daeron said, looking upon the cliffside. His eyes strained to see the scant starlight reflecting on the distant spray, silvering the night for brief instants. “In its way.”

“The sea was more beautiful,” Maglor said. "Its white sands and silver pebbles gleaming, and the black basalt sand of the Western islands. Gone, all gone! Now we are islanders only, the Encircling Sea the only sea; and its waters fall beyond reaching. I miss the sea-that-was, though it never did thank me for my company."

The mountains were gone. The fallow fields, and the valleys with their crumbling walls left abandoned in long lost days - the great cities of Men, one empire after another devoured by a greater and most ancient greed.

They had seen many kingdoms rise and fall together, over time; but there had been a constancy in that, not this absence of voices and wills, this death-bound silence.

It had not been often that they had wandered together for long. That was a thing neither of them could withstand easily - not they, minstrels to the dead, whose last elegiac duties were not suited to company. Their paths diverged, coming apart to come together again, and there had been joy too with every bitter parting. But they had agreed on this, under the light of the stars, Ages ago. Cuiviénen, at the end of all things - this much, at least, when the time came, at the end.

Daeron laid a hand on his cheek, and felt the warmth of it with a dizzying desire. So it would be this, then, he thought. The last touch; the last kiss, soft as a balm, a vertiginous fall into an embrace from a height no lesser than the sundered face of the breaking world. Daeron held him close with fierce hands, chased the stains of bitter soot on Maglor’s heeks with his mouth, tangled his fingers in braidless curls as dark as the night.

The last, the last! His eyes stung. Daeron was greedy, at the last, covetous with love as had ever been his vice, slow to relinquish. Love renewed all things, even grief; though the grief of Arda's fall had seeped into him into a killing drought, and no more tears remained in him to be shed.

The Music murmured its own last notes, a soundless song of mingled joy and despair.

More despair, at the end, and Daeron had feared, feared, feared it tremendous, more than the Starkinder's defeat or the death of all fruiting trees. Wandering alone in the lightless dark, voice failing and nothing listening, he had thought on the Theme and feared there would not be enough of joy, in the end - had judged his purpose beyond himself, all of Melian's careful and wise tutelage wasted and worn through.

So it had been, in solitude.

"Sweet Daeron. Forgive me,” Maglor said once more, sighing against his neck. His solid warmth was no greater than the flame's, wavering much as Daeron wavered on his feet. "I bring no gifts, and my might is diminished. The melody is yours, if you like. It is not wine, but it might suit your tastes as well, or better."

"It shall be," Daeron said. He knew it as he spoke, and almost laughed for how clear it was to him; he gripped Maglor's hand tightly. "But not mine alone, I judge; for are we not both singers of laments? One last paeon, then: and let not all things that were good and great and terrible fall unremembered, while there is breath with which to sing them."

Above them and around them the last stars went pale, and weary, and dead. The two torches flared, faded, lost the last of their fire.

Then, the quiet. Daeron stepped back. Raised a hand, to mark the time.

It was very easy, after all, to sing together at the end of all things: easy as summer, even in the dark.

[flameunquenched]

wrote a little sauron ficlet mostly to try to get him to pipe down in my head so that i could write LITERALLY ANY OTHER CHARACTER. it failed. so i threw it at @silmarillisms as a present. then she made me post it on ao3. so i did.

there's some angbang if you squint. like a lot. like a whole lot.

[ylieke]

"And Melkor entered his realm. And the Dark bowed before its Lord, and came apart in the light of Silmarilli. The creatures of the night prostrated themselves on the ground in hopes that they would be spared and his heavy gaze wouldn’t fall on them. Sauron bowed low, pinned down by the terror that like a cape was draped over the Fallen Vala. He relinquished all the power he held in his absence and laid it for him, as a servant must." An illistraion for the "Play with fire" fanfic by @eternal-fear

[amethysttribble]

Father had personally asked Feanor to stand for this portrait, so he was. Father had quietly suggested that perhaps this could be a painless exercise, which did not actually mean ‘painless’ but rather ‘silent’ for Feanor, but he agreed. Father told him this painting did not symbolize anything but his own desire to have a record of all his available loved ones around him, and Feanor was trying to see it that way- for the sake of his own sanity.

Because his stomach was roiling, and there was a heaviness in his chest, a great emptiness which his heart was pounding against, echoing, echoing, echoing.

Father had one hand on Feanor’s shoulder and the other was upon Indis’s. She was sat in front of them, smiling beautifully, little golden-haired Arafinwe in her lap. Around them, her three dark-haired children were gathered. Findis on Father’s other side, Nolofinwe with her, and Lalwen in front of Feanor.

To the unaware eye, Feanor knew, they must all look like they matched. Like they went together correctly. Like a family.

When the portrait was complete and those dark haired children were gathered around the mother and father, who would guess that one child was out of place? Who might glance at all that paint representing their faces and think anything but-

You could almost be her son, Feanor thought, and then his mind replied, But you’re not.

He was so still and he dared not move, because if he did, he’d never get back in place. If Feanor flinched once, the sharp, jagged pieces of him that never fit right in this puzzle would scratch one of them. They’d be annoyed and that would be it: he’d combust in anger, he’d shatter across the floor, snapping and snarling at everyone unnecessarily until he ruined their perfect little scene. Father said this might be a painless exercise. No, no; this was to be a silent, still exercise.

You could almost be her son. But you’re not.

How good a painter was this person Father hired? How varied his faces? Would he capture that Feanor’s nose resembled that of none of the people here? Could he represent that his frame was already different from his father and little half-brother’s?

Would he lie and throw a pleased smile on Feanor’s face? Not even Father had asked him to smile.

You could almost be her son. But you’re not.

Feanor’s presence made them fit together so symmetrically, maybe that was pleasing enough to hide the wrongness of this scene. Maybe that’s why Father made him come here today, the pretty scene. Why he asked him to suffer, even as the longer he stood here, the more and more Feanor felt like he was about to be sick all over the floor.

A ghost, a ghost, there was a ghost looming over their shoulders ruining this perfectly symmetrical scene. Couldn’t they feel her breathing down their necks, icy chill against sweat? Didn’t their perfectly posed heads feel her long, clever fingers wrapped lovingly around their necks?

You could almost be her son. But you’re not.

Feanor’s gaze slipped down to the back of Indis’s head. Her beautiful golden hair. She didn’t wear a crown, this was a family portrait, and that felt worse. So much worse.

If he let his eyes unfocus and his mind wander, he could try to lie to himself that her hair was much lighter and the faces of the children around them more closely resembled his own. The woman in front of him loved him, and she fussed over his hair before they sat for this portrait, and he’d let her do it.

The worst part was Feanor did know that Indis would help him with the ties of his robes, if only he let her.

You could almost be her son. But you’re not.

She’s not, she’s not, she’s not. It was a simple statement of fact. It was scandal enough that the father replaced the wife, when one at least chose a wife, but what freak replaced his own mother?

What would the people who saw this portrait think? Would they see Finwe’s happy family or would they see Feanor’s blaring, uncomfortable intrusion upon what gods and men declared to be a better order of things? Father wanted him to belong here, but he didn’t.

He just didn’t.

You could almost be her son. But you’re not.

A painless exercise. Painless, painless, painless, for them. Silent, still Feanor, a happy accessory to the triumphant union of Finwe and Indis, a grateful stray dog permitted to drink from the bowls provided by Indis’s family.

This exercise was just meant to capture the image of all Finwe loved, nothing more. Don’t think too hard about it, Feanor. You might make the children unhappy.

You could almost be her son. But you’re not.

You should pretend you are, though. That’ll make them like you.

Because they did so disdain him, most of the time. They disliked how he glared at their mother and started fights at family dinners and ignored them in the hallways. Why shouldn’t they? Feanor would hate a person who did those things to his family, too.

He just couldn’t stop, though. He wanted to, sometimes, when the exhaustion and loneliness caught up, and then he remembered that he wasn’t Indis’s son and never would be, and remembering that made him angry. Wouldn’t it just be so damn convenient for them all if he was almost her son?

But he wasn’t.

He was Miriel’s son. That was her name. He had no portrait with her. He loved her.

He loved Miriel, but it was Indis he posed with and-

When the session was done, Feanor jerked away from his father and shoved his way past Lalwen. As he went, Indis looked up at him, caught his eye, and he couldn’t help the sneer that crossed his face.

He hoped that was painless enough for her.

When he returned to his chamber, he went to the wash room and heaved in the pot there. The gagging and retching made wetness prick his eyes, and the sudden tightness of throat made him choke all the harder. The sickness and heaving stayed long past when there was anything in his stomach to lose.

No one came. Feanor hoped maybe Father would, but really, why would he? Feanor had been mostly good, just a little rudeness wasn’t worth either reprimand or comfort.

No, they were together. Maybe admiring their portrait, happy and pleased, or complaining about his behavior again. Really, why couldnt that Curufinwe just accept nice things?

I need to get out of here, Feanor thought, face and body wet with both sweat and tears. I need to leave this place.

He was a good son, and he could do anything else his father wanted but betray his mother any more.

Feanor couldn’t pose as Indis’s son even a second longer. He would destroy himself, if he had to think one more time-

You could almost be her son. But you’re not.

[sotwk]

I'm making this my personal thing for all of March, to celebrate "Tolkien Reading Day". Please feel free to make it yours too.

Nothing formal or fancy. No invitation or registration required. No requirements or deadlines.

Simply gorge yourself on some Tolkien fanfic all throughout March. And COMMENT. For the love of Tolkien, please show our hardworking fandom writers some love and appreciation.

[victorie552]

Ok, so Noldolantë, "The Fall of the Noldor" is a lament composed by Maglor about what happened before, during and after First Kinslaying at Alqualondë. It's such a good song that it's played regularly in Aman and Valar listen to it often (I swear, I swear it was in the Silmarillion I just can't find it now).

It's also a more or less common fanon that Maglor continues writing Noldolante through the whole First Age. Makes sense - it's about fall of the Noldor, and Noldor did a lot of falling back then.

Headcannon time: So my first thought was that Noldolante must a long, long, long epic of a song. So it probably has many parts, right? Iliad has 24 books/parts, somehow I think Noldolante would be at least just as long, and there are longer epics. And again, just like Iliad, unless you're a scholar, in the daily life you don't really listen to/read the whole thing, just reread and repeat the most dramatic fragments. What I'm trying to impress upon you all is that the story would have different segments, or chapters, if you will.

And if Maglor continues to write the story during the FA, there would absolutely be a moment in the lament where the OG Noldolante becomes Noldolante 2, and even Noldolante 3. There may be the same musical motif or something, I decided that Maglor IS that good of a bard to keep it all consistent enough so you know it's all the same story, but the style changes a lot - it's been 400 years in the making, let The Music Elf have fun!

So, Point 1: Many, Many Parts, basically Maglor's FA WIP

My second thought was that, while Feanor invented his alphabet, elves learned their history mostly through oral tradition aka songs and spoken stories. Noldolante is definitely a historical record, where a historical event was archived for future generations.

(It was a also a way to deal with grief, guilt and blame Maglor and all Noldor have faced regarding First Kinslaying - free therapy! But that's not what this post is about)

Archived.

My 2.5 thought was that Noldolante isn't just recallings of how pretty and horrified the beach looked during the murdering or how mad and sorrowful the sea was at everyone during the voyage or even how awesome and charismatic Feanor looked during his speeches that every single Noldo was ready to fight Morgoth barehanded in his name - no, this is a record of who killed who, who got killed by whom, and how.

Noldor and Teleri knew each other (were friends, even!) before the First Kinslaying, so I'm confident that after a lot of interviews, detective work, and cross-referencing, Maglor could and would create a very good... name list. Practically every Noldo and Teler present during First Kinslaying would get a stanza in a song, more if he killed someone, most if he killed many people. Killers and killed would show up twice, first in a fragment listing the killers and their victims, then in a part listing the victims and their murderers. Basically it's the same thing twice, but from different POVs. With when, where and how included.

(It was seen to be in bad taste to compare kills during Maglor's Regency, when most of his interview-part work happened. People did it anyway. There were a Saddest Kill, Funniest Kill, and Weirdest Kill discusions. There was a Tier List. These were weird times to be a Feanorian Noldo.)

(It WAS in Bad Taste, but at least people talked about it. I cannot stress enough how much free therapy this lament provided)

(Little did they know, when Teleri started getting reembodied in Aman, they had very similar discussions, but more in a "I can't believe he killed me like THAT" way. Long, long, long after the First Age. Noldolante is a gift that keeps giving)

So, Maglor had all the historical grith and no common shame to create a "We Killed All These People And We Feel Bad About It" banger of a song, and every Noldo had a very personal reason to at least remember the fragments they are in. It's a hit on a scale never seen before.

(I'm not sure how to tackle the issue of Nolofinweans and Arafinweans learning about Noldolante after crossing the Ice. But there were discussions. There was anger, there was "????", there was controversy. Basically, the song got bigger and bigger rep no matter what your opinion on it was. By the time of Mereth Aderthad it was an important cultural and political piece and at least Fingon's forces were included in the main song. It had parodies.)

Point 2: Archive Function/Kill count storage. Cultural phenomen, every Noldo included

This is where my personal nonsense begins: Main Noldolante was done, there was nothing more to say about First Kinslaying, all killings and deaths were well documented.

But the Siege started. And the Noldor kept dying.

It was less dramatic than it sounded - between the big battles the siege was maintained, but orc raids also happened and sometimes one to few Noldor died in skirmishes. The legal procedure was to document the death of a fellow elf and send a word to king Fingolfin. The cultural procedure, technically started by Feranorians but adapted by many more, was to send the name, common characteristics and cause of death to Maglor's Gap. After few months, King Fingolfin would send reinforcements, short condolences and financial compensation if they had family. After few months, family of an elf would also receive a personal lament for them and a place for them in a Noldolante.

Yes, every lament Maglor created in that time was technically part of the Noldolante. Noldolante 1.5, if you will. Laments make in that time were very customized, and simpler than Noldolante Main, but were still considered a part of the same song. Of course, nobody was expected to know and remember laments for every single Noldo, younger Noldor born in Beleriand could even only know fragments about their family members. Only Maglor would ever know Noldolante in full, but it was understood that everyone had their place in The Song.

The results of Great Battles were harder to document, but Maglor did that. Of course, Dagor Bragollach was hard on him personally, but he worked his way through.

(High King Fingon forbade creating laments for his father. There were no songs for Fingolfin. Apart from in Noldolante, of course. Of course. Maglor did not share the lament with anyone, but he sat long hours and many nights with a blank paper before him, looking at the candle flame and thinking of the past and the future. The song unsung, but there)

Nirnaeth was... Maglor was never more hated and more approached at the same time than then. Still, Noldolante grew and grew, as if people knew the end was near.

It was Second Kinslaying that destroyed the myth of Maglor's song. Feanorians didn't know the Sindar they killed, but surely, they couldn't just left their names unmentioned like they did with orcs? So, Noldor talked, but the battle happened in caves - it wasn't uncommon to find dead bodies in empty rooms, with no witnesses to what happened. Surviving Sindar didn't want to share any names, even when Maglor strong-armed some into talking with him, and good for them. Maglor made a big lament anyway. Maglor, wild, with no shame and dead brothers, with legacy crumbling around him. Noldolante, with holes.

After Third Kinslaying, Noldor didn't want to talk. Lament for Sirion didn't have any names. Clearly, songs weren't a way to go anymore, it was always about live witnesses. And so Maglor raised the twins.

Lament for Maedhros was sung repeatedly. There was no one to hear it.

Point 3: Only Maglor knows Noldolante in full. But that doesn't matter, because everyone knows the important part: the Noldolante is finished. The Star of Hope rises in the West and the story goes on. The Fall has ended.

[inspectorangie]

Nothing can come close to the power trip i get when i finish a very respectable classic and realize i can use the power of the internet to read the most UNHINGED fanfiction about it. You can't do anything about it, dead writer. You're POWERLESS, morally upstanding literature enjoyer that is scared of gay people or eroticism or smth. The world is at my fingertips and now the lovely lovely civilized christian characters are GOING TO HAVE PREMARITAL SE-

[mysandwichranaway]

my second piece for this year's fandom trumps hate!!!! i illustrated a piece from chestnut_pod's fic rules make bad lovers. Go read it!!!

[doodle-pops]

Kiss It Better

Elrond x reader

Kinktober 2023: Aphrodisiacs

Warnings: fem!reader, aphrodisiac, rough sex, marathon sex, manhandling, semi-public sex, Elrond being a tease

Words: 4.3k

Synopsis: When Elrond mistakenly adds aphrodisiacs to your sleep–inducing tea, your quest for a peaceful night’s rest takes an unexpected turn. Elrond, being understanding and patient, comes to your aid, ensuring you find the sleep you were looking for through rare methods.

List of Requests

“Oh dear!” Staring at the empty contents of the supposed bottle of wormwood powder and then lifting the actually clear glass of wormwood, Elrond’s tongue kissed his teeth at the accident he caused. A first–time mishap and on a grand scale, he was sure how the effects of the mistakenly emptied contents of what should have been wormwood, but accidentally giving lavender in a copious amount, would have. You were sitting impatiently, twirling around on his stool, complaining about feeling overly feverish and sensitive. To make matters better, it was approximately eight minutes since you drank the concoction he stirred up a storm to create.

There wasn’t much the healer could do aside from staring at the bottle, defeated before silently placing the empty jar onto the shelf and stepping away with concern in his eyes. Those brown eyes darted everywhere else to inspect for any other mistaken bottles of herbs and powders he may have accidentally mixed into the tea for your lethargy. His hands moved at the same rate his eyes followed, falling on every surface of empty bottles and out–of–place containers. Even the opened books were not spared from his investigation, should he have unknowingly flipped to the wrong page, he might as well consider.

“This,” he sighed as he reached for another jar he was sure of using, this time labelled incorrectly once he smelt the contents within and became aware of it being another floral powder, “will get me into trouble once the higher effects begin to kick in. Though, it should have begun…” His eyes trailed off the half–filled jar to rush towards the page where the instructions lay before him. For a second, just a second, Elrond was almost certain that the universe was playing tricks on his brain as he decoded the measurements written on the page.

Two teaspoons

One teaspoon

Two and half teaspoon

One tablespoon…

“Lord Elrond…” Your voice echoed annoyingly from the outer room as your temperature began to increase and the sensation of having clothes covering your body became irritating. You were confused about the effects of what his homey remedy for lethargy was giving off, far different from the usual teas you consumed within the past year. Now, fanning your face and neck while giving aggravated tugs to your dress, you whined to him once more. “Lord Elrond, please, what is happening?”

With a pregnant pause, his head cocked to the side and his ear flicked at the change in your tone, you were already under the fire. Deciding that it was wiser to keep the truth about his mistake under the radar, Elrond whisked himself out of the storeroom and into his office where he came across you dabbing a cloth dipped in the bowl of cooling waters along your neck. Regardless, the action appeared more provocative than intended as you ran the material along your elongated neck and parted your lips to release a long, quiet groan. Your ability to distinguish decorum with the flames building intensely within was absentminded. There was no time to stop and become self–aware of the performance you were putting on due to his slip–up.

Elrond on the other hand was unsure if to continue standing silently in the doorway and observe how far your actions would take you or snap you out of it and treat the issue. Shifting on his feet and taking a deep gulp as you wrung the cloth and allowed droplets of water to fall against your skin to provide coolness, your eyes opened and caught him staring with a jar in hand and his eyes honed on your confrontational display. “Lord Elrond,” you called out nonchalantly as though you were not lacking decorum, “what is happening to me? I thought you gave me a tea for my tiredness?”

Scepticism flooded his expression as he attempted to avoid your gaze, solely due to the siren look you threw and the disappointment of informing you of his blunder as a healer. Walking into the room, he stepped around the opposite side of the table and away from you to place the bottle of lavender at the centre. His palms were faced down and his head hung with his lips twisting, thinking of every possible solution and answer to return. “It…It would appear that—”

No, he couldn’t say that.

Cautiously rounding the table while his fingers trailed along the edge, he turned his focus to you as he approached you from your side and came to stand beside you. Wordlessly, he gingerly pried the cloth out your fingers, careful not to touch your skin and dabbed it across your forehead, making notes of your slight shivering and increased arousal. This was the bare minimal interaction with a cloth hindering skin–to–skin contact and you were already affected. Swiftly dipping the cloth into the bowl of cool water, he continued to dab at your forehead and the rest of your face, doing his best to avoid your neck to entice any behaviour.

His lips were pursed as he remained steadfast on applying the first step into solving your crisis, brown eyes following the motion of his hands until you began sighing too frequently. His eyes fell upon the bob of your throat and the parting of your lips the moment you shut your eyes to focus on the lingering sensation of his touch. It was then he decided it was a wrong idea to become close and personal to treat you.

“This is clearly a terrible idea,” he muttered, taking a step backwards and pondering on how to properly assess you.

“Elrond, forgive me, Lord Elrond,” you corrected and hopped off the stand to step forward, crossing the gap in three strides, “please just tell me what is happening and why does my body feel this…way.” At the end of your words, you began twitching, majorly at the junction where your thighs met your pelvis. The growing ache between your legs provoked you to squeeze your thighs together and shift from left to right.

Worry befell his eyes, and he bit the inside of his mouth at the progress of actions. “Alright, you need to sit and remain still, and refrain from touching me,” he ordered, frustratingly.

“Touching you?” You frowned and took three steps backwards to meet the stool.

Building a storm within the clustered spacing of his office, Elrond rapidly answered as he reached for a clean mortar and pestle, “Yes, no touching me because you might get the urge to do something like that to sedate the pain.” Having placed the instruments on the table not too far away, he placed his hands on his hips and turned to cast a worrisome look. “I made the wrong tea due to…mislabelling. I picked up the incorrect ingredients and gave you aphrodisiacs in extremely large doses.” His voice had shrunk at the end of his confession knowing fully well that you would blow a fuse.

“What?!” you shrieked. “Elrond, are you serious? I’m trying to gain hours sleeping, not sleeping around.”

He couldn’t help but find your statement to be entirely humorous as it slipped out and released a muted chuckle, hidden by the dipping of his head. “I apologise, the fault is entirely my own,” he clarified with a clearing of his throat. “However, if you can only sit still and allow me to cure it, you’ll soon be on your way to sleep.”

“And exactly how are you planning on curing this? Because to my unfortunate knowledge, somebody gave me aphrodisiacs in large quantities and claimed it was a new sleeping tea. Perhaps it wasn’t an accident and done on purpose. No wonder why I felt odd the minute I drank it,” you muttered with apprehension and cast a side eye at him. To blame Elrond was entirely not you and only the herbs taking its toll on your frustration. All in the act of attempting to have its purpose served.

Unaware of this being an effect, conversely, Elrond grew tired of your antics and snapped with fury in his voice, laced with weariness and concernment. “And I believe you have a way of solving this problem with all your complaining?” he challenged and slammed the mortar upon the table. “You seem to doubt my ability to remove the issue.”

“Of course, I do, especially when you appear as equally as weary as myself, I have every right to question your capabilities as a healer!” you reacted, shooting from your seat and standing beside him, shoulder to shoulder. “If you were the healer you claimed to be then I would not be in this situation—”

“Your pupils have dilated tremendously,” he whispered, causing his warm breath to fan your face prompting you to lean in closer unconsciously.

“So what?” you replied.

“And your pulse is becoming erratic,” he added, becoming aware of the proximity of your body.

“Let it—I don’t mind if it goes a bit high when I’m around you.” Fingers crawling up his arm, you kept eye contact with his gorgeous brown eyes and inched yourself closer until you wedged yourself in the gap between him and the table. Bodies pressing against each other, driving you insane, you reached out to hold him closer in an attempt to step away. Albeit, he wasn’t attempting to distance himself from your close–body figure, pressing against him.

“You’re thinking too much, Elrond,” your voice seduced while your finger reached his chin to tug it forward, mending the gap. “Just admit this was all a part of your plan and you desired me as much as I do. Just imagine,” you began, standing on your toes and placing your lips beside his ear, “how good it would feel to release all your tension in me. When was the last time you had a good time?”

“Y/N, think about this carefully,” he cautioned lowly, body shuddering when your lips kissed his earlobe and knowing that sense had disappeared the minute you consumed the tea. It was only a futile and last–resort attempt.

“Picture it Elrond,” you taunted and took his hand to wrap around your waist. “Us naked and entangled while you satisfy both our needs. Just think of how good you’ll fuck me.”

You proved the power and potency of the herbs and flowers was displayed by the rush of his arms instantly knocking all the parchment and instruments off in haste and hoisting you on the table. Tugging at your leggings and knickers until they were flung across the room, your bare legs met the cold air and his fingers. You trembled under his touch, your chest heaving and sweat building as the erraticism of your pulse escalated immensely, you cried out for him to get on with the show and stop teasing. You wanted to feel his body against yours without clothes hindering the sensation.

Reaching your hands out, they haphazardly yanked at his apparel and flung each piece across the room without care and concern. Your fingers desired the need to touch his skin and have the warmth of it pressing against yours to cool the raging fire crawling like molten lava across your skin. Inch by inch it sluggishly trailed, engulfing your entire body into flames while he stood there leaving you to take care of the matter on your own. The cruelty behind his reclusive actions, palms against the tabletop and standing between your legs while he breathed in your air and left you to undress him and then yourself increased the ache between your legs. Whining his name and frowning at him for provocation failed, for all he did was stand there with his brown eyes locked upon your pouting expression.

“You want me to assist you, don’t you?” he lowly chuckled, turning on the heat. “In fact, you need me to assist you.”

“Elrond, please don’t tease me any longer,” you wailed, tugging on the neckline of his shirt to bring his lips a little closer to meet yours, only to have him pull away at the last minute. “Just…Just fix it!”

“And here I thought you said I was incapable of such,” he corrected as his right hand slid up your back to meet the laces and give the bow a tug, unravelling it. With his thumb and forefinger gripping the end of the lace, he continued to unravel it until the bow was undone, leaving the rest of the intricate lacing to loosen. Straightening his posture and left standing in his leggings and shirt, he pulled you upright to unravel the tightness of the lacing and loosen the upper portion of your dress to allow his skilful fingers to peel it off artfully slowly.

The entire time, your hands were frozen on the buttons of his shirt and your eyes focused on the sleeves of your dress being tugged down your arm until they were caught at your elbow. The palpations of your chest could be heard and figured out by Elrond through the flustered expression you cast and the build–up of perspiration. The stickiness coating your skin, Elrond’s fingers swiped against it as he tugged at the front of the dress, prying your cleavage out from the confinements and into the open for his eyes to feast upon.

“Why aren’t you saying anything?” he quizzed once most of the upper portion had been removed and took a step back, prying your fingers off the buttons to finish the removal of his clothes. “Is it because you need my care and touch desperately?”

His hands rubbed circles into your hipbone, provoking more sounds to fall from your lips. He wanted to witness how putty you would easily become for his remedy after all the smart–mouthing you were capable of relaying. To witness the hooded, lazily look in your eyes which morphed into want and the parting of your lips to moisten it as his body rocked into yours, enticed him to take the remaining steps to completion.

Towering above you flushed and semi–nude, both hands ran up your legs, over every curve and bump, pushing your dress until it bunched around your waist. Measuring the gap between you, he stepped closer to fill it, also yanking your body closer till it was flushed against his chest. The ripples of goosebumps once your breasts were squeezing on his chest, nipples hardened and rubbing deliciously upon the smoothness of your Lord’s skin, shot across your ignited body. Little whimpers and sighs were emitted at the action of your bodies firmly pressed without any space in between to disturb the tension being created.

Gathering the energy to reach for the rest of your sleeves and tugging it off completely, now your dress pooled perfectly around your waist, he slipped his hands under your thighs and brought them to encircle his waist. The yelp you emitted was swallowed up by his lips colliding with yours and wasting no time in giving you the chance to adjust. Elrond pried your lips apart with his tongue and went to work fervently to savour the sweet taste of your kiss. His groans, at first, were inaudible. Being devoured by your lips as you made attempts at eating his lips or rather his face—your fingers were clawing into his nape and back, pushing him deeper into your body as though you wanted him to morph into you.

For every bite of your lip, your fingers tightened at his nape and gave small tugs to his hair, and for every swipe of his tongue against yours, you dug your nails into his back to leave your signature. The kiss was unlike any other you had experienced, perhaps with the mixture of him being your Lord and you his assistant, the thrill was heightened led to his touch being voracious.

Conversely, Elrond was a master in his art and possessed infinite levels of control unlike you in this situation at a time like this. Breaking the kiss much to your disappointment, his lips remained a few centimetres apart. “Are you going to give me an answer?”

Your body jerked in his hold as his question left you furious at the leisurely time he was taking to fix the issue. The blood under your skin was boiling causing the fingers gnawing at his neck and back to force him into hurrying up. “Would you quit it and just fuck me already? Put the heat out and just make me feel good!” you wailed.

For the first time in years, Elrond felt rejuvenated at the game he played with you. It wasn’t something he was ever fond of, always preferring to make the moment romantic and full of adoration and love, but today sparked a newfound delight. All the while you were yapping and running your mouth, being demanding and obnoxious, the hands that once held your thighs already slipped between your bodies to unsheathe his cock from his leggings and guide it towards your opening. He was thrilled your attention was focused on getting him to comply that you were oblivious to your wish being fulfilled.

“Is this what you wanted me to give you?” With his body at present pressed against yours, there was no room for your eyes to witness the motion of his cock approaching your cunt, only to feel the breaching with an eye roll and heave. Thankfully your hands flopped off his back to brace your body upright on your forearms, you were given the most precious sight of his cock sliding in and out, already covered in a sheet of your arousal. The only thing left for him to do was to pick up the pace.  

“You want me to give you pleasure?” he goaded. “But you told me I lacked the capabilities.”

A mischievous grin was set upon his face as the rocking of his hips remained steady and at a snail’s pace. No amount of gripping his hips or pressing the heels of your ankles into his back would increase his speed; not until you gave him an answer.

“Please, please, please. J–…Just give it to me Elrond…” crying out with a solid flop against the table, as much as your body was being stimulated, it wasn’t at the rate required to soothe the ache. “I just want your cock…”

As desperate and pitiful as it sounded, it was pleasant to his ears somehow and fuelled the course of his actions. Leaning his body lower, his hips maintained their rhythmic pattern, leaving behind the soft pitta–patter of his ball being soaked by your drenched cunt. It made his eyes widen the realisation of the desire you contained to be relieved and how much he gave you to consume. Pleased in ways unimaginable, his left hand cupped your face for his thumb to run over your lips before feeling your lips wrapping around the tip and your tongue swirling around it. Eyes widening, yet kept holding his finger, they were fixated on the motion of your lips.

Hissing, his lips formed a smirk at the inability of you to give a response before barrelling away. With his right hand occupied on your waist, he used it to guide your hips to meet the increased tempo of his thrust, awakening the temptress within you. Provocative moans from the depths of your soul escaped your lips and left him more aroused from the start. Even through the action of your sweet lips sucking on his finger, he could precisely and clearly hear each syllable of your melody the more he drove his cock into you.

He couldn’t believe how right you were about the last time he gave himself away so freely to the highs of ecstasy. Your words replayed in his head about releasing all his tension while curing your problem; considering it beneficial when he was problem solving both your issues in one shot—a good remedy.

Letting himself loose, Elrond flung his head backwards to join you in harmony as moans fell from his lips. The tightness of your cunt, a feeling he missed and enjoyed, wrapping around him suffocatingly without a moment of reprieve spiralled him into ecstasy. Your snuggly held him in possession, considering him yours with every stroke he delivered, kissing your sweet spot like no tomorrow and leaving behind stains of his precum to quench the flames. The rigidness and robustness of his cock, the perfect weight resting within your walls were accepted with familiarity. Allowing you to remodel and mould your insides to suit the shape of what he desired. A place where he could return for release and satisfaction.

With the first wave of your fire cooling from sinister rolls of his hips, loudly slapping against the inner of your thighs, you sighed in euphoria. This was the relief your body craved all these months, not sleep. The sensation of being twisted into different positions, from lying on your back to being placed on your side with your leg over his shoulder, a different type of workout that proved to be the best form of lethargy. There wasn’t a position your legs were being tossed into the deeper he drove his cock to have it touch placed unheard of. When they were considered myths, your Lord Elrond proved them false with the wicked flex of his hips to bury himself in the depths of your core, emptying the first release of tension before pummelling again.

There was no stopping when you were now being placed on your stomach, your right foot planted directly into the floor with your left hitched on the table and his hips smacking against your ass. You could have sworn that he was the one who drank the tea instead of you, but with a quick reality check of the volume of releases you made in the last half an hour, it was you.

The deliberating crawl of your cramps as he fucked you like no tomorrow, fingers massaging the back of your thigh while his lips whispered filth in your ear, eased the pain. Even when your stomach clenched and your walls cramped around his cock as the coolness of your orgasm quenched the flames, his fingers ghosting over your skin was a better sensation and stimulation. You could stand there for as long as he desired and take the vigorous pummelling he gave, even if it left you bedridden, it would been the best rest and treatment for your weariness received. It might encourage you to make checks more often than usual.

On Elrond’s end, he could say the same thing. His right hand intertwined with yours upon the table, sweaty chest rubbing against yours and finger massaging your thigh, he would have to make frequent schedules for another visit. Nevertheless, he only wished for the constant slipping and sliding of your bodies to cease. It made things difficult for him to hold and keep close, albeit it allowed for the sounds of his hips meeting your ass to reverberate in the depths of his eardrum, placing a pleasant smile on his face.

“Your cries sound better than I imagined, Y/N.” His voice trickled into your ear like caramel, melting away any remaining tension in your bones. Your body visibly sagged into his chest; head lulled atop his shoulder while your lips remained parts to release your broken, stammering moans. “Tell me, is the treatment to your liking? Would you like me to ease the ache once more?”

Breathlessly fumbling around with your words, your fingers tightened in his and pressed into the table, knocking your knuckles into the solid wood at the swelling of his cock, expanding your walls. The violent flooding of his cum seeping into your cunt and being pushed deeper with the intention of being kept there, left you shaking. Your body couldn’t handle the intoxication of his presence entering you again, speeding up the process for another wave of your orgasm to break through and mix with his. Your cries were all he was listening to while he relentlessly continued to pound away at your walls, loving the hypersensitivity he sent you into.

“Oh fuck, El–…rond!” Wailing into the heated air, your breath condensed at the rise in temperature of the office. Your body’s urge to collapse was prohibited by the gentle encircling of his right arm, still entwined with yours, around your waist to keep you upright and against his sweaty chest. The amazement you held at the unshakeable power he wielded to continue round after round as though his limit was endless. You were beginning to consider the acknowledgement of you being hit with aphrodisiacs was false and simply made up to lure you into his trap.

After all, he was a descendant of a Maia, a powerful at that, being able to ensnare you with the hypnotic look in his eyes was enough to have you at his beck and call. Imagine what his voice was doing as your insides churned and melted with the melody of his moans against your earlobe. Lips kissing the tips and breathless groaning at the squeeze you gave; Elrond summoned you to him like a siren calling its prey.

“Just like that, I’m sure you can give me another and another and another,” he encouraged, placing more pressure on your sweet spot as he ground his hips into your ass and rubbed the tip of his cock against it. “Just let me take care of you. I’ll make you feel better.”

He was unappeasible and outmatched you.

And yet, it did not terrify you, only enticing you to further give in and allow him to care and tend to your needs. His touches and words were all that were required to provoke your body into rejuvenation. He could kiss away the pain, ghost his lips over your skin or breathe against it and all would be well. His remedy to heal your ache was the best and always provided satisfaction.

Masterlist

Taglist: @eunoiaastralwings @lilmelily @koyunsoncizeri @ranhanabi777 @someoneinthestars @mysticmoomin @aconstructofamind @the-phantom-of-arda @rain-on-my-umbrella @wandererindreams @ilu-stripes @justellie17 @justjane @silverose365 @bunson-burner @batsyforyou @asianbutnotjapanese

[potatoobsessed999]

Finrod Felagund. "Philosophic discourse regarding the enmity of Orcs with Elves." The Philosophy of Finrod Felagund. 2nd ed., edited and translated by Vardamir Nólimon, Armenelos, S.A. 130.

[Ed. note: Private papers of Finrod Felagund. Written in his own hand. Dated to the season of Firith in the year 455, shortly before the Dagor Bragollach.]

Fact: According to the lore of our people from the days of Cuiviénen, the Enemy fashioned Orc-kind by his torture and slow corruption of Elven captives.

Question: How did our people learn this lore? Can it be that any ever escaped from the depths of Utumno to serve as witness?

Fact: In the lore we got of the Valar there is to my knowledge no teaching regarding the origins of Orc-kind.

Conjecture: It may be that our lore is not reliable on this point.

Fact: There are a few among us who dwelt at Cuiviénen, and others of their number abide yet in Aman; none of them have to my knowledge disputed the accuracy of our lore on this matter.

Fact: The fëar of Elves and Men have their differences from one another, but none so fundamental as the distinction between the fëar of the Eruhíni and the spirits of the non-speaking creatures. The spirits of non-speaking creatures cannot properly be called fëar, as the distinction in question is one of kind and not of degree. (Indeed fëar cannot be spoken of at all in terms of degree or size, as each fëa is itself indivisible.)

Fact: The lore we got of the Valar tells us that the fëa cannot be destroyed by any means.

Fact: Also of that lore, we know that the Enemy cannot truly create, only twist in mockery what has been created.

Fact: Also of that lore, we know that the Dwarves have their fëar of Ilúvatar alone, and not of Aulë. Before the granting of their fëar they could not speak, nor had they any will of their own, but could only obey the will of Aulë.

Fact: Orcs speak, and there is sense behind their words.

[continued on Ao3]

[dalliansss]

“We need to dispose of this creature,” Curufin says, mirroring Celegorm’s sentiment.

“Do you think we can eat it?” Finrod wonders out-loud. “Steaks.”

Curufin rolls his silver eyes so hard, Turko briefly worried they might pop out of his head. “Ingoldo, do you remember when you first encountered potatoes? Yes? You ate them raw and food poisoned yourself. We are not eating anything wrought by Morgoth’s foul sorcery. Away with the idea!”

Finrod pouts mightily and harrumphs. Then Edrahil calls the King for an urgent matter, and the golden one flounces away to follow his captain. Turko shakes his head.

“Only one elf mad enough to suggest to try eating a godsdamn dragon,” Turko says, bemusement in his tone.

Curufin crosses his arms. “I’m dumbfounded you hadn’t suggested it first, hanno.”

“Are you shitting me? With the stink this creature has? Not even my most rabid dogs will want a piece of it.”

[Dragonsmoke / AO3]

[ylieke]

Melkor and Yavanna. Fic by @eternal-fear

[whovianofmidgard]

Day 4 – Caranthir – Childhood, Appearance

For @feanorianweek You can also read on AO3

Life in Valinor for someone like Caranthir was an overwhelming existence. His dark eyes never quite got used to the brightness of Laurelin, like most babes usually did after some months. He ran away so fast on his short legs from the clanging of forges and choirs singing, the sounds too loud for his sensitive ears. He screamed and cried when certain fabrics and textures touched his skin, blotchy red patches and rashes forming inexplicably after an hour of wearing new clothes.

Caranthir didn’t like going outside. He especially didn’t like going out for chores. However, Ammë and Atar were busy with their work, and Maglor and Celegorm had their studies, so he was left in Maedhros’ care while he did chores that needed to be done. Like shopping.

Caranthir trotted after his eldest brother, small hand clutching large hand, as they waded through the noisy market. He was mostly being guided by Maedhros, for the elfling was left half-blind from the mid-flowering light of Laurelin. Caranthir alternated between staring down at his feet, squinting with tears obscuring his sight, or just simply closing his eyes.

Maedhros stopped by some vegetable stall, leaving Caranthir to hold on to him and be bored. The swish of fabric caught the edge of his sight, a rich dark purple in colour, yet so thin it let light peek through its weave. Letting go of his brother’s hand, he went closer to the textile stall curiously. He slid his little fingers through the dark fabric, unfortunately it was itchy and burning, but he lifted it over his head.

Caranthir could perfectly see right through it, he could see the market, the elves milling about, everything. The only difference the fabric made was that the light and colours were muted. And most importantly, it didn’t bother his eyes.

“Nelyo, Nelyo!” he bounded over to his brother, purple textile still on his head. “Look, Nelyo! I can see and my eyes don’t hurt!”

Used to his little brothers’ oddities, the strange image Caranthir made didn’t even phase him.

“You can see everything?”

“Uh-huh,” Caranthir nodded.

“And there is no pain at all?”

“Nuh-uh,” Caranthir shook his head. “Well, the fabric is itchy.”

Maedhros looked at his little brother for some time, deep in thought. Then he removed the fabric from Caranthir’s face and after returning it to the stall he led them to different part of the market.

“Come, I have an idea,” he said, stopping in front of a vendor selling glassware.

Maedhros talked with the vendor for a while, then the elf rummaged for something underneath the stall, finally producing a small sheet of glass. Maedhros took it then handed it to Caranthir.

“Try looking through it.”

The glass was almost completely black, but it still let a little bit of light through. He put the glass up against his eyes, and relief flooded him as the stinging sensation abated.

“It doesn’t hurt!” Caranthir exclaimed, his hands fluttering about him in a rare show of joy.

Maedhros ordered a full sheet of coloured glass to be delivered home, and the very next day Caranthir was gifted with dark spectacles that protected him from the light.

-

Caranthir liked sitting with Maglor. The harp had a gentle sound, not too loud, and his brother practicing his scales and harp solos made for enough repetition and predictability that he could read or do his numbers homework in peace.

Maglor’s voice was nice too, but not up close. There needed to be at least two walls dividing them, so his singing didn’t hurt Caranthir’s ears with its loudness. Usually, when Maglor reached the place in his practice where he’d start singing with his harp, Caranthir would pack his books up and leave Maglor’s room for his own.

Noticing the pattern, Maglor once asked his little brother about it, and once hearing the answer he fell into silent contemplation.

The next time they were comfortably doing their own thing in Maglor’s room, his older brother gave him something.

“Try it on and tell me what you hear,” Maglor said, and helped Caranthir put the thing over his head, two padded pom-pom-like balls covering his ears.

“Can you hear me? And is it itchy at all?”

“You’re all muffled but I can hear you a little. Not itchy, but it tickles.”

Maglor just grinned, and later when he started to sing during practice, Caranthir stayed and continued his studies, unbothered by the loud sound.

-

The itchiness he partially figured out on his own, when a bit older Caranthir ironically got into fibre crafts. He now knew which fabrics his skin tolerated and which ones he didn’t, yet from time to time his hands would still turn red with rashes. An occupational hazard when working with all sorts of textiles.

[amethysttribble]

“I do believe I am a very bad person,” Finrod said, and Celegorm sighed around the lip of the bottle.

“We were having fun, I thought we were having fun,” he groaned, stretching languidly over the arm of the couch. He and his ‘king’, the King of Nargothrond, were laying together, legs tangled together like a couple of youths, drinking wine. They’d been laughing, singing, naught but a second ago. Ah, but wine was a changeable drink.

“I was just thinking,” Finrod said, cradling his own bottle to his chest tenderly, “about the time Grandfather found us in the royal wine cellar, how scared we were that we were in awful trouble, how he smiled and said, ‘well? Won’t you pour me a drink?’ I loved him so much.”

“We all loved him,” Celegorm muttered bitterly and he tipped the drink back and drank until only droplets were coming to his tongue.

He tried not to think of Grandfather. Or the other grandfather. Or Mother. Or Father. Or-

“I wanted to rule something beautiful like he did,” Finrod was sighing, “Something glorious; powerful and intricate and built entirely in my image. Mine. All mine, in the palm of my hand, and then people would look at me like they looked at Grandfather. Someone beautiful, glorious. Worthy. Worthy of his name, not because I did what he did, but because I made something all my own. I wanted it. I wanted it so badly I spat on my father’s kind heart, and trampled over my cousins’ blood, and scorned our uncle, and… Turko, Grandfather never wanted us to come to this land.”

“‘Two sons at least thou hast to honor thy words’,” Celegorm said with a sneer. He let the bottle roll from his hands and stared at the ceiling, not daring to close his eyes and face the spinning. “I remember. Those words ruined my life.”

Those words spoke in jealousy by Fingolfin had seen Father banished and started this unending nightmare.

It always came back to the same question, stay or go.

Oh, but Celegorm wished he’d stayed.

“He would be disappointed in us now,” Finrod said, “If he caught us now. No drink for him but tears, to see us in this land, that wasn’t what he wanted. We did all this in his name, but it wasn’t want he wanted. What selfish children we are, always pilfering from his stores and caring nothing for how long that wine aged. Now we age it ourselves and it is vinegar. And yet I still want all the glitters. How foul is that?”

“Why are you telling me all this, Felagund?”

“My brothers are dead.”

And that was all there was to it.

“Right,” Celegorm grunted as he swung his feet to the floor and sat up. “I’m going to go throw-up, and I suggest you do the same before you vomit up anymore useless words.”

He swayed on his feet but managed to stay upright. He might have made it to the privy had Finrod not grabbed his hand as he passed. When Celegorm looked down, it wasn’t the king who looked back. It was the little cousin Tyelkormo knew, full of sunshine smiles and mischief, who he used to have such fun with; but now that boy’s face was blotchy with tears and sorrow.

They had been having fun. Weren’t they?

“This doesn’t end well, Turko.”

Yes, well, Celegorm had guessed that. Had felt it in the gnawing void in his chest that called and called and called and received no answer. It was shredding him, and in the open wounds crept in fear. Celegorm was so tired of being scared.

Finrod’s eyes did nothing to quell his fear, instead they inflamed the terror. Those eyes… Celegorm suspected this ended pourly, but Finrod’s eyes knew. An animal sort of fear wrapped around his throat, and Celegorm’s chest heaved, his heart hammered like he was naught but a rabbit caught in a snare.

He didn’t know what to do with the knowledge that dauntless, peerless, kingly Finrod was frightened, too.

And it was not quite the same expression on his little cousin’s face, but it bore a distant relationship to the nervous, startled look Finrod had shot him when Grandfather caught them drinking in the wine cellar. Turko, Turko, he asked, what do we do? Both times, Celegorm wanted to demand, how should I know?

He really wasn’t that much older.

And yet-

He meant to sink to his knees, but instead collapsed onto his ass heavily, and, ah, that was going to smart in the morning.

“Felagund,” he slurred, reaching up to take the bottle away and then to run his fingers through Finrod’s hair. “Shut up and go to sleep. When the night’s not fun anymore, that’s when you should go to bed. Isn’t that what I taught you? Go to sleep before you make mistakes you can’t take back.”

“Don’t go,” Finrod cried and Celegorm shushed him. He started to sing.

And, as Finrod’s eyes slipped shut and his quickened, guilty breathes evened out, if the words Celegorm moaned were the hymn they would sing to the doomed and dying animals…

Hopefully, they were both be too drunk to remember in the morning.

[sotwk]

About This Recommended Fics List:

All the Tolkien fanfics in this list meet the following qualifications:

Fandom: All-inclusive Tolkien (LotR, Hobbit, Silm, RoP) Type: One-shot Length: approx. 1,000-6,000 words Ship/Pairing: Any, including OCs and Reader Inserts Rating: G or PG-13 Content: No excessive angst, violence, or death. No unresolved stress. Happy endings only!

Disclaimer: I (@sotwk) have not personally screened all of these fics for their content. There may be triggers. Please read descriptions, take responsibility for your own media consumption, and observe the Golden Rule: Don't Like, Don't Read!

Link sources are either Tumblr or Ao3. Some Ao3 works are locked to registered users only.

This list of comfort fics is a collaboration and compiled through the recommendations of Readers. Thank you to everyone who contributed!

This remains a work in progress, and I will continue to accept recommendations. Please send them via DM, Ask, or Reblog. We need more, please!

Last updated: 1/23/2024

THE LORD OF THE RINGS

Aragorn

Hush Now by @entishramblings

Mirage @sileastral

Boromir

You’re the one who’s calling me to heaven by @cauliflowertree

A Shield Against the Snow by @scyllas-revenge

A Thief in the Night by @scyllas-revenge

The Floor Is Molasses by @scyllas-revenge

Anything But This by @minaturefics

Elrohir

Just a Little Longer by @theelvenhaven 

Elrond

The Weft Between the World by Antarctica_or_bust

Eomer

Alive and Alight by @minaturefics

Fair Enough by @middleearthpixie

Wildest Dreams by @scyllas-revenge

Blue Moon by @epilogue-and-prologue/@absentmindeduniverse

Eowyn

An Idiot's Guide to Gift-Giving by @scyllas-revenge

Faramir

Wrong Conclusions by @minaturefics

Frodo

Arda University by @lady-of-imladris

Over Joy by PurpleProsaist

Gandalf

Days for which they sit and wait by BloodwingBlackbird

Gimli

Mahal's Gift by @lemonsprite

Haldir

Unfairness by @errruvande

Serenade by @glassgulls

Three Weeks on the Nimrodel by @from-the-coffee-shop-in-edoras

Legolas

Sending Memes by @ironmandeficiency

Elucidative by @shrubdaddy

Winter Forest by @wordbunch

The Cruel Nature of the World by @entishramblings

What Haunts Your Heart by @entishramblings

Lindir

Bottled Up by @heilith

Merry [Seeking recommendations!]

Pippin [Seeking recommendations!]

Samwise

Better Company by @wordbunch

Let Met Take You Dancing by RaisingCaiin

THE HOBBIT

Bilbo

Primary Sources by bunn (@cycas)

Why Hobbits Eat So much by Madkat89

Fili 

Sweets by @blairsanne

Lost My Way by @lathalea

Kili

Sapphires by @lathalea

Catch Her by a_daydreaming_writer

Porridge by @fili-urzudel

Insecurities by @bookworm-with-coffee

Tauriel 

Royal Jar Opener, Reporting for Duty by @unendingwanderlust

Heavenly Inferno by midearthwritings

The Pairing Ceremony by dumbassunderthemountain

You Are My Happy Place by SmartassUndertheMountain

Liantë by WritingsOfAHobbit

Thorin

In The Woods of Ered Luin by @enchantzz

A Long Lost Home by @babe-bombadil

Dead End by @fizzyxcustard

The Arrival by @lathalea

Strong by @lathalea

Thranduil

Nothing by @entishramblings

Goodnight by @heilith

Under A Starless Sky by My_Marvel_Musings and RinzlersGhost

THE SILMARILLION

Finrod 

here, at the end of all things by Dalliansss

Glorfindel 

Warmth by @on-a-hill-by-the-sea

Stay the Night by @theelvenhaven

Golden by molerein 

THE RINGS OF POWER

Elrond

My shadows by @thesolarangel

Dating shy Elrond by @thesolarangel

Perfectly Proper by @wordbunch

Haladriel 

Stay by @scriberated

Covered in Colours by myfavouritelunatic

It’s the Last Thing I Wanted (It’s the First Thing I Do) by Helholden

Stay by @scriberated

Covered in Colours by myfavouritelunatic

It’s the Last Thing I Wanted (It’s the First Thing I Do) by Helholden

Divider credit: @saradika-graphics

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[meluiloth]

Elrond Week

Hello all Middle-Earth fans! I've been thinking about an idea for a while now, and I've just decided to throw it out there and see if it sticks:

Would anyone be interested in a week-long fandom event centered around Elrond Peredhel? His life is so long, and so rich, that I think there is a well of potential there worth exploring and celebrating!

I don't really know how to organize an event, so it might take me some time to figure out how it works (any help and advice would be much appreciated)! I do really like this idea and I hope that I can make it a reality in the future if any of you would want to participate and support it!

@elrondweek