#time travel maedhros

[eleneressea]

thinking about a fic in which Maedhros, kinslayer thrice over, haggard wreck of an elf, having lost all hope and purpose casts himself into a volcano—

and wakes up as Prince Maitimo, eldest son of the eldest son, safe and sound in Tirion-upon-Túna, with Treelight streaming in through his window.

[annoyinglandmagazine]

I love the idea of Finweans being transported into Years of the Trees Valinor as much as the next person but you know what I think could be just hilarious for a crack concept? A Sinda being transported into Years of The Trees Valinor. Think Beleg, Mablung, Daeron or maybe even Thingol himself (preferably with no one knowing who they are) getting out of Mandos and into Valinor but they don’t realise immediately that this isn’t current Valinor.

Thingol sees Maglor Feanorian in the marketplace which is a shock already because why would he get out before him but he doesn’t even have the decency to offer apologies when he sees them, how dare he in fact wait a minute he’s waving at him? What’s going on here why is he being friendly, he shouldn’t be able to be that friendly after killing so many people? Does he feel no guilt?

Mostly though for Thingol’s world to get absolutely shattered at meeting Maitimo Nelyafinwe, who yes technically is Maedhros Feanorian but how?! He doesn’t recognise Thingol of course so when he notices he seems a bit shaken by something he’s all polite and considerate and guides him to a bench before clapping him on the shoulder reassuringly and fetching him some tea. With the two hands he now has somehow.

And he sits with him and tries to find out if he’s alright but Thingol’s too confused to run like his life depends on it (and since this is the infamous Lord of Himring it might) because what is he even wearing? That’s practically a gown, not one he’d want to see Luthien in either, he’s not even wearing armour or carrying a blade? And he’s still smiling and it doesn’t look even slightly forced and his hair is actually long, not normal long either it’s down to his thighs for goodness sake.

All hope of sanity disappears when someone who looks no older than 20, comes up to them and starts tugging on Maedhros’ sleeve impatiently, ‘Nelyo, Nelyo, I can’t reach the tools I need for a project.’ Why in all of Arda would a child be approaching Maedhros Feanorian for anything? Why would they not be running in terror and avoiding him at all costs?

Maedhros shot him a conspiratorial glance as if he’d enjoy being in on some joke with a kinslayer ‘That’s most likely a sign you shouldn’t be using them Curufinwë,’ Curufinwë as in Curufin, possibly worse than even Maedhros himself. Of course it was.

‘But Nelyo.’

He smiled apologetically and asked him if he was feeling well enough now. He assured him he was mostly to get him out of his sight long enough to process the interaction and Maedhros Feanorian beamed at him, ‘Alright then, just feel free to come to me if you need anything, I’m always happy to help and Uncle Ara is very good at giving advice if something’s bothering you if you’d prefer.’

Then he stood, making Thingol concerned enough about the loose swathes of material to look away as a precautionary measure (was this a seduction attempt? He’d never heard of the Lord of Himring employing such dishonourable tactics but did he really know anything anymore?) and swept the child who could not be Curufin into his arms spinning him around above his head until he was in fits of giggles, ‘Now how about we ask Ammë about your project and if she says no I can take you somewhere instead? There’s an exhibition on in the city you might like? Sound good to you?’

The person who has to have just stolen the face of the eldest son of Feanor walked off with the elfling balanced easily against his hip and chatting away. This must be a weird fever dream.

[sweetteaanddragons]

Stepford Smiles and Time Travel Wiles

Another fic I never got around to crossposting!

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

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

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

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

”Everything?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Notes:

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

[thescrapwitch]

Last Sentence/Tag Game

Thank you @dreamingthroughthenoise and @cycas for tagging me!

RULES: Post the last sentence you wrote (fanfic / original / anything) and tag as many people as there are words in the sentence.

I have like a dozen other fics I should be working on but "Maitimo meets and gets bullied by his future self" snuck into my brain (working title: Despair Like Poison) and now I can't escape it:

But the stranger only laughed. “Oh, yes, you’ll do such a good job at keeping your little brother safe. That’s what you believe, don’t you? No craft, no skills to make your name, but you can manage your siblings. Idiot child. You will fail him. You will fail all of them, but him most of all.”

That's a lot of words which means a lot of people to tag! No pressure of course: @searchingforserendipity25 @thelordofgifs @chthonion @arofili @aroace-moron @dovewifes @echo-bleu @camille-lachenille @sallysavestheday @nighttimepatrons @lordgrimwing @hhimring @gwaedhannen @starspray @starsuncounted @welcomingdisaster @that-angry-noldo @eilinelsghost @eirianerisdar @grey-gazania @swanhild @swanmaids @sweetteaanddragons @leucisticpuffin @cuarthol @emyn-arnens @tathrin @zealouswerewolfcollector @melestasflight @meadowlarkx @jouissants @polutrope @whovianofmidgard @the-elusive-soleil @tar-maitime @auntieaugury @outofangband @a-world-of-whimsy-5 @tilion-writes and whoever else wants to join!

[youareunbearable]

I swear I wrote this down before, but I cant find it in any of my notes so here's a little fun idea! When the world gets recreated so its no longer Arda Marred, I think the Valar got together and Looked at the Finwe problem and shrugged and decided to make all of Miriel and her descendants Maiar to slove that tricky little problem of Remarriage.

Because the Feanorians are now Maiar, they aren't technically born, meaning they aren't really siblings and part of the same family so there is no real issue in separating them now is there?

Miriel is one of Vaire's weavers of course, and Feanor is one of Aule's most talented smiths, but that is understandable as he is the spirit of Hearth Fire itself. There are others within Aule's Halls, but their knowledge of each other is passing, for Celebrimbor tends to stay with the jewelry makers and Curufin likes creating hunting gear for Orome's hunt

Orome is almost never seen without his most prized hunter, Celegorm, who prefers a form that looks more wolf than Elf.

Vana, Orome's wife, herself has a pair of giggling and twittering songbirds that follow her around as she follows her husband's Hunt. They dance and sing and twirl in sync that many often just call the pair of them by a singular name, Ambarussa.

Irmo within his forest full of Song and Music has a very talented Maia that is so in tune with thr Song that they can play with it however they choose. Maglor only uses this ability to give the Elves good dreams, of course.

Este is forever thankful of her assistant Caranthir, who keeps all her medical necessities and books in order, so she is always prepared to help those in need, even if he himself doesn't have the best beside manner.

Lady Nienna’s Maia, Maedhros is a bit more of a recluse. He is charming when spoken too, but there is something distant, some type of lingering melancholy that clings to him, like a weak dawn in the deepest days of winter. He tends to hide himself away in the forests surrounding Formenos, helping those who are lost find their way back home.

Then there are Finwe and his beautiful wife Indis, their children, and many grandchildren. They are a stunning example of a happy family, and all the citizens of Tirion love having them as their royal family. Nothing is ever wrong, even when Fingolfin’s daughter Aredhel got lost during a hunt, she was lucky enough to be escorted back to her worried brothers' camp.

Fingon, who had never felt the degree of terror that flooded his veins at the thought of his sister lost in the woods, terror that was much stronger than what was called for because what could befell her in their peaceful land of Valinor?

She was being ferried on the back of a behemoth of a horse, pristine and laughing at the antics of the silver wolf-like Maia walking at her side. The horse was being led by a silent Maia, who smiled softly at the pair but made no move to include himself.

Fingon looked up at the tall Maia, and felt something in his fea shatter. He always had felt like something was missing, that he would havr an urge to go looking for someone he could never find, catch himself looking up to share an idea with someone who must have been taller than him only to look up at empty air. His bed felt so cold, but no matter how high he tended the hearth flames he knew it was because it was empty. He would look to the distant mountains and see a dawn peaking over their tops and weep as something in his fea ached.

Everything felt so overwhelming when he looked at this Maia, this being that looked cold, who wore furs and had snow dusting his shoulders even though it was a warm sunny summer day. Fingon was so lost in the sensations swirling within him that he was too slow to act before the Maia helped Aredhel off his horse, swung up himself and was out of the clearing. That wolfish Maia giving his sister a laughing twirl before bounding off into the thicket, chasing after the distant horn call.

Fingon’s knees felt weak, he found himself sinking to the forest floor. This world may be Arda Remade, but he still felt Marred.

[tar-maitime]

like my mirror years ago pt. 2

Rating: T Characters: Maedhros | Maitimo, Fingon | Findekano Additional: Years of the Trees, time travel, AU, fix-it WC: 1.1k

Read part 1 here

He’s so young. Arda Marred, he’s so young.

Maedhros doesn’t know what she was expecting. No, that’s a lie, she does, it’s just that it was ridiculous. Somehow, even when faced with the young, unscarred, innocent Maitimë, she’d kept on picturing the Findekano they were going to see as more or less like her Fingon the last time she’d seen him. And then, of course, he wasn’t.

It’s not as though he aged, exactly, between now and the brutal end of his life, not in the way Men would think of it. In some ways, he looks painfully the same, so much so that Maedhros’ first instinct was to run into his arms and be held. But the tips of his ears have never been blunted by frostbite, and there are no tiny, pale scars on his hands from scrambling up the cliffs around Thangorodrim. The only calluses on his hands are from harp practice, rather than sword work, and he has never been wounded in battle, nor singed by Glaurung, nor worn stress lines between his eyes from the weight of ruling. He has never known grief. He has not had to spend months by a lakeside relearning his wife after years of separation and torment.

Powers, he and Maitimë aren’t even married yet, are they? Not for a few decades yet.

It’s too much. Maedhros stands frozen, staring at him, for far too long, and then turns and flees.

She can’t go very far, not if she doesn’t want to be discovered by Tirion at large, but she gets as far as the courtyard, retreating into a corner and dropping to sit curled up against the wall, her arms locked around her bent legs and her forehead pressing uncomfortably against her knees, despite the armor. She hasn’t panicked like this since she doesn’t know when - she’s always had to be calm and in control. But Tirion is safe. The only monster here is her.

Perhaps the worst of it is that this is how Fingon should be. He should never have had to go through all of that, should have been able to stay this bright-eyed, unmarred stranger for all time - even if that meant never following her to Beleriand, even if she had to exist in eternal torment because of it, even if she never got to marry him at all...

Warm, dark-brown hands settle over her one hand and the stump of her wrist, the touch familiar and yet wrong. Findekano is touching her lightly, cautiously, as if uncertain he will be welcome. Fingon never had to wonder, the bond between their souls telling him all he needed to know to figure it out.

“Maedhros?” he says, stumbling over it a little. She lifts her head. “Maitimë said that’s what you went by - are you all right? Did I do something?”

She almost laughs at that, a bitter, choked thing. “No! No, you have done nothing. It was me - I broke you, and it has not happened yet, but it will, and I can do nothing to stop it.”

He frowns a little at that. “Did you? Or are you simply taking far more of the blame than you ought to? If I had ever thought about it, I should have hoped that in sixty Valian years you would no longer have such a tendency.”

Maedhros can’t decide whether to laugh or weep at such a pronouncement. “You followed me into an unwinnable war against Melkor,” she says, “and it took your father and most of our cousins before it finally killed you, horribly, because I could not reach you in time. So yes, I would say that that is in fact my fault.”

Findekano squeezes her hand gently. “Russandol,” he murmurs, “do you really think anything could have stopped me?”

She had not thought about it that way before. Now that she is, she finds that she cannot say with confidence that anything would have.

He looks at her intently, then blinks. “Russë, your eyes - were we married?” he ventures. 

Maedhros can only nod.

“When?”

“Around 1493 by your reckoning,” she says hoarsely. “Before the war began.”

“Well, then, the future cannot have all been terrible.” While Maedhros is still processing this declaration, Findekano looks her over. “Even so, I think there are things I would like to change, if it hurt you this much.”

“We can’t,” Maedhros says automatically. “I still remember it all - so we can’t.”

“Perhaps it is just that we haven’t yet,” Findekano counters. “Now, do you think you could stand to tell Maitimë and me more about what exactly went wrong? Then we can come up with a plan.”

* * *

Reluctantly, she tells them everything, from her father’s unveiling of the Silmarils and Morgoth’s rumor-mongering, to the banishment, to the destruction of the Trees, to Alqualondë and the Helcaraxë and everything that followed after in Beleriand.

She can’t quite manage to leave out the few good things - the marriage, her and Fingon adopting Gil-galad, the wounds that his father dealt to Morgoth, the little peredhil twins that she and Maglor had been raising. But neither does she shy away from the many terrible details, either - Angband she mostly skips past, but not the battles, or the kinslayings, or the agony of Fingon’s death.

They are all three silent for a long while after she’s finished.

“Well,” Findekano says at last, “it does at least seem that there is a fairly simple solution to all of this - we need only stop Fëanaro from making these Silmarils.”

Maedhros shakes her head. “He will have already begun them, at this point,” she says. “Do you really think he will stop, even if we explain?”

Maitimë purses her lips. “No. He’d just scoff and tell us to find a different way.” Then, “What about Melkor? If we were to expose him earlier, before he could stir up so much unrest, then perhaps the Valar could catch him unawares and deal with him properly. It would be safe for people to go to Beleriand, then.”

“And we must do that, eventually,” Findekano adds. “For Itarillë’s sake, if nothing else, so that she may meet this Man you have spoken of - and so that her son and grandsons may not be erased. And for the sake of Irissë’s son, I suppose, although I do not like the sound of this Eol and we will have to do something about him...”

Maedhros listens, feeling a little distant from it all. They cannot change the future that is to come; she is still certain of that. But the painful, inevitable failure has yet to come, and just now she makes herself be content to watch them. They are whole and still hopeful and they care enough to at least try to fix the mess of her life. That can be enough for this moment, until it all finally comes crashing down.

To be continued...

[whats-in-a-sentence]

When three hundred years and more were gone since the Noldor came to Beleriand, in the days of the Long Peace, Finrod Felagund lord of Nargothrond journeyed east of Sirion and went hunting with Maglor and Maedhros, sons of Fëanor.

"The Silmarillion" - J.R.R. Tolkien

[lendmyboyfriendahand]

Everlasting Darkness (2029 words) by tehhumi Chapters: 1/? Fandom: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Fëanor | Curufinwë & Sons of Fëanor Characters: Fëanor | Curufinwë, Caranthir | Morifinwë, Amras (Tolkien), Sons of Fëanor Additional Tags: Time Travel Fix-It, Darkening of Valinor, Oath of Fëanor Summary: Feanor and his sons swore themselves to the Everlasting Darkness if they failed to recover the Silmarils. That "Everlasting Darkness" could be a time rather than a place never occurred to them.

[eleneressea]

In your time travel maedhros au, how are things going between Feanor and Fingolfin since Maitimo got sent to Lorien and it’s becoming increasingly obvious that he and Findekano have feelings for one another. How’s Finwe dealing with all this?

Finwë is doing extremely bad about all this! But mostly for Míriel-related reasons.

Maitimo goes back to just about when Morgoth gets released, and the Ungoliant Incident happens not that long after Fëanor makes the Silmarils, so the Fëanor-Fingolfin relationship is actually not that bad because Morgoth hasn't had a chance to really get the lies going yet. They don't get along, they're still rivals and the family situation is still complicated, but they aren't enemies. This means that there's a chance that they can patch things up. Fëanor is dealing with his "Am I a bad parent?" crisis and knows that Maitimo would like him and Fingolfin to get along, so he's putting in an effort to not snap at Fingolfin. too much. Fingolfin, meanwhile, is very aware that Maitimo saved Findekáno, so he's working on being nicer to Fëanor, and the result is…several very awkward conversations. but they're polite very awkward conversations.

Once Maitimo wakes up and starts manipulating uh I mean influencing his family from his sickbed,* the awkward conversations increase in length and frequency. At one point Fëanor even ventures a comment about Indis that isn't a veiled insult! The bar may be low but they're clearing it!

It is, unfortunately, not obvious that Findekáno and Maitimo have feelings for each other. Emotions are high! Maitimo saved Findekáno's life! Findekáno staying by Maitimo's sickbed and clutching his hand…is not necessarily romantic when he nearly died for you, y'know? So Maitimo knows that Findekáno has feelings for him (because future) but Findekáno thinks that nobody knows how he feels, and to be fair very few people do,** same for Maitimo. They're pining.

*guy arranged large land deals with Thingol in the single year between the Eagle rescue and his abdication; as soon as he's coherent he's going to be judiciously telling his cousins and siblings things to get them to do what he wants. Sometimes that's fomenting rebellion among the Teleri, sometimes that's more pillows and extra treats.

**to wit: Maitimo, Anairë, Ambarussa, Galadriel. Anairë knows her eldest, Ambarussa and Galadriel were (separately) sneaking around eavesdropping and heard Findekáno telling an unconscious Maitimo about his feelings. Galadriel is about four and doesn't understand romantic love yet; Ambarussa think it's very funny. They've nicknamed him "Findekáno Astaldo" sarcastically for his great bravery in confessing his feelings to someone who is unconscious and can't hear him.

[jockbots]

more aus pls where the so/bff /older sibling have to go out to fetch their feral lover/ bestie/ bby sib that's gone and done something stupid and gotten themselves in trouble and only then can shake them out of whatever rampage theyre on

[echo-bleu]

Noldor hair headcanons (2/4)

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | On AO3

By the time they’re settled in Beleriand, the Nolofinwëans have largely switched from elaborate styles done by someone else to (slightly) simpler self-braided styles. They’re at war now, so they turn toward practical braids that keep their hair out of their face during combat. There’s more and more of a gap between everyday styles and ceremonial styles.

The Fëanorians however are still doing things the old way. Maedhros is very unhappy that he can no longer braid people’s hair properly (especially Fingon’s) (he learns to do it one-handed eventually, but it’s never as perfect) (Fingon doesn’t mind).

The Sindar wear their hair half-up or even loose. However, they like to play with each other’s hair, and it’s not reserved for family, which is Very Weird for the Noldor to see. Galadriel has a hard time getting used to it and doesn’t let anyone touch her hair beside Celeborn, but she eventually figures out that her hair dazzles people even more when it’s loose, so she starts leaving it down.

It’s even harder to untangle as a result, and Celeborn suffers. (Galadriel is not not into hair pulling.)

Melian and Lúthien’s hair is so silky that braids just undo themselves. Elrond and Elros partly inherit that, and Elrond spends his whole life mourning that fact (he wants to do his hair like Maedhros, okay?).

Finrod is the first elf to let a Man touch his hair. He’s travelling alone and he’s touch-deprived, can you blame him? (It’s Bëor. It results in several uncomfortable conversations.)

Curufin makes himself and his brothers sharpened hairpins and various other weapons disguised as hair jewellery.

Hairstyles mingle during the Siege until, in the more cosmopolitan realms, Noldor and Sindar are no longer identifiable at first sight. Some Noldor elect to keep their hair mostly loose (though almost never entirely) while many Sindar learn the Battle Braids. They are very convenient, after all.

Avari hair customs are very different. It’s mostly about hair brushing/care being very intimate. They usually wear hairdresses or hair covering of some kind, depending on the tribe they belong to.

Gondolin has stayed highly conservative about hair, with hairstyles almost as complex as Tirion in its noontide.

Maeglin hates having his hair touched even more than his mother.

I’m tempted to make Eöl an asshole on this too, who cuts Aredhel’s hair or something, but I think she just never lets him touch her and he doesn’t care enough to try.

Maeglin grows up with his hair loose up until Aredhel takes them to Gondolin, where she remembers how Turgon is about hair, and braids Maeglin’s and her own in hopes of Looking Natural.

Maeglin’s first impression of Gondolin is that Hair Braiding Hurts (though not as much as adar’s hands). It goes downhill from there.

He’s still jealous when he catches Idril doing Tuor’s hair. Tuor doesn’t even have the decency of having beautiful Noldor hair, so it doesn’t even look that good. The next day, Idril’s braids are very wonky and Maeglin, upon seeing her, completely messes up the hair clip he was making her.

Eärendil has Tuor’s hair. It’s fine, because Elwing refuses to do Noldor braids.

Glorfindel is a Vanya and wears his hair completely loose.

We all know how that ends.

Maglor’s hair is partly burned off in Dagor Bragollach. He spends an uncomfortable few years growing it back and recovering from smoke inhalation. He revives some ridiculous hair-related ditties from his youth as voice therapy and they’re soon heard throughout Beleriand.

Finrod, badly injured and with no bodies of his brothers to bury, makes up a self-braided version of the Mourning Braids (It involves only braiding the hair from the shoulders down. That’s largely because he couldn’t raise his arms at that point, but it becomes a feature of all Mourning Braids—except Maglor’s style—for two ages to come.)

For the first time since the Ice, Fingolfin asks Fingon to do his hair, the morning after they hear of Morgoth’s victory.

He braids Rochallor’s mane and tail before setting out.

Rochallor walks back into Hithlum some days after the Eagle comes, his hair still braided. He lies down and dies with his head in Fingon’s arms.

Turgon braids his father’s hair before burying him, as he did with Elenwë, as he did with Aredhel. There is a custom that’s been developing among the Noldor of Beleriand to only give the dead a single, simple braid, so that they don’t risk being too attached to their body and miss the call from Mandos, but Turgon doesn’t know of it. No one has died in Gondolin since it was built, aside from Aredhel and Eöl.

Finrod and his Ten braid each other’s hair the night after they leave Nargothrond. Beren watches them with no understanding of the custom.

They later find out that werewolves spit out the hair when they devour someone.

It’s not a nice sight.

Beren and Lúthien do their best to clean Finrod’s beautiful golden braids of blood before they bury him, even though neither of them quite get what the braids mean to the Noldor.

Fingon’s golden ribbons are marred with blood when they find his body on the battlefield. His braids are the only way to identify him for certain.

Maedhros revives Maglor’s Mourning Braids. Mostly because Maglor does them for him. Maedhros would be fine with No One Ever Touching His Hair Again, but he’s close to catatonic.

Then the Oath awakes once more.

Celegorm’s white hunting braids and Dior’s black silky hair mingle on the blood-stained floor of Doriath’s throne room.

It takes Maglor longer to find Caranthir and Curufin. He carefully braids their hair into a single plait before they burn the bodies, in case it could help them find Mandos.

Maybe they are for the Void, but at least he feels like he’s done something.

The years up to the Third Kinslaying are awful. Maedhros and Maglor are codependent to an unhealthy degree, while the twins will barely speak to them, or each other. Maglor still does Maedhros’s hair. Maedhros doesn’t return the favour. They scream at each other daily.

Sirion is unthinkable. They attack anyway. Maedhros and Ambarussa’s braids look like bloodstains in the twilight.

Elwing’s hair floats around her as she falls.

To be continued

[thescrapwitch]

Heads Up, Seven Up Game

I was tagged by @starsuncounted (thank you!)

RULES: Post the last 7 sentences that you wrote.

The stranger laughed, sharp-edged and brittle, making Maitimo shiver. “I should kill you and save the world trouble,” he said, “but I already tried, and look how that turned out. No, you don't deserve mercy. But him…” Maedhros held little Makalaure tighter. “I can save him. I owe him that, after everything.”

Tagging: @camille-lachenille @dreamingthroughthenoise @lordgrimwing and whoever else wants to join in! No pressure, of course.

[youareunbearable]

I swear I wrote this down before, but I cant find it in any of my notes so here's a little fun idea! When the world gets recreated so its no longer Arda Marred, I think the Valar got together and Looked at the Finwe problem and shrugged and decided to make all of Miriel and her descendants Maiar to slove that tricky little problem of Remarriage.

Because the Feanorians are now Maiar, they aren't technically born, meaning they aren't really siblings and part of the same family so there is no real issue in separating them now is there?

Miriel is one of Vaire's weavers of course, and Feanor is one of Aule's most talented smiths, but that is understandable as he is the spirit of Hearth Fire itself. There are others within Aule's Halls, but their knowledge of each other is passing, for Celebrimbor tends to stay with the jewelry makers and Curufin likes creating hunting gear for Orome's hunt

Orome is almost never seen without his most prized hunter, Celegorm, who prefers a form that looks more wolf than Elf.

Vana, Orome's wife, herself has a pair of giggling and twittering songbirds that follow her around as she follows her husband's Hunt. They dance and sing and twirl in sync that many often just call the pair of them by a singular name, Ambarussa.

Irmo within his forest full of Song and Music has a very talented Maia that is so in tune with thr Song that they can play with it however they choose. Maglor only uses this ability to give the Elves good dreams, of course.

Este is forever thankful of her assistant Caranthir, who keeps all her medical necessities and books in order, so she is always prepared to help those in need, even if he himself doesn't have the best beside manner.

Lady Nienna’s Maia, Maedhros is a bit more of a recluse. He is charming when spoken too, but there is something distant, some type of lingering melancholy that clings to him, like a weak dawn in the deepest days of winter. He tends to hide himself away in the forests surrounding Formenos, helping those who are lost find their way back home.

Then there are Finwe and his beautiful wife Indis, their children, and many grandchildren. They are a stunning example of a happy family, and all the citizens of Tirion love having them as their royal family. Nothing is ever wrong, even when Fingolfin’s daughter Aredhel got lost during a hunt, she was lucky enough to be escorted back to her worried brothers' camp.

Fingon, who had never felt the degree of terror that flooded his veins at the thought of his sister lost in the woods, terror that was much stronger than what was called for because what could befell her in their peaceful land of Valinor?

She was being ferried on the back of a behemoth of a horse, pristine and laughing at the antics of the silver wolf-like Maia walking at her side. The horse was being led by a silent Maia, who smiled softly at the pair but made no move to include himself.

Fingon looked up at the tall Maia, and felt something in his fea shatter. He always had felt like something was missing, that he would havr an urge to go looking for someone he could never find, catch himself looking up to share an idea with someone who must have been taller than him only to look up at empty air. His bed felt so cold, but no matter how high he tended the hearth flames he knew it was because it was empty. He would look to the distant mountains and see a dawn peaking over their tops and weep as something in his fea ached.

Everything felt so overwhelming when he looked at this Maia, this being that looked cold, who wore furs and had snow dusting his shoulders even though it was a warm sunny summer day. Fingon was so lost in the sensations swirling within him that he was too slow to act before the Maia helped Aredhel off his horse, swung up himself and was out of the clearing. That wolfish Maia giving his sister a laughing twirl before bounding off into the thicket, chasing after the distant horn call.

Fingon’s knees felt weak, he found himself sinking to the forest floor. This world may be Arda Remade, but he still felt Marred.

[tar-maitime]

like my mirror years ago

Rating: T Characters: Maedhros | Maitimo Additional: Years of the Trees, time travel, AU, fix-it WC: 1.3k

Maitimë’s first thought, when she sees the stranger, is that one of the orcs from Grandfather Finwë’s stories has somehow found its way to Valinor.

She’s never seen anyone like them before. Their hair is cropped short, too short to braid at all, and their face and what little other pale skin is visible is covered in cruel scars, the origin of which she can’t begin to imagine. Their right hand is missing entirely, with only a stump left. They’re wearing armor, similar to what Atar and some others have been experimenting with, but heavier and clearly much-used.

They’re also wearing the particular shade of red associated with her father’s house, with - she sees when they turn - her father’s sigil of the eight-pointed star worked into the tattered cloak in gold.

She sucks in a startled breath at that, trying to reevaluate, and that makes the stranger turn sharply, their sharp eyes spotting Maitimë where she’s partially hidden behind a tree.

“Who’s there?” the stranger says, their voice rough and rasping.

She has nothing to fear. She doesn’t. This is Valinor and they are safe, and if the stranger tries anything, Maitimë is fairly certain she can outrun them. And she isn’t anywhere that she’s not supposed to be; they are. So she comes out from behind the tree and says, “I’m Nelyafinwë Maitimë Fëanáriel. What are you doing skulking outside Tirion?”

It’s not necessarily an intimidating proclamation, but the stranger staggers back as though she struck them. Their mouth hands open a long moment, and then they curl in on themselves, head in their hands, muttering “no, no, no, no” over and over.

Maitimë, beginning to be more concerned than wary, takes a couple of steps closer. “Are you all right?”

The stranger lets out a harsh, barking laugh. “I haven’t been all right since around the year 1450 by Trees reckoning.”

That doesn’t make sense. Maitimë frowns. “It’s the year 1449 right now.”

A disbelieving pause, and then another snort of unamused laughter. “Of course it is. That makes the most sense out of any of this.”

“I beg your pardon?”

The stranger lifts their head, fixing Maitimë with gray-green eyes that are suddenly all too familiar. “I’m from about sixty Valian years in the future. Specifically, I’m you from the future.”

It’s impossible. Maitimë wants to deny it, but now that she looks, those are her eyes, and the cropped hair is her color, although very dirty and neglected. That is the shape of her face, albeit a little leaner, under all the scars.

“I can prove it,” the stranger says after a moment. “You said your name was Nelyafinwë Maitimë before, but that’s not the whole truth, is it? Fing - Findekáno gave you another one. Russandol. You haven’t told anyone yet because then you’d have to explain that the two of you are in love, and you’re waiting for things between your fathers to get a bit better before you break that news.” She huffs. “Trust me, you’ll be waiting forever on that one. If you really want to be with him, you should just do it, take advantage of the time you have.”

Maitimë finds that she has to sit down abruptly. Fortunately, there’s a convenient mossy boulder nearby. “What happened to you?” she says, when she can find words again. “To us, I mean?” She gestures to encompass everything about the person in front of her.

“What didn’t happen?” The stranger - future-Maitimë - drops to sit on the ground. “Mor - Melkor killed Grandfather for a treasure that Atar had made. Atar dragged us - most of the Noldor, my brothers, and me - across the Sea bent on revenge and made the seven of us swear an oath to bind us to it. We killed a lot of the people of Alqualondë, for their ships. Atar died and left the crown to me, which led to me being captured by Melkor and tortured for three Valian years. Findekáno saved me, in the end - that’s how I lost the hand, by the way. We fought a prolonged, hopeless war against Melkor, that ended up killing most of our cousins, Nolofinwë, and finally Findekáno - that last was my fault, by the way, and it was ugly and brutal and --”

She breaks off, running a hand through her cropped hair repeatedly until she calms. Distantly, through the haze of horror at such a recitation, Maitimë wonders if she cut it after Findekáno’s - after he --

“My brothers and I went on to kill Eldar twice more after that,” future-Maitimë continues, with terrifying matter-of-factness. “Simply because they were between us and Atar’s treasure. Most of them died in the doing of it - Tyelko, Moryo, and Curvo first, and then Pityo and Telvo later on.”

“Kano lives?” Maitimë finds herself asking. Her heart had already crumbled to hear of Findekáno’s fate, and shattered further at the thought of her little brothers being killed, a concept she can barely hold in her mind, but she needs to know that at least Makalaurë is spared in this ugly future. 

“He lives.” Her other self won’t meet her eyes. “And so if I return to my proper time, I may yet lead him into further evil.”

The resignation in her voice sparks something in Maitimë. “You don’t know that it has to be that way,” she says. “Now that you’ve told me, I can make sure none of those things happen. There must be something I, we, can do to prevent all that.”

“There’s not.” Future-Maitimë folds her arms tightly. “I’m here, proof that the future I described happened. I may not have been much for Finr - Findaráto’s philosophical salons, but basic logic would seem to indicate that therefore, the events I’ve spoken of can’t be changed.”

Maitimë gets to her feet, resolve building. “You’ve come back through time,” she argues. “Basic logic doesn’t seem to be in effect at this point. We might as well try.”

“You can if you want,” her future self says, not moving from her seat on the ground. “Perhaps this is some kind of punishment for all I’ve done, to have to watch you try and fail.”

Well, that’s not going to help anything - and Maitimë is quite certain she can’t do this on her own. But that thought stirs an idea up in her. If this really is her from the future...and judging by some of the things she said...

“I am still going to try, though,” she says, turning to walk back towards Tirion. “And I’ll probably need some help to come up with a plan, so I’m going to find Findekáno. He’s good with impossible projects - in this time, anyway.”

She keeps one eye on her future-self as she speaks, and sure enough, those ruined lips move, silently framing something like Finno...

“All right.” She stands, and Maitimë suppresses a triumphant grin. “I still don’t think this is going to work, but...I want to see him. At least for a moment.”

“Excellent.” Maitimë reaches out and takes her remaining hand - rough and callused, but still essentially the same as her own. “You might want to pull up your hood and wrap your cloak close if you don’t want to be spotted. Oh, and is there something I can call you? Two ‘Maitimë’s is going to get confusing.”

Her future-self cracks a one-sided grin. “Fortunately for you, we all had to take new names when we met Elwë’s people on the other side of the Sea - they speak quite a different language by now. You can call me Maedhros.”

“Maedhros.” It feels rough and clumsy in Maitimë’s mouth, but somehow it suits her. “All right. Let’s go see if we can change the future.”

To be continued...

[melestasflight]

In the Silmarillion fandom, we enjoy grabbing the trope of “Nolofinwëan recklessness” and running wild with it. 

The most common victims of this are Fingon the Rash Prince and Fingolfin the Impulsive King, who rushes into suicidal combat. Both father and son daring death within Morgoth’s domain. 

It’s fun to write and exciting to imagine, no doubt, but I’d like to offer a different take. In fact, what makes Fingon and Fingolfin (and the rest of that family) compelling to me is their patience and endurance.

Yes, I’m aware Fingon rushes to battle at Alqualondë, but that’s a world-altering event. The light of the world has literally gone out, murder has happened in Valinor, Finwë is dead. Most of the Noldor are up on their feet and ready to depart. Everyone is rushing.

But this is not always the case with Fingon. Most significantly, the rescue of Maedhros is NOT an impulsive decision. The published Silmarillion offers no timeline on this, but in The Grey Annals, five entire years pass between the arrival of Fingolfin’s host to Beleriand and Fingon’s decision to look for Maedhros. 

Five years in which the two hosts are quite literally on the verge of civil war because, let’s not forget:

No love was there in the hearts of those that followed Fingolfin for the House of Fëanor, for the agony of those that endured the crossing of the Ice had been great, and Fingolfin held the sons the accomplices of their father. 

Diplomacy is a painfully slow (and absolutely frustrating!) ordeal. Fingon’s decision is born from this strife, from thirty years on the Helcaraxë, and five years of civil restlessness, not to mention the clear signs that Morgoth is ready to attack them at any moment:

Then Fingon the valiant, son of Fingolfin, resolved to heal the feud that divided the Noldor, before their Enemy should be ready for war; for the earth trembled in the Northlands with the thunder of the forges of Morgoth underground. 

This is not rashness. This is the sacrifice of a captain who is willing to make the best of what time is left before full-out destruction begins. It would be rashness if Fingon got his company and crossed Mithrim to wage battle on the Fëanorians. Instead, he chooses differently for the sake of peace, stability, and renewed friendship.

The trek from Lake Mithrim to Thangorodrim could be estimated at around 150 miles, depending on the map we follow, and there are grasslands and two sets of mountains to cross, not to mention the horror of Thangorodrim. Fingon travels on foot. It would take him weeks, maybe even months, to find Maedhros. Plenty of time for the fire of rashness to cool down if that was the case. But he persists because he has no other choice.

Similarly, I often see takes on Fingolfin that he rushes to pointless combat with Morgoth in the same manner as Fëanor had done. Yet again, the timeline is crucial here. The published Silmarillion has the battle lasting at least several months. Bragollach starts in F.A. 455 during winter time: 

There came a time of winter, when night was dark and without moon

The battle slows down presumably a few months later:

but the Battle of Sudden Flame is held to have ended with the coming of spring, when the onslaught of Morgoth grew less.

The onslaught grows less, but it doesn’t fully cease. Morgoth and Sauron reissue their attacks early into Fingon’s kingship.

In the Grey Annals, the timeline  is stretched further out:

Year 455:

The Fell Year. Here came an end of peace and mirth. In the winter, at the year's beginning, Morgoth unloosed at last his long-gathered strength

Year 456:

Now Fingolfin, King of the Noldor, beheld (as it seemed to him) the utter ruin of his people, and the defeat beyond redress of all their houses, and he was filled with wrath and despair.

The fighting goes on actively anywhere from a season to a full year! Fingolfin tries to hold his kingdom together for a full year despite an absolute, unquestionable disaster. I mean, look at this description of the battle:

In the front of that fire came Glaurung the golden, father of dragons, in his full might; and in his train were Balrogs, and behind them came the black armies of the Orcs in multitudes such as the Noldor had never before seen or imagined. And they assaulted the fortresses of the Noldor, and broke the leaguer about Angband, and slew wherever they found them the Noldor and their allies, Grey elves and Men. Many of the stoutest of the foes of Morgoth were destroyed in the first days of that war, bewildered and dispersed and unable to muster their strength. War ceased not wholly ever again in Beleriand

Fingolfin’s decision to ride out, again, is not out of recklessness or a spur-of-the-moment decision. It’s everything but that. He has given everything and truly believes it’s all lost: “the utter ruin of his people, and the defeat beyond redress of all their houses.” (!!!) 

This is a final stand, the King’s duty to stand by his people, even in death.

[sweetteaanddragons]

Pick Your Battles (Pick - Different Battles. Put That One Back.)

(I wrote this at Christmas and put it up on AO3, but it looks like I forgot to crosspost it here!)

(Having written a lot of time travel stories where people wish they could just attack Melkor, I decided it was finally time to let someone. Time travelling Fingon seemed perfect for the job.)

“You attacked Lord Melkor,” Fingon’s father said with incredulous emphasis, “with your teeth.”

“With a chair, first,” Fingon said. He had attempted to use weaponry before resorting to unarmed combat. “I wanted Uncle Feanaro’s sword, but I didn’t think I could get it away from him in time.”

He was aware that this was not actually helping his case. It might have helped his case if he had collapsed into some kind of mock breakdown instead, puddling onto the desk in his father’s study in heaving sobs, but he had never been much of an actor, so he stood before it instead, a reporting soldier before his general, instead of a penitent youth before his father as he should have been.

He might have been able to dredge up some penitence, actually, if only for the pain on his father’s face, except the provocation had been so very great that he really felt he could not have done otherwise.

His father at last stopped his pacing and collapsed into a seat behind his desk, holding up his hands in supplication. ”Why, Findekano?”

Fingon paused.

His reasons were entirely natural and entirely irresistible.

However.

They were not reasons that would have been at all comprehensible before Findekano had found his way to Thangorodrim and become Fingon.

“I had sworn to do so,” he tried.

The last time he had seen his father look so despairing, it had been right before he went off to go fight Morgoth, although not, admittedly, with his teeth.

He thought. He'd never actually asked.

“You swore to hit one of the Valar with a chair,” his father clarified in the flattest tone Fingon had ever heard from him.

Technically, no.

Technically, what he had sworn was to never let Morgoth lay a hand on Maedhros again. The fact that he had not pictured anything remotely similar to these circumstances when making that vow did not exempt him from it; nor did he particularly wish to be considered exempt from it.

Just because he had somehow found himself in a time before Morgoth had revealed the evil in his heart did not mean that evil was not already beginning its foul work.

“Swore an oath to whom?” his father demanded.

Fingon did not think the truth would be useful to family tensions, or the fully explained truth to the recently shaken belief in his sanity.

In the face of his stubborn silence, his father’s exasperation slowly drained away, leaving only his weariness behind. “You could have been killed,” he said. “If Lord Melkor had lost his restraint for even a moment - “

For a moment, it was not his father’s current, unblemished form, that Fingon saw.

Whatever his father saw on his face, it made him change tactics. “This cannot be kept quiet. If we can assure the Valar it has been handled, perhaps it need not come before Manwe, but - “

An idea suddenly blossomed, one born of a very different case before Manwe.

He did not wish to approach the Valar with the truth of his situation, not when he didn’t wish it undone.

But certain other truths . . . well, they had come out in a trial once before.

“Let it go before Manwe,” he said, interrupting his father. “Let it all be handled in the open. It will be better that way.”

“Findekano - “

“It will be,” he promised with a quick bow before darting out of the room without waiting for leave.

He suspected his father wouldn’t want him to leave the house at present, but he really must; he needed to find Maitimo as he had a horrible suspicion he might have accidentally hit him with that chair.