#✧･ﾟ: * — character : írissë.

[cilil]

Day 4 ~ Friendship & Alliance

𓂃🖋 Characters/pairings: Celegorm x Aredhel 𓂃🖋 Synopsis: Aredhel has an idea for the next Feast of Horns. Celegorm is quite taken by it 𓂃🖋 Warnings: / 𓂃🖋 Oneshot (~550 words) | AO3

Tyelko, 

I have an idea for the next Feast of Horns. 

I assume I neither have to ask if you will be participating as well nor which role you are going to take — we will be hunters, of course — so: 

The best way to prove oneself as the best among the Hunters is to catch the greatest prey, and none could be greater than Lord Oromë himself. Yes, he will be among the Hunters as well most likely, and either of us may not be fast or strong enough, but together I bet we have a chance. 

Of course we could never overcome one of the Great Ones in battle, but thankfully Lord Manwë has decreed that no violence shall be used against one another. Why not take advantage of the Valar's own rules? 

It wouldn't be the first time a Hunter chose different game than the Hunted either, if I may remind you of certain incidents. 

Is the great Tyelkormo brave enough to join me on my quest? I would enlist the help of Artanis otherwise, though I would prefer to have a companion I am used to hunting with by my side. 

Let me know what you think. Írissë

Tyelkormo smirked to himself when he read the note Írissë had sent him, cleverly placed inside his quiver — hidden from unsuspecting eyes, yet a place he would undoubtedly check while readying his gear for the next hunt. 

Her suggestion was bold to say the least, but he had never been one to doubt or hesitate. In fact, the mere thought of hunting Oromë together with Írissë sent a rush of adrenaline through him — Tyelkormo could already imagine his surprise, likely followed by a graceful, benevolent acceptance of their challenge. The Huntsman of the Valar was not known to be overly formal, nor did he care much about rank and status; his hunters were his pack, his to protect and cherish, and they had taken advantage of his fondness for them before. 

Not to mention the admiration of their peers if they managed to take a trophy from him. Tyelkormo could already imagine making necklaces out of Oromë's antlers for himself and Írissë and how lovely they would look combined with the ones he had gifted them to wear for the hunt. 

Dropping his quiver and leaving his gear as it was, he pocketed the note and went back to his room to write a response. 

Írissë, 

I accept your challenge. You can count on me for both support and secrecy regarding your plan. 

Join me on a hunt before the Feast of Horns as soon as you can, so that we can talk in private and come up with a strategy. I shall postpone the one I had planned for that purpose. 

If you are thinking about possible strategies already — which I know you are, and I will be as well — do keep in mind that we may have to compete with Lady Vána too if she chooses to be part of the hunt, as she has done in past years. 

I am looking forward to hearing from you.  Tyelkormo 

Pleased with his response, Tyelkormo folded the paper. Today's trip would take him to his uncle's house instead, and he already knew where he was going to hide the note for Írissë to find. 

Thanks for reading! ♡

Note on names: While Celegorm is often known as Turko for short, due to his father-name Turcafinwë, I like to think that Aredhel at least prefers Tyelkormo and to shorten it instead (to Tyelko).

The Feast of Horns headcanons can be found here.

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

#celegorm #tyelkormo #aredhel #irisse #celegorm x aredhel #feast of horns #silmarillion fanfiction #silm fanfic #silmarillion #cílil writes #my writing #silmarillionepistolary

[polutrope]

Snakes and Ladders

for @silmsmutweek Day 1, Prompts: Solo, Rarepairs, Voyeurism.

It is the night of Tirion's masked ball. Fëanáro is after Artanis' hair, Artanis is after a distraction, Macalaurë is deploying all his wiles, and Findaráto is just trying to have a nice time.

Rating: E | No warnings Words: 4.6k Relationships: Galadriel/Maglor, Finrod/Maglor, Undisclosed Characters: Galadriel, Maglor, Finrod, Feanor, Aredhel, Aegnor, Angrod, Caranthir Genre: Humour and Smut.

On AO3

“No, Írissë, it isn’t about the hair,” Artanis said, her voice strained with frustration. “Not entirely, anyway. It is the principle of his request.”

“What do you mean?” asked Írissë.

Artanis sighed. Her cousin was terribly dense sometimes. “Has he asked my father? No, of course not! My brothers? No. He only asks me because I am a woman, and because I am young and insignificant to him.”

“Hm.” Írisse puckered her lips and shifted her mouth to one side. “But none of them has hair as beautiful as yours.”

Artanis fixed her mouth into a frown, resisting the urge to preen. Írissë noticed, though, and giggled into her cup of wine.

“I am sorry, cousin,” she said, “but I fear this is not the last you will hear from our dear half-uncle. Fëanáro is quite obsessive. You will either have to steel yourself against him or relent. But come!” Írissë set her cup down and leapt up, offering Artanis a hand. “We will not be drawn into the fixations and feuds of all these foolish men. A dance, sweet Nerwendë?”

“Very well,” Artanis accepted her hand and stood, “but I’m not returning to that hall without first replacing my mask.”

The disguise that Artanis had chosen for this year’s appearance at Tirion’s masked ball included a tall and unwieldy headdress, its menacing face with beady eyes and forked tongue sitting heavily on her brow. The wide scaly hood, however, had the benefit of concealing her hair.

In the time Írissë and Artanis had been gone, the number of bodies in the hall had doubled. The musicians were whipping the crowd into a frenzy. Artanis scanned the room. Good: Nerdanel had arrived. That should keep Fëanáro in check. She tucked the hem of her skirt into her belt and joined Írissë in the whirling circle. Artanis gave herself over to the dance. She was swept into the swirl of bodies, her heart pounding and her blood coursing hotly. This was when she was most alive, her spirit ignited by the exertion of her body.

The first chords of the next song signalled a partners dance. Artanis spun, grasping for Írissë — but her cousin had already darted off and slipped into the arms of an elf wearing the face and comically large antlers of a great stag, loose silver hair tumbling over his broad shoulders. How obvious. Typical Fëanárion.

Artanis scoffed and jerked her chin away from her only female cousin. A traitor not only to the line of Indis but to women everywhere!

Then a hand brushed her forearm. She tore herself from its groping fingers, prepared to confront the impertinent, presumptuous—

“Seahorse?” Artanis blurted. Now that was original, at least.

The elf laughed, and the lilting sound slithered straight down Artanis’ spine, a pleasant frisson. The slice of skin exposed by the plunging neckline of his robe intensified the sensation.

A smile broadening beneath the long elegant snout of his mask drew her eyes back up. “Cobra?” he said.

“Mm,” Artanis hummed in agreement.

“Excellent. I have somewhat of a natural ability as a snake charmer.”

Ridiculous, Artanis thought, but deepened her voice seductively and said, “We shall see about that,” and found herself in the arms of the handsome — albeit rather short — seahorse, his frilly orange train sweeping behind as he led her to an empty space on the dance floor.

Looking back on the events of that night, Artanis felt that she would have been able to resist the allure of both his voice and attire, but the beguiling smell of him had robbed her of her wits. The longer they danced, the more it filled the air around them: bright but heady, like honeysuckle and cinnamon. No doubt, she later realised, he had perfumed himself thus with the precise aim of seduction but, by the dew of Laurelin, it worked. Artanis was intoxicated.

So it was that when he abruptly flitted off, pressing his lips to her knuckles and murmuring an excuse about a promised rendezvous (“But I will return, my lissome snake!”), she discreetly followed after him.

Despite his vibrant orange costume and her longer stride, this was surprisingly difficult to do. Whatever rendezvous he had planned, it was taking place in some far recess of the Palace. That ought to have put Artanis off her pursuit. But with her heart aflutter and her flesh alight (for the brush of his lips against her hand had spread like wildfire over her skin), the possibility of observing a secret tryst only hardened her resolve.

She followed him through narrow corridors and up winding staircases she did not even know existed in the Palace — indeed, why did they exist? Last, she clambered up a ladder through a hatch in the ceiling. It opened onto a small round balcony set atop a turret.

She peered over the lip of the opening, took note of the two sets of feet facing each other near the railing, and quickly ducked out of sight. She perched near the top of the ladder.

“Where have you been?” someone whispered shortly. (Artanis would surely have recognised the voice, she assured herself later, had her normally keen perception not been blunted by wine and lust.)

“Never mind,” replied the deeper voice of her dance partner. “I am here now, am I not? Come here: I have something I think you will find hard to resist.”

A whine of protest turned to a groan of pleasure. “Mmm,” said the first voice. “So you have made up for lost time. I am afraid I will need some assistance rising to the occasion.”

Artanis’ chest heaved along to the smack of lips joining, a low moan. Jealousy had no place in her thoughts, which were filled with vivid imagery of what might be happening just out of sight.

“Worry not, my golden flower bud. You know I will tend you as diligently as I must, until your petals are all unfurled and glistening with dew.” These words were punctuated by more wet sounds and rustling silk.

Artanis’ hand slid down the neckline of her gown, fingertip teasing at her hardened nipple. Though the gown draped loosely over her chest, her swollen breasts now felt constrained; she hurriedly unclasped the gown down to her sternum, sinking her fingers into her firm but forgiving flesh.

A groan, both irritation and pleasure. “Longer, no doubt,” said the mysterious lover. “You will wait until I am a fruit nearly rotting on the vine.”

The flick of a fingertip over her nipple caused Artanis to gasp audibly. She pinched her lips shut and froze in alarm, but a timely clatter of metal on the tiles saved her from being discovered. Artanis peeked: a belt of linked gold discs set with emeralds had fallen to the ground.

“Not rotting, no. Only until you are swollen with nectar, so that I might lave sweet juices from you with the barest stroke of my tongue.”

This was followed by the unmistakable exhale of one who had just found relief for some pent up ache.

Artanis hooked her feet around the ladder to steady herself. With one hand she resumed kneading her breasts, and the other she placed over the throbbing mound between her thighs.

The hitched breathing of the elf above took on greater urgency and volume, until he was keening with pleasure. Artanis’ fingers pulsed in time with his cries.

“Oh, oh yes, please, like that,” he babbled.

Artanis inhaled the scent of her own desire, her tongue thickened, and her mouth fell open. Her head lolled back against the top rung of the ladder, her hips lifted and she rutted against her palm. A thin wail escaped her throat, and then another, and she could not keep herself from whimpering as the hardness and heat of her arousal uncoiled deep inside her. The ladder dug into the tops of her feet, her toes curled tight. She squeezed her trembling thighs together, crushing her fingers between them.

“Oh, oh. Oh, fuck,” cried the elf above, “I’m going to spill. Oh stars, take your mouth off or I’ll fill your throat. Oooh, eergghhh!”

With the slightest pulsing of her fingers and the lightest circling of her nipple Artanis too was coming, heart thundering, holding her breath to keep from crying out. As she shuddered through the aftershocks of her climax, Artanis heard laboured breathing, a wet pop, and soft laughter.

Then she fell.

~

Despite the loud thud of her body hitting the floor, and, in the next second, the clattering of the ladder coming down on top of her, Artanis managed to scramble out of sight before the two lovers saw her. Holding her headdress up with one hand and her gown closed with another, she hurried back down the way she came — but took a sharp turn before coming too near the hall, eyes seeking some room or nook where she could put herself in order.

A voice from behind halted her.

“Nerwen! There you are!”

Artanis turned to face the tall, lean figure of an elf wearing a mask with a black beak and golden hawk’s eyes. Long, mottled plumes fanned out to either side of his face.

“Aikanáro!” she greeted her brother. “When did you arrive?”

“Not long ago. Have you seen Ingo? Grandmother is looking for him. Apparently he promised to perform some poetry with her.”

“Oh,” said Artanis. She could not recall seeing Findaráto at all that evening. “Are you sure he’s come already?”

Aikanáro snickered.

Artanis narrowed her eyes. “Do grow up. No, I haven’t seen him.”

“Fine. Well, I’m going back to the party. He can make his own apologies to Indis. Why are you here, by the way?” He strode closer to her and reached for the top of her headdress. “And what happened to your hat? Oh — oops. One of your eyeballs fell out.” He held the large black bead out for her to see.

“I tripped,” Artanis said in a hurry, and grabbed the eyeball from her brother. “On my gown. Too much of it.”

Aikanáro laughed. “Ah little Nerwen, you never could manage in a dress. You ought to have worn trousers. Come on, let’s get you straightened out.”

~

Findaráto still had not appeared when Artanis returned to the dance hall, and Indis had started the performance without him. But at the climactic moment of the first canto, describing the raising of the Lamps Illuin and Ormal, suddenly he stood in one of the high arched openings behind the stage. His golden raiment shimmered in the light of Telperion.

The crowd roared their approval of these theatrics, but Artanis caught the look of surprise on Indis’ face. This entrance had not been by design. Artanis tutted and turned to the spread behind her: her brother would get no approval of his antics from her. She plucked a few plump grapes and stuffed olives from the table and added them to her plate.

Then she caught a heady whiff of that cinnamon-honeysuckle scent. Like a spiced wine it sank straight down into her belly and pooled there, pleasantly warm.

“Psst.”

Artanis looked up. With fluid grace, the seahorse-costumed elf slunk over the sill of an open window.

“Don’t tell me you are part of this ridiculous act,” said Artanis.

“What?” He glanced at the stage where Findaráto had begun to dance in time with his recitation. “Oh, no. No, I just got a little lost on my way back and came round the outside. Easier to get my bearings. I hope you will forgive the delay.”

Artanis cleared her throat and tilted her chin towards the ceiling. If only he were taller, she thought, and in her thought she heard the voice of Írissë rejoinder, “Why? You know it makes no difference lying down.”

“Forgive you?” said Artanis. “That will depend on how you intend to make up for it.” Artanis sliced her front teeth through a fat grape and licked a circle around the rim of her parted lips to gather its juices.

Through the openings in the other elf’s mask, she could see his eyes darken.

“Well,” he said, his red lips dancing around the syllable, “the dew is gathering on the primroses about this hour and they are most fragrant—”

“Yes,” said Artanis, who was going to go mad (from both lust and vexation) if she heard one more word about flowers spoken in that dulcet tone. “Let’s go.”

~

It was not well known among Tirion’s elite that the staid and formidable Nerwen Artanis Arafinwiel was as ambitious about the acquisition of lovers as she was about the acquisition of athletic and intellectual accolades. Because Artanis was decisive and efficient, eschewing the coquetry that normally preceded an act of pleasure, it was believed, by those she did not bed, that she was uninterested in such matters. As for those she did bed, the reverence and fear she inspired kept them from making any boasts about having breached the steely exterior of Arafinwë’s daughter — at which each believed him or herself to have been uniquely successful.

This included Canafinwë Macalaurë Fëanorion, who, when he had looked about the dance floor and spotted, on her own, an unusually tall woman with spools of silver-gold hair escaping her headdress, had rearranged the evening’s agenda to include concourse with not one but two children of the House of Arafinwë.

“Won’t you take off that ridiculous mask?” Artanis protested, as the tip of Macalaurë’s seahorse snout brushed the space between her bared breasts.

“Ah, but that would spoil the fun, now, wouldn’t it?” Macalaurë took one swollen breast in each hand, shaping her chocolate-brown nipples into hard peaks with his thumbs. He looked up at her. “I tell you what. I will remove my snout if you will remove but the hood of your headdress. I long to run my fingers through the beautiful hair you are hiding beneath there.”

Artanis shoved him off, hard enough that Macalaurë stumbled backwards over the wet grass. “No. We shall have to make do.” Then she tugged him back, navigating her way around the awkward protuberance of his mask to stick her tongue down his throat.

They were both gasping when she pulled back. “There is one way this could be made significantly easier,” she said. “And fortunately for you, I am in the mood to be fucked like a bitch in heat.”

Then she threw off the rest of her gown, spun around, and bent down nearly in half. She planted her hands on the low garden wall.

Face appearing upside-down between her calves, she commanded: “Come now, get on with it. I have little patience for a drooping stem.”

Macalaurë, all the blood in his brain currently allocated to maintaining the rigidity of said stem, failed to note the reference to his earlier florid blandishments. With all the enthusiasm and cocksure confidence he brought to celebrating victory in the theatrical arena, he thrust into the glistening blossom of Arafinwë’s daughter.

~

What a splendid evening! Findaráto leapt off the stage, landing with another sweeping bow. The applause vibrated in his bones. The success of the recitation (and extempore dance) with Grandmother Indis had been a triumph, and all the more so for how perilously close it had come to disaster. Findaráto should have known better than to trust Macalaurë to be punctual for a warm-up on such an important occasion, but truly there were no other lips or fingers so skilled in all of Eldamar. And then the ladder toppling over! Scaling down the palace walls!

Findaráto laughed and threw his head back. He let it rest there, inhaling deeply. The chandeliers cast a myriad of colours over the domed and tiled ceiling. Marvellous!

A resonant, vaguely threatening voice drew his chin abruptly down.

“Have you seen your sister?”

Findaráto worked to keep the smile plastered across his face. No ‘Well done, nephew!’ Not even a ‘Good evening, Findaráto, how are you?’ Just ‘Where is your sister?’ Fëanáro’s interest in Artanis’ hair, amusing at first, was becoming a worrying fixation.

“Uncle,” Findaráto replied to the elegantly but plainly attired Fëanáro. He wore no costume or mask save a tall plumed headpiece — likely at his wife’s insistence. Fëanáro was vocal in his disdain for wearing disguises, even in fun (and yet his hand in crafting the bedazzled costumes of his sons was unmistakable). “Good evening. No, I have not seen Artanis.”

Fëanáro frowned. “Hm.” He threw back the last of his drink and shoved the glass into Findaráto’s hand. “Would you tell my wife I’ve gone for a walk?”

Without waiting for an answer, Fëanáro spun, heels clicking on the stone floor as he marched towards the hall’s exit.

Findaráto stared at his retreating figure. His mouth flapped uselessly. 'Leave my sister alone!' he wanted to cry. Especially now. Artanis’ proclivities were no secret to her eldest brother and primary confidant (or so Findaráto flattered himself into believing). If Artanis was nowhere to be found at this hour there was almost certainly a salacious reason for it. So far the evening had gone so well! Not even a word of aggression exchanged between the bifurcated lines of Finwë. But if Fëanáro were to catch Artanis in an act of passion—! Findaráto rather doubted the proud son of Míriel would come away unscathed.

By now, Fëanáro was nothing but a black plume rising above the crowd. Findaráto trotted after him.

~

Fëanáro stalked through the garden paths silent and perilous as a panther. Findaráto tracked him. It was due only to his greater familiarity with these gardens, which his uncle shunned whenever possible, that he managed to escape notice.

While keeping an eye on Fëanáro, Findaráto quirked his ears in the direction of various locations he knew from personal experience to be ideal for holding tryst.

His left ear caught on a staccato series of sharp cries. They were coming from the primrose garden. A low moan and murmur soothed the cries into silence. Momentarily — for they started up again almost at once, louder than before, and then broke into speech.

“Aahh, yes, yes! Fuck me, you wanton rogue!”

A knowing grimace tugged Findaráto's mouth down. He was by now mostly inured to the shock of hearing such cries from Artanis' mouth, but no big brother would ever wholly be free of the impulse to drag his little sister away from her ravisher, no matter how willing she might be.

Then he panicked: the path Fëanáro followed was leading him directly to her location. Findaráto broke into a run, thoughts grasping for a clever distraction while his feet raced to stop his uncle.

When he came to a breathless halt and Fëanáro spun on him, he still had no plan.

~

“Then I just blurted: ‘Uncle!’ — he grimaced at that — ‘I’ve been meaning to ask you about a point in your recent lecture on the tehtar.’ ‘Yes?’ he said. ‘Er yes,’ I said, frantically trying to remember something from the talk. ‘Ah! Yes, well, as you know, I am fluent in Telerin,’ — he huffed and rolled his eyes at that — ‘and I was interested in your point about the roots of Quenya méla as it relates to Telerin māla.’ He raised his brows impatiently, but his eyes lit up. I think my youthful enthusiasm must have saved me from humiliation. ‘Well, my Telerin prince,’ he said, ‘it doesn’t,’ then he took me by the arm and indulged me with an hour lecture on the coalescing of vowels, which might have gone on until Laurelin’s flowering had not your mother tracked us down and dragged him away. But it was a small price to pay to keep him from coming upon my sister and her lover. Can you imagine!”

Findaráto burst into a fit of laughter.

“Mm, clever Ingo.” Macalaurë nipped Findaráto’s collarbone. His hands tightened around his ribs.

“Ah, that tickles!” Findaráto shrieked.

Macalaurë settled himself on top. Findaráto was still chuckling as he stooped to kiss him. When he pulled away, his lips curled in that way that meant he was about to say something he thought witty: “Lucky you didn’t walk yourself into a bed of thorns.”

“Oh, please.” Findaráto smacked his shoulder.

Macalaurë’s smirk split into a grin. His thumbs followed the curve of Findaráto’s pectorals and toyed with the pearl rings piercing his nipples. When Findaráto responded with a shiver, he slipped his tongue through one of the rings.

Findaráto’s sigh of pleasure ended in another fit of giggles. He could not keep his thoughts from straying to the narrowly-avoided crisis in the gardens.

“Who do you think she was with?” he mused.

Macalaurë groaned and thumped his forehead against Findaráto’s breastbone. “I do not care!” he grumbled, then bracing himself on his elbows and adjusting his hips so that the hard length of his arousal met Findaráto’s abdomen, he said more seductively: “You are with me now, and there is something we need to finish.”

Findaráto’s own arousal jumped in answer, and he allowed himself to be rolled over and hoisted on top of Macalaurë, where their mouths joined hungrily.

It was not long before Findaráto’s neck was thrown back, breath coming in short gasps and hands clenching and unclenching around the sheets, while two slick fingers worked to ease him open. A tongue swirled around the head of his shaft. A shock of pleasure rushed from each point of contact and Findaráto cried out when they met mingled inside him.

Then suddenly he was bereft of both tongue and fingers. “Wha— What, no! Please, don’t stop, I’m— wha—”

A hand clamped over his mouth. “Did you hear that?”

“Herwut?” Findaráto mumbled against Macalaurë’s palm.

A shout and the patter of feet on the stairs answered for him.

“Ingo!” the woman’s voice called.

Ai! Findaráto cursed himself for not speaking to Artanis after the last incident with the wax ‘body painting’. “You have to draw a boundary, Ingo,” echoed Turukáno’s wisdom from the recesses of his memory. Too late now.

“Quick!” he squirmed out from under Macalaurë’s embrace. “It’s Artanis! Under the cover!”

Findaráto sprung up to tug at the blanket bunched at the foot of the bed, but with a flash of skin Macalaurë was out of the bed and—

“NO!” cried Findaráto.

—out the window.

In the same moment he disappeared from sight, the door swung open. “Ingo! You will not believe the evening I have had!” Artanis swept into the room, and her oblivious enthusiasm granted Findaráto precious seconds with which to cover himself.

She perched on the edge of the bed, flinging her cobra headdress onto the mattress beside her.

“Hello sister,” said Findaráto, and smiled.

Artanis laughed. “Ingo, did you know there are hatches in the ceiling of the Palace that lead to little balconies atop the turrets?”

“Mmhmm.” Under the cover, Findaráto’s fingers gripped his knees. His teeth clenched behind his smile.

“Well, there was this elf behaving very oddly — the one dressed as a seahorse, did you see him? — and he slipped off for a ‘rendezvous’, so I followed him.” A pained squeak rose in Findaráto’s throat. “Oh, don’t be a prude, I know you would have done the same. In any case—”

Abruptly, she stopped, her darting eyes landing on the nightstand on the opposite side of the bed. On top of it lay Macalaurë’s forgotten, and rather mussed-up, seahorse mask.

Her face fell. “Why do you have that,” she said darkly, a pallor of revulsion bleaching the rosy tint from her cheeks.

~

Angaráto was seated on the low portico wall when the nude elf landed in the flowerbed directly in front of him, arms extended like wings and mouth agape, as if shocked he’d stuck the landing.

Grinning smoothly, Angaráto shoved the dark head between his thighs down and draped his other hand casually across his hips.

“Hello Macalaurë,” he said. The body lying prostrate against the wall at his feet grunted. Angaráto kicked it.

Macalaurë blinked, mouth still hanging open.

“Are you lost?” Angaráto asked.

“I…” Macalaurë stammered. While he waited for his cousin to verbalise his thoughts, Angaráto’s eyes darted down the exposed plane of his chest to find him — as expected of one who had fallen naked from his older brother’s window — still half-hard. Macalaurë evidently took this as a sign of interest (which it was, on some level): when Angaráto’s gaze again found his, he was smiling smugly.

Macalaurë dragged his teeth over his bottom lip. “Lost? Not at all! I was just going for a swim — would you like to come?” His brows waggled suggestively.

This could be fun, Angaráto thought, stamping down on the body beneath him and leaning forward to come closer to Macalaurë. “A swim, eh?” he said.

Then several things happened at once:

The body on the ground sprung up between them, knocking Angaráto’s chin with one shoulder as he swung to shove Macalaurë into the greenery.

“Can you not leave anyone for the rest of us?” growled Macalaurë’s assailant.

“Carnistir?!” Macalaurë cried. “But I thought you hated—”

From upstairs, a shriek louder than both Macalaurë’s disbelieving protests and Angaráto’s roll of laughter: “I cannot believe you let a Fëanárion put his teeth near your—! Ugh!”

“I can’t believe you were listening! How could you not have known it was me?”

This was followed by a cry of dismay and several incomprehensible noises of disgust. “I don’t know! He was very— oh Varda save me! I can’t believe I let a Fëanárion fuck me!”

“You WHAT!?”

“I let him fuck me! After I heard him with you, I went to the gardens and he fucked me. And then he came back here, to you, the insatiable boar!”

But when Artanis and Findaráto appeared side-by-side, torsos thrust out of the upstairs window, shouting “Cáno!” and “You Fëanárian philanderer!”, it was only Angaráto they saw grinning up at them.

Concealed by a high retaining wall, Carnistir and Macalaurë made a slow retreat, mouthing curses, flicking, shoving, and tugging at the other’s hair.

~

The dining room in the seldom-occupied quarters set aside for Fëanáro and his household slowly filled with bodies. Fëanáro beamed as brightly as the rays of Laurelin streaming through the windows as each of his sons took their seats around the table.

When at last they were all assembled, Fëanáro addressed them. “My sons, I am most proud of your appearances last night. Seeing each of you like a jewel amid the crowd—” he ignored several groans “—swells my heart with—” a glimmer stopped him short. Laurelin’s light had caught on a long thread of gold on the tablecloth between Macalaurë and Carnistir.

“What is that?” Fëanáro asked.

His sons mistook the intensity of his tone for displeasure. “Oh, sorry,” they both said at once, reaching for the glorious strand of hair.

“No, let me see that,” said Fëanáro, extending his hand greedily. Macalaurë scowled (poor child, thought Fëanáro, he had clearly had too much drink), then plucked the hair from the table and held it out for his father.

Fëanáro snatched it from him and twisted it around one finger reverentially. He slipped it into a pocket. He looked from Macalaurë to Carnistir, briefly considering which of them— no matter. He had it now, that precious filament of mingled light he had so long sought.

“You did well,” he said to them both.

Sticking his fork into his eggs with satisfaction, he missed Macalaurë whispering to his brother: “Should we tell him?”

“No,” Carnistir replied, and shrugged. “Anyway, who's to say it isn’t hers?

#silmsmutweek #galadriel #maglor #finrod #galadriel x maglor #finrod x maglor #makarato #my fic

[sillysistersusi]

Not the Son You Remember, but the Man the World made Me

My fanfic for the @feanorianweek day 1: Maedhros

A/N: I am so sorry that this is late, but I couldn't manage to finish it sooner.

Enjoy!

Characters: Maedhros, Nerdanel & Celebrimbor

"You have changed the most." His Ammë's voice still rang in Maitimo's ears.

She hadn't meant any harm, he knew that, but it still affected him. Because he knew that Nerdanel's greatest wish had been for everything to be good again. That everything would go back to the way it used to be. And even if his brothers had changed a little, they didn't seem to have changed as much as Maitimo did.

He no longer had any scars from his torture, the only injury that remained was his missing hand and that was only because it always reminded him that he was no longer there, but there were still scars. But the kind of scars you couldn't see. The kind that was invisible eceryone and yet noticed by anyone who knew you.

Maitimo knew that he smiled less than he did back then, that he no longer radiated the same lightness and kindness as he did back then.

He was not the son his mother remembered, and that was painful.

Sometimes he felt strange, as if he was seeing the world through someone else's eyes and wasn't really there.

"Uncle Maitimo?"

Tyelpë.

Maitimo had completely forgotten his presence. Telperinquar came around once a week, usually Maitimo tried to help him deal with difficult thoughts related to the torture by Sauron, but today neither of them had felt like talking, so Maitimo had made tea while Tyelpë told him about his trip to the forest with Tyelkormo and Írissë last week.

"You are not well." Tyelpë said and put down his teacup to gently reach for Maitimo's hand. "Normally- normally we talk about my feelings, but maybe this time we should talk about yours?"

Maitimo sighed. "I am fine, Tyelpë. No need to worry."

But Telperinquar was not convinced. After all, he had inherited Curufin's acumen.

"Please, Uncle Maitimo, I would like to help you, but I so not know how. You helped me so much and I would like to give you something in return."

Maitimo sighed. He would have preferred to continue saying that he didn't need any help, but he could understand Tyelpë all too well. After Findékano had rescued him, he had felt the same way. He knew how overwhelming the feeling of wanting to give back help could be. On the other hand, Maitimo now knew how Findékano had felt back then and he could understand now why Findékano had been so reluctant to let Maitimo give him something back. It wasn't Tyelpë's Faust that he needed help to deal with these memories.

"Tyelpë, how is your relationship with Curufinwë?"

"Uncle Maitimo, do not change the subject- "

"I am not, trust me." he said a little more quietly than usual, which made Telperinquar falter.

He shrugged his shoulders. "Atya and I are- well. Not like we used to be, but of course we have changed a lot. But we are still a family, so everything's normal between us I guess. Why?"

Maitimo took his hand out of Tyelpë's to rub his forehead. "I think- Well- I am not who I was, you know?"

"Certainly not, how could you?" Then Tyelpë paused and scrutinised his uncle insistently, furrowing his brow and sticking the tip of his tongue between his lips in contemplation, looking incredibly like Curufin. This almost elicited a smile from Maitimo. "Did someone say that to you? You know our family would do anything for you."

"It is not, ah, Telperinquar," he sighed. "Ammë said I have changed the most."

"Is that really so bad." Tyelpë looked down at his hands and out of the corner of his eye Maitimo could see tears in his eyes. "I mean yes, we were hurt, but in the end you have to grow from things like this, do you not? We cannot let that bring us down."

Maitimo looked at his nephew now. He was really incredibly proud of all the progress he had made.

At first, Tyelpë had barely managed to look him in the eye, let alone utter a sentence that wasn't so stuttered that Maitimo had difficulty understanding its content when they talked about sensitive topics.

But he also had to realise that Telperinquar was right in some way. He shouldn't be ashamed of what had happened to him at the hands of others and should concentrate on healing and being happy again.

"Atya felt the same way, you know?" Tyelpë said quietly. "I do not know if you noticed, but in the Halls of Mandos Tyelkormo and he were always avoiding each other. Uncle Tyelko was ashamed that he let his little brother die when he was right there and should have been protecting him, he felt the same way about Uncle Carnistir. However, Atya thought he would avoid him because he had changed so much. That is why he was very sad until they talked about it and came to the conclusion that they still loved each other the same. I would suggest that you talk to Grandmother about it."

Maitimo smiled gently, but then something caught his eye. "You are calling Curufinwë Atya again."

Tyelpë tucked a few strands of hair behind his ears. "We are making progress I guess."

"I think I will try to talk to Ammë about it. "Maitimo sighed heavily. "Thank you for your open ear Tyelpë."

Telperinquar gently wrapped his arms around him. "We are family after all."

~•~

Maitimo found Nerdanel in the dining room, sitting over a sketch for a new sculpture. For a while, he just stood in the doorway and looked at her. The way her red hair shone in the light of the setting sun and the scratching sound the pen in her hand made in the silence around her.

A lump had formed in his throat and his eyes had stung the whole way here.

He didn't know how to start this conversation. His mother and him had never really had serious conversations.

Then his knees began to shake and he had to support himself with one hand on the doorframe. Nerdanel seemed to have seen this movement out of the corner of her eye, because she turned her head towards him and promptly dropped the pen. "Maitimo?" she asked in horror.

He obviously looked more sad and tired than he had thought. His mother sounded so worried and almost sad that tears escaped his eyes.

"I am sorry, Amya. I never wanted you to be sad because of me."

Nerdanel carefully took his arms and led him to the chair where she had been sitting a few moments ago and helped him to sit down. She carefully knelt down in front of him and stroked his cheek with the palm of her hand. "What are you talking about?" she asked quietly and worriedly. "You are one of the reasons why I am happy. Just as all my children make me happy, you make me happy too, Maitimo."

"Oh- " he took a shaky breath. "Even though we have changed? Even though we are no longer the boys you knew as your children?"

He wiped his eyes with his sleeve, but more and more tears came.

"Oh Maitimo." she whispered and gently stroked her thumbs under his eyes. "My dear, good Maitimo. That's not what I meant. Change does not always mean something bad."

Her voice was trembling now and Maitimo thought he saw tears glistening in her eyes.

"I would be lying if I said I did not miss the old days, but all that matters to me is that you are here again," Nerdanel continued gently. "I still love you just the same, but it hurts to know that you were hurt so much and there was nothing I could do to help you."

Maitimo lowered his head onto his mother's shoulder and sobbed quietly. "It is all right," whispered Nerdanel. "Everything is all right now. I am here now and I will never let anyone hurt you like that again. Never."

And so Maitimo understood. Nerdanel had hated his change, not because he had changed, but because she believed it meant she had let her children down by not coming with them. She hated why he changed not that he changed. Because it was a part of him, and she still seemed to love him.

"You are a wonderful mother, Amya," he whispered and kissed her gently on the cheek.

Nerdanel laughed wetly and buried her face in his red hair. "You are back home, so we can make sure everything is good from now on."

"Yes." Maitimo nodded. He felt much lighter now. "Yes, we can do that."

#feanorianweek #maedhros #celebrimbor #tyelpe #tyelpë #nerdanel #maitimo #feanorians #nelyafinwe #telperinquar #mother-son relationship #healing

[aotearoa20]

April Fic Recs

I promise you I'm not broken (I promise you there's more)

Author: maglor_my_beloved Characters: Maeglin and Celebrimbor Rating: Gen Word Count: 1360

Instead he asks, "What is your name?" The survivors of Gondolin he'd met had refused to speak of the one who had revealed their city's location – they had only told him that it had been Írissë's son, that he had betrayed them out of greed and malice. Celebrimbor had not believed it then, and he believes it even less now that the supposed traitor kneels weeping in his private chamber. The Elf hesitates. "I have not had a name in a long time, my Lord," he replies. "I have no need of one." Celebrimbor clenches his fist and tries to hold back his tears. He must be strong now. "What did your mother call you?" The Elf is silent for a long time. Celebrimbor fears he might not remember. When the answer comes, it is so quiet he nearly does not hear it. "Lómion."

AU in which Maeglin survives the fall of Gondolin and eventually ends up in Ost-in-Ethil. Such a heartbreaking and hopeful fic. The author gets across Maeglin’s desperation battering so needlessly against Celebrimbor’s compassion so poignantly. The second chance Annatar could have had.

Read here. Author’s Tumblr: @maglor-my-beloved

#apologies this mb is not as nice as I’d like #not indicative of its fic #it’s really good #silm fic #fic rec #maeglin #lomion #celebrimbor #moodboard #tolkien edit #silmarillion #tolkien

[melestasflight]

I wish I had more time this week to create something more for @aspecardaweek, but here's my recent attempt to explicitly write aromantic characters.

Keep my heart warm while I’m gone dives into life on Helcaraxë and intimacy between friends - Aredhel and Ecthelion. They march on, they love (in their own way), and they survive together.

Appropriate for the Day 4 theme of 'worldbuilding,' this was inspired by Lakota traditions and Cherokee astrology.

Fic snippet below the cut.

~

The winds are still, and the camp outside falls deadly silent. Ehtelë traces idly the notches down Írissë’s forearm. Some match his own for Elves dear to them both, but not all, and she carries many more. He draws the pattern in his mind like memorizing a celestial map; he would recognize Írissë anywhere.

His friend’s heartbeat drums against his ribs. Its rhythm hastens right before she asks, ‘Do you remember the day we sneaked into grandmother’s orchards and fell upon the bushes of chokeberries? I would march barefoot in the snow right now for a single berry.’

Ehtelë fails to recall the taste of the small fruits, although they used to be his favorite. A bitterness of hunger lingers on his tongue. Írissë need not be burdened with this.

‘How could I forget?’ He smiles at the memory nonetheless. ‘Mother ensured I remember exactly what would happen the next time I decided to steal from Queen Indis’ gardens, be it with her kin or not.’ 

‘Do you remember what happened after?’

‘We shamelessly acted a belly ache to avoid supper, and Anairë saw right through us.’

‘No, before that.’ Írissë’s heartbeat now clops like the hooves of galloping horses.

He knows exactly what she’s asking. That moment he can envision as clearly as the shadows of the lard lamp dancing against the wall of their tent. The flames of their hearts were young, then, and the yearning pulsed through Ehtelë’s body. Not for love letters with feverish confessions nor for muffled whispers between the garden mazes.

But touch he had craved, to hold a hand longer, for a kiss to linger. He remembers how he claimed Írissë’s berry-stained lips shyly and clumsily. His friend giving in to her own curiosity, savoring the trust between them before she ended the kiss and escaped, leaving him to chase after her through the woods. Írissë was and still is the faster runner between them.

Her lips trace the line of his jaw with intent, and this is not a memory.

From Keep my heart warm while I’m gone

#writing aro characters felt so right #so organic #I didn't know how much that resonates with me #aredhel #ecthelion #aspecardaweek #day 4 #my writing #the silmarillion #tolkien #indigenous lore

[warrioreowynofrohan]

Favourite Female Tolkien Character Poll - Round 2, Match 5

Eärwen

The daughter of King Olwë of Alqualondë. Marries Finarfin, and their kids are Finrod, Angrod, Aegnor, Orodreth (in some versions) and Galadriel. The Noldor slaughter her people in the First Kinslaying and steal the Teleri swan-ships. Finarfin turns back and returns of Valinor after the Doom of the Noldor, but all her children continue on to Beleriand, and all except Galadriel die there.

Elenwë

The wife of Turgon and mother of Idril; died in the crossing of the Helcaraxë.

Elenwë…perished in the crossing of the Ice; and Turgon was thereafter unappeasable in his enmity for Fëanor and his sons. He had himself come near to death in the bitter waters when he attempted to save her and his daughter Itaril [Idril], whom the breaking of treacherous ice had cast into the cruel sea. Itaril he saves; but the body of Elenwë was covered in fallen ice.

Írissë [Aredhel] was under the protection of Turukáno [Turgon] who loved her dearly, and of Elenwë his wife.

#favourite female tolkien character poll #earwen #elenwe #teleri #the silmarillion #history of middle earth #tolkien

[a-world-of-whimsy-5]

The many faces of grief

Day 6 prompts: Loss | Betrayal

For: @silmarillionepistolary

Rating: Teens and Up Audience

Character: Fingolfin

Themes: Angst-ish | Loss | Comfort | Hints of Russingon

Warnings: Major character deaths prior to the beginning of the story

Wordcount: 1.7K words

Summary: Fingolfin writes in his journal after settling his children and his people along the northern shore of Hithlum, and discovers something is troubling his oldest child.  

A/n: Nicknames: Finno – Findekáno/Fingon | Turco-Turukáno/Turgon | Írri - Írissë/Aredhel | Káno – Arakáno/Argon

This is also available on AO3

Arakáno Ñolofinwë’s journal

30th day of Coirë, year 2 of the First Age.—‘Tis the first time in a long while that I have been able to put my thoughts on parchment. We have finally established our camp along the northern shores of a great lake, and our people now have an opportunity to rest.

But not to find peace. The host of Fëanáro had been here before us. We saw it in the blackened firepits that littered the area and the tattered banners that were left behind. Not knowing what became of them, I commanded our scouts to ride forth and bring with them any news of my half-brother, Fëanáro, his sons, and their followers. These riders returned not long after. They announced that the sons of my half-brother and those who had followed them had established their camp along the southern shore of the same lake. Neither hide nor hair, they said, could be found of Fëanáro himself. More than one voice rose in alarm. Many others rose in anger. I will not condemn the others for their displeasure and their fear. After we stayed behind in Araman, my people and those loyal to Arafinwë held on to the hope that there was still a sense of honor lingering in the Fëanorians and that the ships would be sent back to ferry the rest of us across the great sea. Alas! That was not to be! The swanships, those fabled vessels of white and jet and gold, were put to the torch. I can still harken back to the dreadful sight that greeted us upon that fateful hour, when the horizon was kindled and glowed as if aflame. Great was the lamentation that followed! We were betrayed and abandoned to our fate. And we did not return. We could not do so. I could not do so. I also could not bear the thought of leaving those loyal to me at the mercy of my half-brother and his rash counsels. The children of Arafinwë refused to forsake my own, and my own...my own...

Great is the pain that lingers in my children’s hearts and mine. We spilled blood unrighteously, and the price for spilling such blood was death and torment. And we have already begun to pay. Many perished during that great trek across the grinding ice, including my own daughter by marriage, lady Elenwë. Turco is consumed by grief. I can see it in his eyes and I can feel it in the anger that taints his voice whenever he speaks of Fëanáro and his sons. It is the same anger I feel whenever I think of Káno, my youngest child and the darling of his mother’s eyes, lying dead and bloodied on the shores of Lammoth. We gave him as proper a burial as we could manage, and I pray his spirit has found its way safely to the Halls of Mandos. I pray that he finds peace, and I pray that the Valar, in their mercy, may find it in their hearts to pardon him and all those who perished along the crossing. It is too much to expect, given the doom we brought upon our heads by the doings of our own hands. However, I must hold onto the hope that redemption is still possible for even those accursed like us. As for the children of Arafinwë… they seem to bear us no ill will for the role we played in the slaughter of their mother’s people. I must confess, however, that there are times when we dare not to even look upon them, for our shame is that great. But enough of that for now. I must send our scouts riding again. I must ask them to speak with those loyal to Fëanáro and report back to me all that they are told. I pray that they are allowed to return to us unharmed.

32nd day of Coirë, year 2 of the First Age.— Our scouts came back with dark words. Fëanáro had perished during a great battle, stricken to the ground by Gothmog, Lord of the Balrogs. His spirit burned its way through his vessel of flesh and blood, turning all that remained of him to ash. I wept for him, strange as it may seem. Fëanáro was my brother. Despite our troubled past, despite all that he had done, he was my brother. Now I will not see him until the long years of my life have come to an end, and I must answer the Great Judge’s call. Perhaps this is a good thing. Perhaps it is best that we do not see each other until the hour of my demise has passed and my spirit makes itself known to Lord Námo. Bitterness and anger and grief still cleave to my heart like choking vines, and had Fëanáro lived, my words and my actions upon our meeting would have given rise to new conflicts, and that is something we could ill-afford while we stumble our way across this strange new land we must now call home.

This was not the only dreadful news we received. My nephew and my half-brother’s heir, Nelyafinwë, was taken captive soon after his father perished. He was captured during an ambush devised by Lord Morgoth. No one knows what became of him, and many among his followers fear he was dead. Makalaurë, Fëanáro’s second son, now rules as our king.

“The great songbird of the family now wears the crown of Finwë,” Turco spat while we dined on what our hunters could find. We had to abandon some of our provisions to ease our crossing. Others were consumed. Now we must start our lives anew with the little that remains to us, and with what we can find here. “By all rights, father, it is you who should wear the crown. You are far more worthy of it than he.”

“Whether I am worthy of it or not, it is of little consequence in the end,” I returned. Then I caught a glimpse of my oldest. His face was pale, and his eyes were red and glistening with unshed tears. He was deeply troubled, and he had been deeply troubled since our scouts returned to us with the news they carried. “Makalaurë is king. He has been anointed in accordance with the laws and customs of our people. We need to learn to make peace with it while we still can.”

“Better him than one of the others,” said Írri. “Makalaurë can be reasoned with, brother,” she added when Turco scoffed in derision. “And he is the one least likely to deal with us falsely.”

Turco did not agree. “He is not the elf you knew, sister. None of them are. Their fair hands are tainted with the blood of the innocent.”

“Our fair hands are tainted by that same blood, my son,” I reminded him. “But I understand your apprehensions. I also agree with your sister. We will be better off if we deal with Makalaurë, and not the others. Now I wish to speak with Finno alone. Pray excuse us.”

My other children took their leave of me, but only after I extracted a reluctant promise from Írri to never wander beyond the borders of our camp. This land was no Valinor; none of us knew what lurked in the shadows. And I am not ashamed to confess that I cannot bear the notion of losing yet another child.

“You wished to speak with me, father,” Finno said after others had come in to clear the wooden slab that served as a table and clean the cushions that served as chairs.

“Yes.” I made myself comfortable on the cushion opposite his. “You had been distraught since our riders returned with their news about the fates of Fëanáro and Nelyafinwë; I could see it in your eyes. Pray tell me what troubles you.”

“It is a trifling matter, father.” Finno accepted the measure of water I poured for him. He waited until I served a measure for myself before he continued. “I was merely thinking about...”

"Nelyafinwë. Your beloved,” I finished for him. My son was startled. He opened his mouth to speak, to refute me, no doubt. I raised a hand to silence him. “Do not attempt to deceive me, my son. I know of your trysts with him and how you often conspired to meet him before Morgoth poisoned us all with his lies.”

He drained his cup in one swallow. “How, father? How did you know?”

I poured another measure of water for him and wished we had some wine left in our stores. “I saw it in the looks you would give each other and the little bruises that would appear briefly whenever your robes moved out of place.” I took a sip of what I had in my cup. The water was cold and fresh. It revived me a little. “Then there were the times you left the palace during the hours Nelyafinwë left by himself, claiming he wished to hunt. You were not as discreet as you thought you were, Finno.”

My son had the decency to look contrite. “I thought we were so careful,” he whispered.

"You were not careful! Not in the slightest!" My anger flashed. My child hiding a secret that could have ruined all of his prospects had it made its way into the light chafed at me in a way I could not describe. "Pray tell me, why did you choose him? Why did you choose Nelyafinwë as a companion? He was your kin by blood, not just by marriage! If others found out you would have been ruined! And after all the ways his father scorned us... does loyalty to your own family mean nothing to you?"

Finno flinched back, startled. It was the first time I had spoken sharply to any of my children. "It means everything to me, father. But why did you keep silent all these years?"

"I wanted you to come to me of your own accord instead of keeping such damning secrets to yourself. But no matter. It is finished now. It is finished now, yes?"

"Yes, father," my son murmured. His voice wavered. "It is finished. Nelyafinwë is gone. Pray forgive me, father, for wounding you with my indiscretions." 

When I heard his appeal for forgiveness, when I saw the agony in his dulled eyes, what anger I had ebbed away, and compassion took its place. I studied Finno keenly. He was grieving. Worse than that, he had to grieve silently and without the comfort of others.

“Tell me the truth, my son," I began, softer this time. "Do you love him still, even after all that has been done?” 

“Yes, father. I thought what I felt for him died during the crossing, and...” My son said no more. A low moan of despair escaped his lips when he buried his countenance in his hands and began to weep. I could not bear to witness his distress. I went to him and gathered him into my arms.

“Grieve for him, my son.” His hands clutched desperately at my back, even as his tears continued to fall. “It is only right that you do so." 

“Will you think poorly of me if I do so?” He breathed hard, as if he were trying valiantly to compose himself. “Will you think poorly of me grieving the death of one who betrayed us?”

“I will think nothing of the sort," I assured him. “You love Nelyafinwë. I may not understand why, my son, but you love him. And I insist that you come to me whenever your grief threatens to overwhelm you. I will help you bear it.”

#silmarillionepistolary #epistolary #fingolfin #fingon #aredhel #turgon

[maglor-my-beloved]

Hunter's Blessing

(Reveals on September 10th)

Artist: @skyeventide (Ao3: SkyEventide)

Author: @maglor-my-beloved (Ao3: maglor_my_beloved)

Kneeling side by side in front of the fire, they held the raw, bloody meat to the sky, chanting in unison.

“Lord Oromë, hear us! You we follow, in Your name we hunt. To You we give the first part, in thanks for Your blessings. Hear us, Lord Oromë!”

They threw the meat into the fire and watched the black smoke rise. When it had burned to ash, they turned to face each other.

Tyelkormo raised his hand, wet with blood, and drew Oromë’s symbol on Írissë’s forehead. “Receive the Huntsman’s blessing.” His voice was deep and solemn.

She did the same for him. “Receive the Huntsman’s blessing.”

Rating: Art: G | Fic: T

Warnings: None

Relationships: Aredhel + Celegorm, Aredhel/Celegorm, Celegorm & Curufin, Aredhel & Maeglin, Celebrimbor & Maeglin

Characters: Celegorm, Aredhel, Curufin, Maeglin, Celebrimbor, Eöl

Additional tags: Hunting, Hunters of Oromë, Rituals, Not Eöl-Sympathetic, Horror Elements, Doom of the Noldor, Aromantic Aredhel, Implied/Referenced Forced Marriage, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Hopeful Ending

Word Count: 6.459

Inspired by @skyeventide's gorgeous art: Celegorm tries to rescue Aredhel from Nan Elmoth, but the forest is set on keeping him out. Will he ever see her again?

@tolkienrsb

#trsb22 #celegorm #aredhel #maeglin

[cilil]

𝐍𝐞𝐰 𝐀𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐬 | 𝐍𝐞𝐰 𝐂𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬

AN: This is indeed the follow-up on the plan these two gremlins hatched for epistolary week!

𓄌 Characters/pairings: Oromë x Celegorm x Aredhel 𓄌 Synopsis: Some time ago, Celegorm and Aredhel hatched a plan to hunt Oromë himself during the next Feast of Horns, and now it's time to test their luck. Thankfully, Oromë seems amenable to this idea… 𓄌 Warnings: Smut, sexual content, Oromë's vagina 𓄌 Oneshot (~1.3k words) | AO3

Oromë stood caught within Írissë's net as if it didn't bother him at all. And he could probably tear it to shreds and escape if he wanted to, Tyelkormo mused, but he didn't, instead slowly turning his head to look back and forth between them.

"So it has come to this," Oromë said. His deep voice sounded so calm that it was almost soothing in a strange way, but the two hunters weren't going to let their guard down so quickly. 

"We have come for a favour, lord," Írissë challenged. 

Tyelkormo didn't wait for an answer. Instead he threw the makeshift lasso he had made to stake his claim as well and was almost surprised when Oromë made no move to evade it, just letting him catch him. 

He started to pull. The Vala stood still. 

They approached together. 

"A favour, hm?" Oromë's mighty brow furrowed in contemplation, then he nodded. "And I take it that offering my antlers will not suffice?"

"Precisely," Tyelkormo said, grinning. 

"We want you," Írissë added. 

"Very well then." Oromë stretched his limbs, easily tearing through the net, and pulled Tyelkormo with him as he walked towards a nearby patch of grass. "Come, hunters. Your prey is willing, but not forever patient." 

Írissë exchanged an excited look with her cousin when they hurried to follow him. Tyelkormo couldn't believe his luck either; he knew that the Vala favoured them, but hadn't assumed that it would be this easy to convince him. 

Oromë lay down on his side as if the grass was a large, comfortable bed and waved his hand to make the pieces of precious fur he had worn disappear. He had barely been clothed before, but now his shameless nudity entranced both Hunters. Blood-red and deep green runes had been painted on his fána, glowing and pulsing with a fey light as if ichor ran through them, and bone-white hair framed his ancient, beautiful face. 

"Have at it, hunters," he said, lips twisting into a smirk. "I am all yours, unless you prefer to stand there and stare." 

It was his turn to challenge them, and they would answer. 

Írissë was the one to make the first move. Bold as always, she knelt next to Oromë and placed both hands on his broad chest to push until he gave in and moved to lie on his back instead. She climbed on top of him then, grinning triumphantly, and straddled his torso. 

"Should I take your antlers first or kiss you?" she teased. 

"Your wish is my command, Lady Írissë." 

As enticing as watching them was, Tyelkormo tore his gaze away from the pair and made his way over to Oromë himself. He had a Vala to claim, and that thought alone sent searing hot lust coursing through his entire body. No hesitation now, only going forward, just like when he had cornered his prey and went in for the kill. 

Kneeling as well, Tyelkormo took hold of Oromë's strong thighs to part them, and his lord acquiesced without resistance. What he found, however, surprised him; he had expected to be met with a phallus worthy of a Vala, yet now he beheld the soft mound of a vulva, covered in soft, white curls. 

His mouth watered. While he could only guess why Oromë had made his fána this way, it was a most delightful surprise. 

From underneath him Tyelkormo glimpsed a small deer tail, its underside also white like the deer they hunted in the Vala's domain, and he wondered if he could get it to move if he pleasured him enough. 

Impatient, he pushed two fingers inside Oromë. It felt just like Írissë had when he had fooled around with her a couple of times, and a muffled groan could be heard between the wet noises of her kissing their willing victim with utmost enthusiasm. 

Tyelkormo felt elated. He pushed as deep as he could, moved in and out, increased the speed of his movements. Oromë's fána was responding so well, as if it had never known the hunt and violence and only served the pleasure of others; he could barely begin to imagine what wonderful things Vána must have done with her husband. 

"I can take you, Tyelkormo," Oromë suddenly spoke up, "If that was your concern, worry not." 

"I was wondering what was taking so long," Írissë chuckled. "Normally you aren't so shy, are you, Tyelko?" 

Tyelkormo wondered if she had at any point noticed the details of Oromë's anatomy, but decided not to tell her. She was going to find out soon enough, and undoubtedly be just as delighted as he was. 

Never one to turn down a challenge, he quickly unlaced his breeches, stroked his cock a couple of times and thrust inside. By Eru, it felt good. Not that his past experiences hadn't been pleasurable, but the flesh of a Vala was different. Eternal yet also strangely ephemeral through constant shifting and changing, strong and unyielding yet wonderfully warm and soft, echoes of Oromë's song thrumming deeply within his bones and blood. 

Tyelkormo forgot all about his surroundings. His gaze rested on Írissë's bending, swaying, writhing form, but he saw her not, and even the Vala's mighty presence faded into the background. The rustling leaves, the birdsong, the distant voices of other Hunters, nothing else existed anymore — his world was reduced to the blissful sensation of frantically thrusting in and out of Oromë like a beast in heat. He wanted it to last and at the same time wanted it to be over, desperate to relieve the mounting need plaguing him and with it leave his mark upon yet another lover. 

Throwing his head back with a groan of ecstasy, Tyelkormo spilled his seed. It felt as though the waves of orgasmic bliss were relentless, pulling him into the depths of a bottomless ocean, and he collapsed on top of Oromë, still inside. Gasping for breath, hearing his own heart race, it took him a moment to realise that he should have collided with Írissë as he fell, and he glanced up at her. 

She had moved further up, now proudly seated on Oromë's face, and from his limited viewpoint Tyelkormo could see her rocking her hips and pulling his hair. Ah. What she was doing was rather obvious, so he decided not to interfere. 

That, however, would prove to be not his decision to make. 

A flurry of red, brown and green was all he saw before he heard Írissë squeak in surprise, and then a pair of arms wrapped around him and tossed him to the forest ground, his cousin landing next to him soon after. They looked up to see none other than Vána and Nessa standing above them with triumphant smiles and gleaming eyes, wearing matching pairs of antlers decorated with flowers. 

"Good job, brother. I see you have diversified your hunting skills," Nessa laughed. 

"You... what...?" 

While Írissë, still startled and out of breath, attempted to formulate a question, Tyelkormo turned his head to face Oromë. The Vala had risen from his prone position and was lying on his side once more, watching the spectacle with calm amusement.

Their eyes met. 

"I told you once that a hunter never yields and always has a plan, Tyelkormo," Oromë said. 

"You–?!" 

"It wasn't planned, admittedly. But I had indeed promised my dear wife and sister to help find some lovely prey." 

"Lovely indeed." Vána grasped Tyelkormo's chin and forced him to face her. "You seem to have enjoyed my husband's body. Will you show me the same courtesy? Or do I need to convince you first?" 

The flowers on her antlers bloomed, ready to fill the air with sweet pollen. 

Nessa and Írissë had already begun to engage in a strange mixture of making out and wrestling. Tyelkormo blinked a few times, realisation fully dawning upon him. He might have claimed a Vala, but now he and his companion had become prey after all.

taglist: @angbangbaby @a-world-of-whimsy-5 @blauerregen @bluezenzennie @edensrose @elanna-elrondiel @eunoiaastralwings @i-did-not-mean-to @just-little-human @saintstars @singleteapot @urwendii @wandererindreams

#feastofhorns #orome #oromë #celegorm #tyelkormo #aredhel #irisse #nessa #vana #celegorm x aredhel #celegorm x orome #nessa x aredhel #oneshot #silm smut #silm fanfic #silmarillion fanfiction #silmarillion #cílil writes #my writing #minors dni #heed the warnings

[nothinghereisworking]

Undreams

Chapter 24 of my Finrod: 30-Day Character Study

Prompt: In Dreams. Your character is asleep and dreaming. What are their dreams typically like? Write or sketch a dream sequence that explores your character’s subconscious.

Warning: today's entry took a dark turn.  Reference to character death.  It may not exactly fit the prompt but... it's what the muse took from it.

_____________________________________________________________

His nightmares are of unending ice.  He has walked unceasingly, nothing to mark the passing of time but the loss of another life.  His life is now measured in lives, and each feels like a debt too burdensome to ever hope to repay.

Even Irmo’s paths have shut them out and they wander aimless and lost, never finding the rest they so desperately seek.

Some dreams slip through, marred; untamed by Irmo’s guidance they assault the Exiles with whispered terrors and visions that are difficult to separate from waking, and yet waking is its own terror.

Cold had driven out even the memory of warmth; darkness, the memory of light; and loss, the memory of peace.

Ingoldo tries to recall the sweet dreams of Valinor that had once enfolded him as he slept, safe in his bed.  He tries to recall the smell of lilac and the chirp of crickets and the dance of white moths in the light of Telperion.

He had danced upon a time, his feet light and body lithe.  He had once fallen into Amarië’s arms and they had laughed and kissed and found themselves in dreams together; dreams of a distant sea beneath the stars where they knew love.

He had in dreams ridden the ships of the Teleri, rolling upon the waves as he sang to Ossë and felt the salty spray of water on his face.

Now the spray of water raises cries of alarm, looking for who had fallen in, desperately trying to reach them.

Írissë has hold of Itarillë but Turukáno is almost in the water himself, pushing uselessly at the ice that covers Elenwë.

Time lurches forward in another agonizing increment of death.

Ingo cannot tell if he is awake or asleep.  He walks again, unceasingly.  His nightmares are of unending ice.

#author: cuarthol #silmarillion writers' guild #writing prompts #finrod #helcaraxe

[who-needs-words]

The more I try and actually write a long piece for Lalwen the more frustrated I get about how little I have to go off.

We know her name (father name is Írimë, mother name Lalwendë), what her name means (Írimë probably = desirable/ lovely. Lalwendë = laughing maiden). We know she goes by ‘Lalwen’ a shortened form of her mother-name. We know her birth order (third child and second daughter). We know one decision she made (going into exile) and who her favorite relative is (Fingolfin). THATS IT.

Like. This is so much more than we have for some other female characters (including her own older sister). But! So! Little!

We can make some conjectures; for example Aredhel was probably named after her. (Írissë meaning ‘Desirable Lady’ v Írimë meaning ‘desirable/ lovely’). She might have gone into exile because she loved Fingolfin a lot. She laughed a lot (her name). She preferred that name- why? Is it because it came from her mother instead of her father? She is the only one of her siblings to go by her mother name over her father name except for Fëanor. She’s also the only one without a reference to either parent in either of her names. What does this say about her relationship to them? She’s also the only to not Sindarinize her name (because it already fit Sindarin) even when she could have gone by the direct translation- Glaðwen or Gladhwen. Speaking of; ð and þ are very similar sounds- ( ‘th’ is used for both but þ is voiceless while ð is voiced)- so what does not using a name that could have a ‘th’ sound say about her relationship to Fëanor?

Those are just questions about her life in Valinor! We straight up do not know what happened to her. She could still be chilling in middle earth when lotr and the hobbit happens! She obviously doesn’t get mentioned in either but then again neither do the blue wizards (just an example of characters who could be important and have important counterparts just vanishing into the depths of middle earth). We just don’t know. What where her hobbies? Did she marry? Have kids? (I personally adore headcanoning Gil-Galad as her son).

We can make a few wide assumptions based solely on the fact that she’s a Finwean- lines like “… [Aredhel] was fearless and hardy of heart, as were all the children of Finwë.” Can be used as evidence that Finwëans are widely a crazy bunch so why would Lalwen be any different? Finwean women from Galadriel to Idril to Aredhel to Arwen are deeply driven people. Broadly speaking Finwean women make their own choices, even if they’re bad ones. They’re fearless, courageous, clever, wise. Similar characteristics can be broadly shared to other Finwëan women- like Lalwen and Findis. (Side note: if anyone has other quotes relating to the Finwean family as a whole please share).

We can continue using these few facts to ask questions - did Fingolfin just name is daughter Írissë because he loved his sister broadly or because they were actively similar? Or are names broadly meaning ‘desirable women’ common for Finweans? (See the use of Írien meaning ‘lovely’ as a previous name for Lalwen).

All of this hypothesizing brings me back to my first point; We. Don’t. Know. We just don’t! Functionally nothing to go on!

This means that what little we do have gets interpreted differently and used as a basis for wildly different characterization (I myself have created wildly different Lalwens while using the same base logic). Questions like why was she named laughing maiden? Did this mean she was charming? Loud? Funny? Each of those comes with different characters interpretations- if we think it’s a reference to her sense of humor maybe she played family peacemaker, or made jokes as a coping mechanism for her disastrous family. Or maybe she was a very loud child, possibly chaotic, couldn’t sit still, always moving. And so on and so forth. If she was charming maybe she was a good politician or diplomat?

There is just so much possibility in her character and it’s all based on these few facts. Who was she? What did she do? Why did she do the things she did? (We don’t know even know why she made her one cannon decision!)

This is all two say; 1) if you have a Lalwen interpretation please share I’m curious 2)once I settle on a Lalwen you bet I’ll be writing something rather long.

#eli rambles #Lalwen my beloved #Silmarillion #the silmarillion #silm #the silm #silm meta #silmarillion meta #Lalwen #irime lalwen #lalwendë #irime #uhhhh other tags to add #Tolkien #fingolfin #aredhel #Findis #tolkien headcanons #Lalwen headcanons #ASK ME ABOUT MY LALWEN HEADCANONS #PLEASE COME TO MY ASK BOX I LOVE HER SO MUCH #gil-galad son of Lalwen #Gil-galad son of plothole

[elennalore]

I participated in Scribbles & Drabbles 2022 @fall-for-tolkien both as artist and author and had a really good time! Thank you for organizing such a wonderful and relaxed event! Here’s the master list of my written works, gifted to the artists with links to art prompts. Four fics, various characters, both gen and shippy, rated from G to E.

A Seaside Adventure for @maglor-my-beloved. Art prompt: Full Brother in Heart. Fëanor & Nolofinwë. 1057 words. Fëanáro takes care of little Nolofinwë on the beach while the rest of the family is away. Then something happens that makes little Nolo cry. Thankfully, Fëanáro is there to make things right. Rating: G

Early One Morning for @anne-wolfe​. Art prompt: Sunrise Painting. Maedhros & Nolofinwë. 2050 words. Nolofinwë is often awake before anyone else. This morning, however, he finds Maitimo at his favourite spot by the lake; Maitimo who has not left his sickbed since his rescue. Rating: T

The Missing Piece for @i-did-not-mean-to​. Art prompt: A winter’s night. Celebrimbor & Maedhros, Celebrimbor & Curufin, Maedhros/Fingon, Celebrimbor/OMC, Celebrimbor/Annatar. 7301 words. Celebrimbor feels lonely and frustrated after Curufin learns about his lover and sends him away. During a visit to Himring, Maedhros is supportive. Seeing Maedhros and Fingon together makes Celebrimbor yearn for his soul mate, though. Will he ever find the one meant for him? Rating: M

Education for @z-h-i-e​​. Art prompt: Triad. Celegorm/Aredhel/Curufin. 3039 words. In the last days of Valinorean summer, Tyelkormo goes riding with his brother. The news of Curufinwë’s upcoming marriage has saddened him more than he wants to admit. A chance encounter with Írissë changes the course of the day. Rating: E

#my writing #scribbles & drabbles 2022 #silm fic #silmarillion fanfiction #feanor #fingolfin #maedhros #celebrimbor #curufin #fingon #annatar #celegorm #aredhel #inspired by art

[lamemaster]

The Burden of Souls

Genre: Angst (Hurt/No Comfort)

Word Count :

Character: Turgon and Fingon. Slight mention of Fingolfin.

Summary: The king had mourned the loss of his brother so deeply that the grief had settled in his fea like an unmovable rock. The king, who refused to move away from the corpse of his elder brother.

“Turukáno.” A distant voice broke through the darkness that surrounded him. “Hanno!” The same voice continued to ring all around him. It pestered him that the source of the noise would not leave him alone.

So, hidden behind a fallen log the elfling clutched his ears and scrunched closed his eyes. He tried to block everything around him. Yet, he could not escape from the noise.

Unknown to all leave for one, the second son of prince Nolofinwë huddled into himself in the desolate woods of Valinor. The said elfling, also known as prince Turukáno, sobbed resting his head between his arms. His tiny frame shook with sobs that would not stop no matter how hard he tried.

Frustrated at his own weakness he could not help but remember his father’s words. Maybe that was true… maybe he really was a terrible child. His father had been disappointed in him. He had glared at him “Turukáno are you aware of what you’ve done? Your actions have brought shame to me today.”

Prince Nolofinwë stood in front of his son with a stern look. While most knew Curufinwë’s rage to be disastrous not many were aware that his stepbrother had inherited the same rage.

However, unlike his brother Nolofinwë’s anger accumulated over time. It simmered at a slow pace and then one day it would boil over burning its recipient with wounds that scarred permanently.

His father paused to rub his forehead which was creased with a frown “Not to mention that brother mine would not let it go easily.”

“How could you attack Turcafinwë? He is your elder and I will not tolerate this!” His father’s rising voice made Turukáno flinch from where he stood. He wanted to tell his father that he had not been the first one to hit. He wanted to tell his father how cruelly his cousin had mocked their family but he couldn’t bring himself to speak under his scrutiny.

He had hoped that his father would understand him. Ask him what had made him punch his cousin or at least give him a chance to present his side of the story. He had hoped that his father would pick him up in his lap and gently ask him about the incident just like he did with Írissë or his brother Findekáno. He had wished so ardently.

“I can’t believe that you’ve learned nothing from your brother Findekáno at all.” A familiar pain shattered Turukáno’s heart as he heard the words he had feared to hear all his life.

His father hated him. He had known it deep in his fea. He had seen it when his father would praise Findekáno or coddled Írissë. He had waited for the same love yet, it seemed to never come his way.

Now standing in his father’s study Turukáno’s heart ached deeply as he looked at his father’s back. He lowered his head in shame that weighed heavy on his shoulders as tears flooded his eyes.

He would not make his father sad. “I… I am sorry ata.”

Therefore, prince Turukáno had silently closed the door behind him and left the palace of the gleaming city of Tirion. The elfling walked the busy paths of the city with a small portrait clutched in his tiny hands. It was a portrait of the house of Nolofinwë.

Unseen by anyone the prince had left the city of his birth and made his way to the woods. He would never go back. Maybe that would please his father. The innocent heart of the elfling still imagined his father and his mother looking for him. A part of him wished they would be distraught. Despite his decision, he hoped his family would look for him.

Hours passed as the sky darkened and woods that once seemed familiar now looked menacing. Turukáno could hear the distant shuffle of beasts that roamed the woods. Frightened by unknown beings he covered his ears.

He should have known… no one would come.

With his ears covered and his legs folded to his chest, Turukáno waited for the beasts to calm down. He missed his mother. The dark, the cold, and the wetness scared him. He wished for his mother. She would take away all his fear in an instant. He wished for the lightened halls of his home. If he could, he would rush home at that very moment. Yet, his body refused to move. Fear and shame shackled the elfling.

He almost jumped out of his skin when he felt a touch on his head. “Turukáno.” He knew the voice. The sobbing elfling removed his hands from his ears and jumped into the embrace of his brother.

“Hanno!” In front of Turukáno was prince Findekáno, the eldest son of Nolofinwë.

Shame, anger, and envy all left Turukáno’s mind as he clutched his brother’s robes. His brother Findekáno had come for him and that was all that mattered. Lonesome woods or distant growls of the beasts did not matter anymore.

His brother Findekáno did not interrogate him or pester him with details. Instead, he simply hugged him back. While softly patting his back his brother picked him up and started to walk back.

Almost drowsy Turukáno woke up with a jolt. He pulled his brother’s robes to make him stop in the way.

Findekáno stopped and looked down at the elfling in his arms. In response to his questioning glance, Turukáno hid his face on his brother’s shoulder. In a voice that could barely be called a whisper, he said “Ata hates me.”

Tears that had seemed far away a few moments ago seemed to gather like clouds before a storm. Shame which had fled on seeing his brother had found a way back.

Shuffling the sorrowful elfling in his arms prince Findekáno pried his brother’s face up so that he could look at him clearly. “Hanno, atar could never hate you. How could anyone ever hate someone so smart, so kind, so responsible.”

Seeing the reluctant look in his younger brother’s eyes Findekáno continued. “We all love you so much Turukáno.” Wiping away the remaining tears Findekáno kissed his brother’s forehead.

“If I had to choose between eternal darkness of void or losing my dearest brother. I would live the rest of my days without a mention of light. Trust me Turukáno your brother would never let you get hurt.”

“I am sorr-rry hanno” with trembling lips and shuddering breaths second eldest of Nolofinwe hugged his brother back. “I promise to be better and I will never let harm come to your way hanno.”

“Oh my!” Findekáno ruffled his brother’s hair as they started to walk again. “I am sure my brave Turkano would never let anything happen to me. How should I repay this favor? Would you perhaps fancy that pie amil made?”

At the mention of food Turukáno’s stomach growled. “Pie it is then!”

Under the light of Telperion, two brothers made their way to the gleaming city on Túna.

---------------- --------------------------------

His knees buckled below him. He had failed yet again. He had failed just like he had with Aredhel, Argon, with his Elenwë. He had failed his promise.

“Hanno…” he tried to wipe away the blood that covered every part of his brother’s face. He tried to wipe it away with his cape yet, it kept on coming back.

His brother’s braids with golden ribbons had been undone. No…no Fingon would hate this. Nope, his brother always braided his hair. Maybe he could rebraid it before he woke up.

With fumbling fingers, he tried to braid his brother’s matted hair. Why was it so filthy? His brother always cared for his hair. Ignoring the blood that continued to form a puddle around him, the king of Gondolin, braided his brother’s hair. He had seen his brother do it plenty of times. He had seen him weave the glimmering ribbons that had been so unique to him.

He braided just like Fingon did. Yet, his brother would not wake up. “Hanno…hanno please wake up. Hmm? Hanno listen to me please.” The frantic now high king of Noldor shook his brother’s cooling corpse.

“Hanno please,” he bent down to hold his brother’s face and kissed his brother’s forehead “hanno I am scared. Please come to me. Please come… I am sorry… just this once. I will be good…”

Kneeling around the High King the leftover armies of Gondolin saw their king talk to the corpse of the deceased High King. They tried to ignore his shaking shoulders and wretched sobs. King Turgon continued to whisper to his brother who now lay dead for hours. Silent whispers, apologies, and promises. They saw their king plead to the Valar, to Ainur, to Illuvatar. The king tried everything.

And then it stopped. The high king straightened his shoulders and the grief that plagued him was at once nowhere to be found.

#the silmarillion #silmarillion #turgon #fingolfin #fingon #War of Tears Unnumbered #suffering #childhood #flashback #brotherly bonding #brotherly moments #regret #trauma #one shot #Angst #sad ending

[warrioreowynofrohan]

Favourite Female Tolkien Character Poll - Round 1, Match 11

Elenwë

The wife of Turgon and mother of Idril; died in the crossing of the Helcaraxë.

Elenwë…perished in the crossing of the Ice; amd Turgon was thereafter unappeasable in his enmity for Fëanor and his sons. He had himself come near to death in the bitter waters when he attempted to save her and his daughter Itaril [Idril], whom the breaking of treacherous ice had cast into the cruel sea. Itaril he saves; but the body of Elenwë was covered in fallen ice.

Írissë [Aredhel] was under the protection of Turukáno [Turgon] who loved her dearly, and of Elenwë his wife.

Eldalótë

The wife of Angrod in the version where he is the father of Orodreth (rather than his brother, as in The Silmarillion). Since a Sindarin translation of her name is given, she likely went with him to Beleriand - making her, I think, the only named wife of a Finwëan who went there and survived the journey.

#favourite female tolkien character poll #elenwë #eldalote #tolkien #the silmarillion #history of middle earth

[brynnmclean]

💬❤️!

Okay, ❤️ first!!!!! I know I commented all over the axe of my grandfather via Google Docs, BUT I was rereading it this morning, so that's my pick for you today.

There is SO MUCH about this fic I love so I am hard-pressed to find something small to quote, especially when I love that whole starting conversation between Faramir and Prince Imrahil! I am DEEPLY fond of all of the books-only side characters you also fit in there (Prince Imrahil, of course, but also Mablung and Damrod! Bergil and Beregond! Elladan and Elrohir!!!) so I'm going to find a quote featuring any one of them.

OH WELL, this is a long section I'm quoting anyway because it makes me laugh:

“I wish I could meet him,” Faramir said. “You said he too bore the Ring, for a time?” “Yes,” Frodo said. His fingers closed a little over the glass vial he held. “At least, he kept it, without knowing what it was. I don’t believe even Gandalf knew, for a long time. He - my uncle, not Gandalf - mostly used it for escaping irritating relatives.”

Faramir had kept his father’s counsels too long for his jaw to drop. Instead, he merely blinked, and smiled and greeted Bergil and Beregond when Bergil dragged his father over to eat more of the biscuits and cut fruit and cheese that had been set out with the teapots (three of them, with three different kinds of tea, on hotplates over a little brazier Sam kept at a very low glow). Bergil had been made to go to school, which he plainly was not enjoying, but he liked Frodo’s way of sharing the lore he was meant to be learning in his lessons, and Sam’s way of stuffing him with snacks at every opportunity. Beregond had been assigned the duty of organising the hobbits’ honour guard by Faramir himself, and spoke to Frodo with only slightly more constraint than his son did. Bergil, Faramir thought, was too young to understand what Frodo had gone through, and even light-hearted and impulsive Pippin was not eager to explain it to him.

 “That’s pretty,” Bergil said. “That jewel you have in your hand, Mr Frodo. What is it?”

Frodo smiled wearily. “I’ve told you a thousand times to call me Frodo. It’s my star-glass; Lady Galadriel gave it to me. She said it would be a light to me in dark places, and so it has been.” He curled his fingers closed over it, and then turned his hand over and opened them so that the star-glass lay on his palm. 

“The Lady of the Golden Wood?” Bergil breathed, although Beregond looked somewhat concerned, and laid his hand on Bergil’s shoulder as if to keep him back. “She made it?”

Frodo’s smile broadened. “Yes. She who is Lady Arwen’s grandmother. You know the standard of King Elessar, which shines even if no light strikes it? Lady Arwen made that with her grandmother’s teachings.”

Bergil’s mouth and eyes were both perfectly round. A peculiar sort of look crossed Beregond’s face, as if he’d bitten into a pickle he didn’t recognise and wasn’t sure if it was good or not.

Faramir raised an eyebrow at him. “What ails you, Beregond?” “It just occurred to me that that means Lord Elrond has the Lady of the Golden Wood for a mother-in-law,” Beregond said, in a slightly strangled voice, “and I have not the wits to know how a man would approach that, my lord.”

IT'S SO GOOD. There are so many skillfully woven in details in this section that are a delight to me. But Beregond boggling over the idea of having Galadriel as a mother-in-law makes me laugh every time.

Okay, for me for 💬 for fell in love with the fire long ago, but an unpublished section:

“I’m all right,” the Maia tells Írissë, running a hand through his hair and then picking up a discarded pack on the ground, setting that aright, too. His hair is a rich brown color, falling in shoulder-length, loose waves, except for a small braid along the right side of his head. Pearlescent sea-shells catch Telperion’s light—and that’s strange to Írissë’s eyes because the beard-scruff says Aulë’s, but the shells say Ulmo’s. The Maia turns a burnished gold gaze to Tyelko and smiles.

Just because you and I were talking about the split-custody agreement Aulë and Ulmo must have over Mairon!!! I'm going to have to explore Ulmo's feelings about Mairon later, I think. :)

I did like the chance to talk about Mairon having Halbrand's beard even in Aman where no one has seen humans yet. But Mairon choosing to have a beard because Aulë has one feels right to me!

[ask me about fic quotes!]

#rain sleet snow #replies #tolkien fic recs #writer reader quotes #an uncorrupted mairon au

[maglor-my-beloved]

Scribbles & Drabbles 2022

I wrote 21 fics and a total of 20.000 words for this year's Scribbles & Drabbles. Thank you to everyone participating, and thank you to the awesome mods at @fall-for-tolkien! Make sure to give love to all the amazing artists who inspired these fics <3

Hymn to Írissë - Art by @thedaughterofshadows

Words: 383

Relationships: Aredhel & Celegorm

Characters: Aredhel, Celegorm, Huan

Additional tags: Greek Mythology AU, Hymns, Artemis!Aredhel, Orion!Celegorm, Aromantic Aredhel

Sing, Muse, of far-shooting Írissë, the huntress clad in white, who delights in the wild forests and tall mountains, bold-hearted goddess who draws her bow to hunt wild beasts and monsters fell.

Found-Finwë - Art by @sortumavaara

Words: 980

Relationships: background Erestor/Glorfindel

Characters: Erestor, Glorfindel, Original Characters

Additional tags: Adoption, Arguing, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Erestor son of Caranthir

A group of Elves from Imladris comes across an elfling in need of a parent. Everyone wants the baby - who will get to adopt it?

With You in My Heart - Art by @elennalore

Words: 338

Relationships: Celebrimbor/Erestor

Characters: Celebrimbor, Erestor

Additional rags: Fall of Eregion. Goodbyes, Implied/Referenced Character Death

Celebrimbor and Erestor say their farewells before the fall of Ost-in-Edhil

Star Anise - Art by @i-did-not-mean-to

Words: 1918

Relationships: Fëanor/Nerdanel & Sons of Fëanor, Caranthir/Haleth & Erestor, Maedhros & Maglor & Elrond & Elros, Erestor/Glorfindel, Celebrían/Elrond

Characters: Fëanor, Nerdanel, Sons of Fëanor, Haleth, Erestor, Elrond, Elros, Glorfindel, Celebrían

Additional tags: Fluff, Cozy Winter Nights, Family Feels, Family Traditions, Kidnap Fam, Good Parent Fëanor

Cozy winter nights and a tradition passed down through the ages���

Distress Signal - Art by thedaughterofshadows

Words: 1039

Relationships: Fëanor & Sons of Fëanor, Maedhros & Maglor & Elrond & Elros, Curufin & Celebrimbor, Caranthir & Erestor, Celebrimbor & Erestor & Elrond & Elros

Characters: Fëanor, Sons of Fëanor, Celebrimbor, Erestor, Elrond, Elros, Eärendil (mentioned), Morgoth (mentioned)

Additional tags: Science-Fiction, Space AU, Kidnap Fam (but in space) (now with less murder and more Fëanorians), Erestor son of Caranthir

“There was no solar flare. Whatever threw us out of hyperspace… it wasn’t natural.”

This Coming End - Art by elennalore

Words: 536

Relationships: Celebrimbor & Elrond

Characters: Celebrimbor, Elrond

Additional tags: Fall of Eregion, Canonical Character Death, Implied/Referenced Torture, Angst, This Is Sad

Celebrimbor writes a last letter to Elrond as Eregion falls.

All Your Father's Weaves - Art by @kilegriel

Words: 705

Relationships: Caranthir & Erestor, Caranthir/Haleth

Characters: Caranthir, Erestor, Haleth (mentioned)

Additional tags: Family Fluff, Weaving, Father-Son Relationship

Little Erestor tries to help his father

Home Through Shadows Journeying - Art by @the-red-butterfly

Words: 3875

Relationships: Eärendil & Maglor, Eärendil & Elrond, Elrond & Maglor

Characters: Eärendil, Maglor, Elrond, Glorfindel

Additional tags: Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Oath of Fëanor, Oaths & Vows, Reunions, Abandonment Issues, Silmarils, Hopeful Ending

Gil-Estel had fallen. Maglor finds Eärendil, unconscious and injured, and is faced with a choice - take the Silmaril and leave, or risk his life to save Eärendil's?

Jewel - Art by Lferion

Words: 470

Relationships: Celebrimbor/Maeglin

Characters: Celebrimbor, Maeglin

Additional tags: Jewelry, Celebrimbor's love language is gift giving, Maeglin has self-worth issues, they're in love, Fëanorian propaganda? in my fallen banners fic? it's more likely than you think

“Lómion, kindness is not a thing one must deserve, and it is when we feel we least deserve it that we need it most.”

At Your Gravesite - Art by i-did-not-mean-to

Words: 300

Relationships: Fëanor & Fingolfin, implied Fëanor/Fingolfin, Celebrimbor & Elrond

Characters: Fingolfin, Fëanor, Elrond, Celebrimbor, Maedhros, Eluréd, Elurín

Additional tags: Grief/Mourning, Canonical Character Death, Child Death, Implied/Referenced Torture, look i am sorry

Graves, and the people who visit them

Family Portrait - Art by @anne-wolfe

Words: 310

Relationships: Aragorn/Arwen, Celebrían/Elrond

Characters: Arwen, Aragorn, Aragorn and Arwen's Children, Elrond, Celebrían

Additional tags: Family Fluff, Gondor, Fourth Age, very mild angst

Having a portrait of four young children painted isn't easy

Star-Flower - Art by @melestasflight

Words: 524

Relationships: Atanalcar & Elrond

Characters: Atanalcar, Elrond, Elendil

Additional tags: Númenor, Family Feels, Choice of the Peredhil

Elros' youngest son chooses immortality

Tax Report - Art by sortumavaara

Words: 1620

Relationships: Elrond & Erestor & Glorfindel, Elrond & Gil-Galad, Erestor/Glorfindel

Characters: Elrond, Erestor, Glorfindel, Gil-Galad

Additional tags: Humor, Bureaucracy, Taxes, Cursed Items, Implied/Referenced Animal Death, Snakes (the snake does not die), Elrond is having a Bad Time

It's tax season in Lindon, and Elrond needs to deal with some strange items delivered to the palace.

Secret Mission - Art by Torpi

Words: 931

Relationships: Fëanor & Fingolfin & Finarfin & Findis & Irimë

Characters: Fëanor, Fingolfin, Finarfin, Findis, Irimë

Additional tags: House of Finwë, Sibling Bonding, Family Shenanigans, Good Brother Fëanor, Mild Hurt/Comfort

What would happen if Fëanor, instead of pushing his siblings away, bossed them around instead? Shenanigans, that's what.

Colours of your Heart - Art by anne-wolfe

Words: 200

Relationships: implied Fingon/Maedhros

Characters: Gil-Galad, Elrond

Additional tags: Complicated Family Relationships, Second Age Lindon

Gil-Galad knows the part he is expected to play, and he plays it well. Elrond refuses to play a part.

The Flowerpot Incident - Art by sortumavaara

Words: 2078

Relationships: Elrond & Maglor, Erestor & Maglor, Elrond & Erestor & Glorfindel, Erestor/Glorfindel

Characters: Maglor, Elrond, Erestor, Glorfindel

Additional tags: Hurt/Comfort, Head Injury, Imladris, Reunions, Hopeful Ending, Erestor son of Caranthir, most dangerous elf alive defeated by flowerpot; more at three

Maglor, attempting to sneak into Imladris to check on Elrond, gets knocked out by a flowerpot. This is not how Elrond imagined the reunion with his foster-father.

Mírdain - Art by Silwë

Words: 469

Relationships: Celebrimbor & Elrond

Characters: Celebrimbor, Elrond

Additional tags: Secomd Age, Family Feels, Gwaith-i-Mírdain, Ost-in-Edhil, Celebrimbor's love language is gift giving

Celebrimbor founds the Gwaith-i-Mírdain and meets his cousin.

Sauron the Influencer - Art by Leraye

Words: 238

Relationships: -

Characters: Sauron

Additional tags: Modern AU, Social Media, Influencers

Sauron lands in the modern world and decides to make the best of it

Yávië - Art by Ysilme

Words: 918

Relationships: Elrond+Erestor

Characters: Elrond, Erestor

Additional tags: Queerplatonic Relationships, Botany, Forests, Autumn, Elrond is a Nerd, Erestor is Tired, Erestor son of Caranthir

Elrond grinned from where he hung upside-down from a bookshelf in a remote and little-used corner of Imladris’ library. Elrond and Erestor search for a bug.

EXPLICIT Gold-Cleaver - Art by Silwë

Words: 330

Relationships: -

Characters: Maglor

Additional tags: Trans Male Character, trans Maglor, Scars, Body Worship, Sexual Content

“Makalaurë…”  A whisper in his ear. A finger tracing his collarbone, lips on his neck, a gentle scrape of teeth on the sensitive skin.

EXPLICIT Blood on Your Lips - Art by sortumavaara

Words: 1838

Relationships: Erestor/Glorfindel

Characters: Erestor, Glorfindel, Elrond

Additional tags: Vampires, Biting, Blood Drinking, Mildly Dubious Consent, Begging, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Overstimulation

Glorfindel offers Erestor his blood and gets more than he bargained for

+ 1 TREAT! Tell me, Heart, tell me, why are you weeping for him? - Art by Lferion

Words: 144

Relationships: Celebrimbor & Curufin

Characters: Celebrimbor

Additional tags: Grief/Mourning, Canonical Character Death, Oath of Fëanor, inspired by the Finrod's Song rock opera

Celebrimbor, at Curufin's grave, thinking about his father

#scribbles & drabbles 2022 #fanfic #silmarillion #tolkien