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thelordofgifs · 11 months

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Congrats on 300 followers! Fic prompt if you want: Maedhros has been released from mandos because of Reasons but maglor is still MIA in middle earth and mae has Some Thoughts about this

Thank you for the prompt, anon! Sorry it's been *check notes* a month and a half.

Maedhros was almost the last of his family to return to life; only his father still lingered in the depths of Mandos, and would, some said, until the end of the world itself.

Maedhros found he cared very little about this. He had spent too long, in his first life, reminding himself that he was Fëanor's son, and Fëanor's heir, with all that entailed; and it had led him in the end only to ruin. Perhaps, this time around, he might do better. If even Curufin could walk again with the wife he had disavowed, and the son who had disavowed him – if Celegorm, who had wronged an elf-maid so cruelly, could hunt with Aredhel of all people once more – perhaps there was hope.

Well, there was more than hope: there was Fingon, who had been waiting for him when he first emerged from the Halls of Mandos. With the solid weight of Fingon's warm hand in his, Maedhros had begun to believe that living again would be possible. It was a belief that lasted until the first tear-filled reunion with his mother and brothers was over, and he asked, "Is Káno yet to return from Mandos?"

Everyone went very quiet.

At last someone – he did not later recall who – informed him that Maglor would not be returning from Mandos. Maglor had never died; and, as far as anyone knew, he wandered Middle-earth yet, although the Grey Havens were long since abandoned and no ship had sailed the Straight Road for many Ages of the Sun.

"I searched for him," Elrond told him, later, when Maedhros sought him out to ask. "I looked everywhere, for thousands of years. Galadriel, too, although she won't admit it. He did not want to be found."

The Maglor-of-memory was a laughing, sociable creature, whose dark eyes had always flashed brighter in company, and whose voice had always soared most sweetly before an audience. In the days of their youth – strange, now, to think that Maedhros had ever been young, although his skin was as soft and unmarred as it had been when he was a babe – Maglor had delighted in dragging him along to every concert's after-party, every impromptu poetry reading and outdoor picnic gathering as Telperion bloomed.

He had come to the Mereth Aderthad because Maedhros had asked it of him, and Maglor had always done as Maedhros asked; but he had enjoyed it, too, in a way that Maedhros, then not two decades free of Thangorodrim, could not. It was his clearest memory of the feast, now: not the careful diplomatic work he had put in between course after course of too-rich food, not the unclouded kindness of his uncle's smile, not the moonlight gleaming silver off the lake as Fingon embraced him where no-one else could see, but Maglor's clear bright laugh sounding above the chatter of the partygoers.

And even after everything had been lost, he had still loved the children they had stolen deeply; he had been happiest in their company, with one on his knee and the other nestled into his side, or as they grew older in the schoolroom learning their lessons and in training-yard as he taught them how to fight. Their few remaining followers, too, had increasingly turned to Maglor when they ran into small difficulties, for he did not shudder in disgust from those he had led into slaughter, and could yet summon up a smile when they spoke to him.

That Maglor, then, could ever choose solitude willingly! What had been done to him, who had always taken solace in the society of others?

Maedhros knew the answer to that, actually.

"I really did try everything," said Elrond, who was a venerable elf-lord now, and yet did not sound so different from the six-year-old Maedhros had met long ago.

"Yes," he said, and then he went away, unable to offer any better comfort.

It had always been Maglor who had offered comfort.

He would not be welcome in Alqualondë, even now. But the Bay of Eldamar was long, and there were beaches enough for lonely wandering here, within sight of the Sundering Sea. Long ago Maedhros had stood on the shores of Losgar and thought that name apt indeed – and although all the world was changed since that moment, the breach in his heart remained.

He knelt to dip his fingers in the salty water. Perhaps far away Maglor was doing the same. The brine would sting the burn on his blackened, withered hand, although the soft uncalloused skin of Maedhros’ palm did not protest its own submersion. Perhaps Uinen, weeping yet for the slaughtered Teleri, called up storms to disturb the glassy water as Maglor drew close; perhaps the seagulls of Elwing’s acquaintance swooped squawking at his head if he lingered in one spot too long. And did he not deserve it?

The Halls of Mandos were supposed to heal one’s spirit of its wounds, and there were few wounds deeper than those left by self-destruction. Although Maedhros knew, theoretically, how he had died, he had not thought of the moment since his return to life. Now the memory came rushing back to him: the terrible pain of the Silmaril in his hand, and the same holy light charring Maglor’s slim clever fingers as they curled around the jewel. Maedhros had led Maglor to it; he had pushed Maglor into stealing the Silmarils from Eönwë, and Maglor, unwilling, had done what Maedhros had asked of him.

“He does deserve it,” Maedhros said aloud, to the vast unfeeling Sea. “But – I did too, and—”

It had been too much to bear, the knowledge of what he had done to Maglor. Maedhros had jumped rather than face it. But he was alive now, and must reckon with this last and greatest crime: he had left Maglor. He had led his brother all throughout their miserable, bloody decline, and then he had abandoned him.

With some surprise he realised he was weeping. He had not yet shed a tear in this life; nor had he cried once in the last since the Nirnaeth Arnoediad. Maglor had wept for him, instead, had readied every brother for burial and bathed their dead faces with tears, had sung Maedhros to sleep with the laments written for their funerals. He had not been crying before Maedhros had jumped, but perhaps he had after.

Maedhros could not ask him. He would never see Maglor again.

Here, then, was the bitter truth: there were hurts yet past healing, and wrongs that the fire could not sear away. Maglor was gone, and it was Maedhros’ fault – and though he might mourn here forever, wandering the shores of Aman in some fruitless attempt to shadow his brother’s steps, it would not suffice to bridge the endless waters that lay between them.

What was left, then, in the face of that terrible self-knowledge? Only the sound of the lonely wind, which, try as he might, would not carry the sound of Maglor's voice to his ears, and the tang of salt upon his lips, and his tears falling vainly in the thankless Sea.

#silmarillion #my fic #asks #anon #maedhros #maglor #very funny that I am still combing through my 300 followers fic prompts when I have recently hit 500 #anyway this is very angsty but blame the anon for that ok

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emyn-arnens · 10 months

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As the Hare Flees Before the Wolf

Eöl & Celegorm | T | 1.8k | @tolkiengenweek Day 3: Enemies | AO3

The light of the open plains burned in Eöl’s eyes as he urged his horse onward, heedless of the wind lashing at his face. Again and again he cursed the names of his wife and son, turning their names into a drumbeat of rage that pounded steadily with the beat of Morroch’s hooves.

Aredhel, as faithless as the rest of her kin, bending to Maeglin’s whims and treachery as soon as Eöl’s gaze was turned away from her. And Maeglin, whose hatred had festered under the eaves of Nan Elmoth, and turned into a foul, fetid malignancy.

They would be punished justly, and his servants as well for not noticing their escape. He knew now that none could be trusted.

Eöl ground the reins into his palms and dug his heels into Morroch’s sides. He focused on the ground streaming beneath the horse’s hooves, averting his gaze from the accursed sun that burned high overhead.

Thus it was that he did not notice the half-ring of Elves that stood barring his passage, until a cold voice called for him to halt, and looking up and narrowing his eyes against the light, he found himself penned.

Eöl noted the light in their eyes, bright and burning with unearthly brilliance, and he resisted the urge to spit at their feet. Noldor. And sons or followers of Fëanor no less, for they wore the eight-pointed stars of all his ilk.

As Eöl drew Morroch to a halt, one of the Elves called to him, his voice mocking. “What errand have you in these lands that one so sun-shy as you would brave the sunlight? A matter of haste, perhaps?”

Though bitter anger rose in his heart, Eöl mastered his features and did the Elves courtesy, knowing his danger. Dismounting and bowing his head, he said, “I beg your leave, lords. I am following my wife and son, who departed from Nan Elmoth two days ago, while I was away. They rode to visit you, and I, seeing it fitting, sought to join them on their errand.”

“We marked their passing,” the leader of the Elves said, “though they did not halt to greet us, nor indeed stay with us, for that was not their errand.” He was pale and fair-haired, and in his hand he held a great hunting bow. He wore a wolf pelt about his shoulders, pinned in place with an eight-pointed star that was larger and glinted more brightly than those of the Elves around him, save for the dark-haired Elf that stood to his right, his posture languid but his gaze sharp. They were the lords Celegorm and Curufin, then, the cruellest of all of Fëanor’s cursed spawn. Curufin it was who had first called to Eöl, mocking him.

Celegorm dismounted and stepped forward, handing his bow to his brother. “We suffered them to pass, for their need seemed great, and their flight was as hares that flee before the hunting wolf.” His voice was fluid and sinuous, a voice that entrapped and ensnared.

“So either you seek to deceive us or you are yourself deceived, Eöl,” he continued. “I would warn you that it will fare better for you if it is the latter that is the truth, though I doubt that one such as you is capable of truth.” The Elf-lord’s face was cruel and perilous, and the scornful glance of his eyes as his gaze swept over Eöl in one dismissive motion sent rage burning through him.

But Eöl held his tongue and stood still and straight before Celegorm as the Elf paced slowly around him, his pale hair glinting in the harsh sunlight of the open plain. Although fear trickled through him, he tilted his chin. He would not be cowed by a kinslayer, perilous though Celegorm was.

Eöl mastered his expression as the Elf-lord again paced in front of him. “Perhaps, Lord Celegorm, you will give me leave to depart so that I might discover the truth of this matter.”

Celegorm stopped and laughed coldly. “And so let the fox loose from the trap so that he might again feast in the henhouse? I think not. It shall be decided here, with my brother and our men as witnesses.” He motioned to the Elves behind him.

He resumed pacing. “How would you bid us to decide in this matter, Dark Elf? To trust the words of one whose speech does not align with his actions, or to trust rather the counsel of my heart, which urges me to consider why the Lady Aredhel and her son seemed to flee as if the very hounds of Morgoth were upon them, and why you, not two days later, fly at their heels even in the light of the sun?”

“You misread the matter, Lord Celegorm,” Eöl said.

“Do I? Tell me the truth of it, then.”

Though Eöl felt his peril growing, he straightened as much as he could and answered, “My wife does not understand the customs of my house, and she suffers from an affliction of the mind, for I regret to say that she has weakened in mind and spirit since the birth of our son, and strange notions have entered her mind that never would have before. A healer has advised that she remain at home, where my servants can keep her in comfort and banish her delusions of discontent. Surely, kinsman, you understand now why I ride with haste after her. I fear for her well-being and that of my son, whom she surely has convinced to believe her delusions to be truthful.”

Celegorm came to a stop in front of him, and any trace of mockery had left his face, which had turned suddenly stern and cold. “Those who steal the daughters of the Noldor should be less heedless with their tongues, if they value the gift of speech. I name you no kin of mine, Dark Elf.”

Eöl stiffened. “I did not steal what came to me willingly.”

“Did she, or was she ensnared by the enchantments and entrapments you have long devised in the secret hollows and twisting paths of the forest? Do not think word of your work has not spread from the shadowed eaves of Nan Elmoth.”

Eöl’s lips twisted into a snarl. “Why should I bandy words with one who slaughtered his own kin?” he spat. He whirled and reached for his javelin, which was fastened to his saddle.

With a growl, the beast standing next to Celegorm lunged forward and wrested the javelin from Eöl’s hand.

Celegorm took the javelin from the beast, examining it. He ran his finger over the blade, where the poison glistened in the sunlight, then sniffed his finger. His gaze flicked up to Eöl’s. Eöl thought to see anger or triumph flicker in the Elf-lord’s eyes, but they were cold and impassive, and when he spoke, his voice was deadly quiet. “I wonder: Who was this meant for—your wife, or your son?”

Eöl felt the blood drain from his face, and he reached for the hilt of his sword.

But the Elf-lord was faster. In one fluid movement, the cold blade of a hunting knife pressed against Eöl’s throat, and Celegorm’s lips brushed Eöl’s hair as he whispered, “Who is the kinslayer now, I wonder? For all our misdeeds, we have never slaughtered our wives or children.”

Gritting his teeth in anger, Eöl kept his gaze fixed ahead, not allowing the Elf the pleasure of seeing his fear, though his heart hammered in his chest.

Celegorm withdrew the knife from Eöl’s neck, and before he could react, the Elf-lord wrenched Eöl’s hand up and swiftly drew the blade of the javelin head across his palm in a stinging slice.

Cold dread trickled down Eol’s spine, and his face contorted in fury as he looked up at Celegorm. “Thou art a kinslayer twice over, son of Fëanor.”

Celegorm said nothing in response, now flint-eyed and in a perilous mood, and he stepped back and addressed the encircling Elves. “Though his words are honeyed lies, his hands have shown the truth of his dark purposes, and he has felt the bite of his own poison. He will be dead by morning, perhaps, but there is now the matter of what to do in the hours until dawn.”

Even now Eöl felt the poison enter his veins, and his heart quailed. “Will you not release me to die as I see fit, or at the least kill me swiftly—or will you not suffer even those comforts, kinslayer?”

The Elf-lord’s smile as he turned upon Eöl was wolf-sharp, and Eöl knew now that the peril he had felt before had been merely a shadow of the peril he now faced. “To hasten the hour of your death would be too merciful, Dark Elf. Do not forget that I once followed Oromë. I can deliver mercy and withhold it just as easily.”

“You would break all laws of the Eldar.” Eöl looked from Celegorm to the other Elves, beseeching. But there was no kindness to be found in their gazes.

“You would have had Irissë die even as you do now, in slow agony of pain unrelenting. Is it not just that you should feel the same fear that she would have?” The light in Celegorm's eyes was wild and fey, and Eöl cowered beneath his glance.

“What will you now do with me?”

A smile curved Celegorm’s lips. “The hunt is about to begin, and we are in need of prey.”

Eöl paled, even as the Elves’ voices rose in laughter, and he leapt atop Morroch and dug his heels in, lashing the ends of the reins against the horse’s flank. Still laughing, the Elves parted as Morroch broke through their half-ring and lengthened his stride into a gallop.

As they fled over the plains, Eöl leaned low over Morroch’s neck and peered back over his shoulder.

Already, Celegorm, Curufin, and their followers outfitted themselves for a hunt. The great hunting bow hung at Celegorm’s back, and Curufin held a tall spear that glinted in the sun. Their followers leapt astride their horses, and hounds milled about the horse’s legs. Celegorm ordered the formation of the riders, and the hounds gathered in front, Celegorm’s slavering beast foremost.

With a cry of fear, Eöl urged Morroch faster, until sweat flecked the horse’s dark flanks, and foam showed about his mouth.

The sharp blasting of horns carried over the plains, and the baying of the hounds joined the bitter cries of the hunters. A howl rose above the din, louder than that of any wolf that stalked the dark forests of Beleriand.

And above all came the sound of cold laughter carried on the wind.

#tolkiengenweek #silm fic #tolkien fic #silmarillion #celegorm #eol #fotfics #create the canon you wish to see in the world (eol suffering)#huan is arda's no. 1 opponent of sexism #the silmarillion #my fic #domestic abuse cw #(mentioned only)

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doodle-pops · 1 year

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Can I ask for how would the elves react to the reader dodging their kisses?

They would assume you were being playful even though you could see the disappointment on their faces. Falling in line with your little game, they chase you about or pin you down and litter your face in hundreds of kisses while shouting along the lines of "How dare you dodge my kisses? Now try to dodge these!" For them, the entire ordeal would be considered a game and you simply being mischievous.

MAGLOR, CELEGORM, AMROD, AMRAS, FINGON, Argon, Finrod, Aegnor, GLORFINDEL, BELEG, EGALMOTH, ELLADAN, Elrohir

They get upset or pouty at the lack of feedback. You were fine just a few moments ago, why were you dodging their kisses now? Casually, they would hold you in their arms and question you if everything was okay, "Is everything alright? Did I do something wrong?" A bit more on the innocent side of the prank and absolutely confused.

Maedhros, CARANTHIR, CELEBRIMBOR, Fingolfin, Turgon, FINARFIN, Ecthelion, ROG, Maeglin, ELROND, Erestor, Gil Galad

The moment you dodge their kiss, they completely back away and become grumpy. Like, how dare you avoid my kisses? They would most likely drop the act with a few grumbles and distance themselves while looking at you with a 'side eye'. "Okay, fine. Just don't come running to me when you want kisses."

Feanor, CURUFIN, Thingol

#reactions #thingol x reader #curufin x reader #feanor x reader #gil galad x reader #erestor x reader #elrond x reader #maeglin x reader #rog x reader #maedhros x reader #elladan x reader #beleg x reader #glorfindel x reader #maglor x reader #finrod x reader #celegorm x reader #finarfin x reader #doodlepops responds

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curufiin · 1 month

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doodled a passage from @viola-ophelia’s fic that you guys should totally read:

Blood slicks the blade in Curufin’s hands, drops shining like rubies on the marble at his feet. It is a small price to pay, a few lives for eternal victory-- insignificant, really, in the grand scheme of things. He has the sun on his shoulders and his brothers by his side and his father’s blessing in his heart, and he imagines he gleams like the gem he seeks.

“Tyelkormo,” he says, keeping his eyes fixed, unwavering, on the arched door in front of him. “Kanafinwë. Come.”

The shadow that stretches, sun-warped, over the engraved wood is, of course, Celegorm. Curufin does not bother to turn his head and check. He knows his brother’s shape well, hands sliding his long sword out of its sheath. The other is slower to appear, shape wavering thinner over the doorframe. Maglor holds himself rigidly, as if steeling himself for some inevitable tragedy. Curufin thinks, rather viciously, that paranoia looks absurd on him.

“You understand, of course, how crucial this moment is,” he says shortly. “I will handle the discussion. Kanafinwë-- search for the Silmaril. Tyelkormo--”

He doesn’t say your job is to kill outright, but it’s a pointless courtesy. Especially when all three of them are painted with the blood of the small troupe of guards they’d met in the corridor. But Curufin likes tact. He likes filtering down his brothers’ deeds with vague words and subtleties until they are tallies on a scoreboard, the summarized sentences of legends. Casualty sounds better than murder, and so he uses it to catalogue their progress in his mind .

“Yeah, yeah,” Celegorm says impatiently, drawing a line over his throat with one hand. “If they give us trouble, I’ll tear their guts out. Let’s go already.”

Celegorm has never shared Curufin’s appreciation for tact, and the way he smiles sharklike at him now, showing all his shiny teeth, is unnerving. He looks excited to slaughter, to cut flesh into red ribbons and relish the sick snap of bone. A shiver slips down Curufin’s spine, a shiver he does not wish to dwell on. He pushes with both hands and the heavy doors swing open.

#the silmarillion #silmarillion #curufin #celegorm #maglor #sons of feanor #silm art #tolkien #art #i spelled tyelkormo wrong but honestly i don’t feel like fixing it #thinking about digitizing this maybe?

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lordgrimwing · 2 months

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Friends and Family #09

[for Maedhros and Maglor week, hosted by @maedhrosmaglorweek]

“Everybody,” Maedhros’ voice echoed through the cave. “Be quiet.”

Maglor put a hand over Caranthir’s mouth to muffle his whimpering. Fingon hushed the cousins nearest him, scooping sobbing Utrass up in his arms. Celegorm, bleeding from several scrapes courtesy of tumbling down the cliff the rest of them climbed down, held the old mining helmet aloft and tried to ignite the carbide lamp again. Everyone heard the fruitless clicking of the sparker.

“We’re going to be fine,” Maedhros continued now that he had their attention.

Six sets of eyes blinked at him in the dark, waiting. Caranthir sniffled again.

“Uncle Fingolfin knows where we went. If we can’t get out, the adults will come looking for us in a few hours. But–” He said, knowing Celegorm and Turgon opened their mouths to object to waiting for rescue– “we’ll get ourselves out before that happens. We didn’t go very far, and Maglor, Fingon, and I’ve all been down here on our own. Celegorm and Turgon, you two need to help us keep the littluns safe so we all stay together.”

“I’m not little!” Curufin objected. This was quickly followed by a thud as he tripped over something and fell.

“I got him!” Eiliaduin assured everyone.

“Thanks,” Maglor said, reaching out blindly with his free hand until he felt someone’s head.

Aredhel screamed. Everyone flinched.

He grabbed her arm. “It’s just me.”

“Oh, sorry.”

Maedhros sighed, long-suffering and already weary. “We’re all going to hold hands and go back the way we came.”

“What about the ledge we came down?” Turgon asked. The darkness did nothing to hide his worry. “I can’t climb back up in the dark.”

“Me neither,” Maglor admitted. He was still horribly short in his mind. Even Fingon was taller than him now, and he was 2 years younger.

“I’ll help everyone get up,” Maedhros said. “Now, come toward my voice and find a hand to grab.”

With a fair amount of shuffling and bumping and narrowly avoiding falls, they came together. Maglor, Fingon, Turgon, and Celegorm caught hold of the younger cousins’ hands, helping everyone join into a line behind the oldest. Maedhros called off everyone’s name to make sure they were all accounted for, then started shuffling slowly forward.

It was rough at first, but with a little trial and error (and Celegorm telling Caranthir to stop stepping on his feet, which the slightly younger boy insisted he was not doing on purpose) they fell into a rhythm. Maedhros described where they should be at regular intervals, warning when the passage sloped down or up again or the ceiling closed in low enough that they had to crawl awkwardly onward.

Before long—though it felt like an eternity to Maglor, blindly following everyone else from his spot in the back of the line—they arrived in the cavern with the dripping stalactites. Splashing through the shallow pool of mineral-rich water, they found the way forward blocked by a rough wall.

Maedhros felt his way along the stone, fingers searching for the opening they all slipped through earlier. He found it, a smooth hole at shoulder height, just as he began to worry that he wouldn’t be able to or that he’d accidentally led them into a different part of the cave. Relieved, knowing that it was just a bit further now before they’d see daylight, he said, “We’re almost there everyone. This is the last hard part.”

A cheer went up as they all gathered around him, eager to get out.

“Fingon?” He asked when things quieted down. “You go first and help everyone get reconnected up there. There’s a couple side passages up there, and I don’t want anyone to wander off.”

“Right,” Fingon agreed. “Can someone take Utrass?”

After handing the slightly calmer five-year-old off to Turgon, Maedhros hoisted him up and he scrambled into the mouth of the tunnel.

“I’m ready,” He said.

Maedhros called for another cousin.

Soon, Maglor was the last one waiting. He reached out for his brother’s hands. They were rough and strong against his own, confident as they cupped together, forming a step for his muddy foot. Maedhros helped him get up into the trees for years like this when the branches were too high for him to reach on his own. If he was climbing the tree to look for fruits or nuts, he always made sure to find a few extra just for Maedhros. He laughed a little at the bright memory.

“What?” His brother asked.

“I just thought about climbing trees.”

Maedhros chuckled under his breath. A private sound, just for the two of them. “I wish there were plums at the end of this.”

“Aunt Anairë brought lots of jams. Maybe she has plum.”

In the dark, Maedhros grinned. “We’ll have to ask when we get back.”

With that, he lifted him up.

Maglor climbed over the edge, surprised by the relief he suddenly felt at making it out of the deep dark in the cavern. While it wasn’t much, he could just make out the tracest, tiniest hit of light here. It wasn’t visible from below, but now he could see Fingon’s vague silhouette.

“Come on up, Mae,” His cousin said, gesturing Maglor a few feet up the tunnel so there was plenty of room.

Maedhros reached over the ledge. There wasn’t anything for him to grab onto, and though he jumped and tried to find a purchase for his feet against the stone, he couldn’t get enough leverage to climb up. He landed in the puddle with a splash and frustrated grunt after every try.

“Is he stuck?” Eiliaduin asked, trying to look back at what was happening from her new spot between Celegorm and Caranthir.

“No,” Maedhros insisted. “I’m not stuck.”

He jumped again.

“Wait,” Maglor said after the inevitable splash. “Grab Fingon and my hands this time.”

“I don’t want to pull you back down,” Maedhros worried.

“You won’t!” Fingon quickly interjected. To Maglor he said, “Sit down and press your feet against the wall.”

When they were wedged tightly into place, they asked him to try one more time. He did, and, grunting and straining, they managed to pull him up. The children clapped and the three of them fell together in a pile of relief and exhaustion. Maedhros hugged them both.

After a moment’s reprieve, they stood up and started the last leg of the journey out of the caves.

#avoid spelunking in these mountians #this really could have gone worse for them #carbide lamps are cool #but won't protect you in the caves #maedhrosmaglorweek #day 2: trust/distrust #spelunking #maglor #maedhros #fingon #turgon #celegorm #caranthir #curufin #aredhel #anaire's kids #the silmarillion #old gods au #grimwing writes

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maglor-my-beloved · 5 months

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Napping on each other

Characters: Sons of Fëanor

Words: 180

Warnings: None

@backgroundelf here you go, hope you enjoy this little snippet!

Read on Ao3

“Lord Maedhros?”

No answer. Vanwalótie knocked, and when that yielded no reply either she hesitantly opened the door to the private study of the Lord of Himring and peered inside.

“Forgive me, but I cannot seem to find Lord Mag…”

She trailed off, blinking in confusion at the sight before her. Her Lord was curled up on Maedhros’ couch, his head in his older brother’s lap, his eyes closed. On Maedhros’ other side Caranthir half-sat, leaning against his shoulder, his hair falling like a dark curtain before his face. Celegorm was draped over the armrest, with Curufin tucked between him and Caranthir, and the twins were on the plush rug, their heads resting on Maedhros’ knees.

They all were fast asleep.

Well – almost all. Maedhros lifted his head as Vanwalótie entered, smiling and laying a finger on his lips. Vanwalótie raised an eyebrow at the serene picture before her, but said nothing as she exited the room and quietly closed the door behind her.

Her Lord had been found, safe and well. Anything beyond that was no concern of hers.

#sons of feanor #december drabbles #maglor writes

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warrioreowynofrohan · 2 years

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Silm Characters - Who Do They Hate Most (for cases where the answer isn’t ‘Morgoth’)

(Note: the people for whom it’s Morgoth include, but are not limited to, Fëanor, Fingolfin, Fingon, and practically all of the major Edain characters.)

Turgon: The Fëanoreans, collectively and individually. They got his wife killed, they got his sister killed (by not showing up when she went to visit them, leading to her getting entrapped by Eöl), they got his best friend killed, they got his brother killed, then they decided to murder the only remaining intact kingdom in Middle-earth outside of Gondolin, and then they murdered the remnant of his people who survived the fall of Gondolin.

Aredhel: Eöl. Not before her death, she’s got somewhat conflicted feelings up to that point (she does beg for his life), but once she hears of her son’s fate she’s convinced that it never would have happened if he hadn’t been an orphan. And Eöl’s the reason he’s an orphan. After that, you could power a nuclear reactor with how much she hates Eöl.

Finrod: Now I know what you’re going to say, “Finrod’s a perfect cinnamon roll, he doesn’t hate anyone,” well you’re wrong. It’s Sauron. Not even primarily because of having Finrod’s people devoured by werewolves, or for killing Barahir and his people, though those are contributing factors. Primarily, because of Númenor. Because Sauron takes the Edain, who Finrod loves, and turns them into something utterly evil, and brings them to their destruction. Finrod’s angry at everyone after the Akallabeth, the Valar and Eru included, but most of all he’s angry at Sauron.

The end of the third age is very satifying for him.

Orodreth: He’s unhappy with a lot of people for the events surrounding and leading up to the Fall of Nargothrond, including himself, but at the top of his list are Celegorm and Curufin. He was very much a king-in-name-only during their attempted coup; he knew he was powerless to bring Nargothond to Finrod’s rescue because he didn’t have the people’s support and Celegorm and Curufin would overthrow him if he tried, and the charge Finrod left him with was to hold the kingship so that’s what he did; but they made him, through inaction, complicit in his brother’s death and he will never forgive them for that.

Thingol: The Fëanoreans, as a whole. They killed his grandson. They killed his granddaughter-in law. They murdered his great-grandsons. They slaughtered his people. They should all be in the Void.

Maedhros: Maedhros. Come on, this one’s not even difficult.

Maglor: He is so very done and he doesn’t have the energy for hating anyone any more.

Celegorm: Dior. Practically canon.

Curufin. Lúthien. Fuck her for sparing his life. Fuck her for humiliating him like that. Fuck her so very much.

Nimloth: Celegorm and his followers, for obvious reasons.

Elwing: Maedhros and Maglor, also for obvious reasons. In a contest of “who hates Maedhros most,” most of fandom would give the award to Maedhros, but I think Elwing has a slight edge.

Eärendil: Eärendil, by the point that he petitions the Valar, doesn’t hate anyone. But Maeglin is the one person he dislikes. He can’t shake the memory of being a child, being grabbed by him at the side of a cliff, and looking in his eyes and seeing something that very much wasn’t an elf anymore. It’s unsettling; it gave him nightmares for a while as a kid. He pities Maeglin, but he’d much prefer never to see him again.

Elrond: Sauron, for similar reasons to Finrod, but aggravated by the fact that those were his brother’s people, and he was in Middle-earth and still poweless to stop it, and also aggravated by Celebrian’s torture.

Galadriel: Sauron, primarily for Finrod and Celebrian reasons, as well as because of the Third Age generally. She recognized that the Númenoreans were trouble well before Ar-Pharazon and isn’t sentimental about them.

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annoyinglandmagazine · 11 months

Text

Caranthir the financial advisor from hell

The guards of Nargothrond glanced from side to side as if to ask each other ‘Is this allowed?’ They’d had three Feanorians staying with them for a while now but they were still unclear on the protocol for dealing with one of them just turning up at the gates. Nonetheless, they parted to let him through with little protest once their commanding officers gave them the go ahead.

He did not respond to their hesitance, to their great relief, none wished to be on the receiving end of that glare of his. He strode forward with a simple nod of acknowledgment to their general, his boots clicking evenly on the marble floor and somehow managing to echo through the corridor despite the background noise of a bustling city. Did all their nobility have some kind of powers when it came to being excessively dramatic? They’d thought their king was overly theatrical but the Feanorians all seemed to be as well, albeit in different ways.

He made his way straight through the corridors to the ongoing council meeting. This was concerning for numerous reasons, not the least of which being that everyone was fairly sure he had never been to Nargothrond before, so how could he possibly know their floor plan, let alone their schedule? Nevertheless, he flung open the doors and stood in the doorway, his glare at his cousin perhaps not as intense as his father’s but enough to terrify most into submission.

‘Moryo!’ Celegorm began to grin, the sight not even remotely reassuring to anyone. The two other sons of Feanor seemed way too at ease, but then who could ever claim to understand what was going on with that lot? Caranthir shot a far harsher yet somehow fond glare towards his brothers, ‘Tyelkormo. Atarinkë,’ he replied with little enthusiasm. ‘It’s been years, would it kill you to write, brother!’ Celegorm teased jovially. ‘I wasn’t aware you could read. Brother.’

A little snort broke the tense silence and the only grandson of Feanor beamed at his uncle through his amusement, ‘It’s good to see you uncle.’ Caranthir shot his nephew a quick smile and softened his tone, ‘A pleasure as always Tyelpe darling.’ He now brought his focus back to Finrod who was apprehensive as if he knew what was coming, the same as the Feanorians who were all giving each other conspiratorial glances. ‘Ingoldo. Findarato. My dear cousin.’

‘I have recently received your yen’s expenses report.’ ‘Holy shit,’ murmured Celegorm under his breath though still very much audibly, the grin on his face growing to troubling levels. ‘You have truly outdone yourself. Really.’ Finrod was turning gradually paler. ‘Why do you have access to documents from Nargothrond’s treasury?’

‘Because all our relatives have been delegating financial matters to me since I was forty. You didn’t think Fingon could actually draft a budget for his army himself did you? And Nelyo can’t barely do long division. They may say that something is for the king’s eyes only but what they really mean is it’s for Fingon to send my brother in between some graphic sketches and love letters and then for Nelyo to send to me once he’s exhausted his energy for calculations.’

‘And I have to wonder if you have a single person in your council capable of basic budgeting skills or if you simply regularly ignore expenditure plans to support your jewellery problem. I’m guessing the latter. So I have taken the liberty of drafting a comprehensive plan for all your financial dealings for the next yen and I expect you to follow it.’ He slammed a heavy tome onto the table, ‘I’m trusting Curufin to make sure you don’t deviate too far.’

‘Caranthir, it’s hardly like you’re living in some austere shack yourself!’ Caranthir shot a cold glare back, ‘Unlike you I manage my money. I am giving you the chance to do the same and I advise you take it.’ He stalked over to his family and accepted a kiss on the forehead from Celegorm before placing one on Curufin and Celebrimbor’s. ‘Three Cs for life!’ Celegorm called after him, still way too pleased to see his cousin get scolded. ‘That’s never going to catch on!’ Came the synchronised yells of Curufin and Caranthir.

#silmarillion #tolkien #caranthir #celegorm #curufin #celebrimbor #finrod #nargothrond #three cs

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elficially-done-with-life · 4 months

Text

Trust

Pairing: Celebrimbor x elf!Reader

Summary: In Valinor, Celebrimbor falls in love with the Reader but because of everything that happend in his life, he has difficulty to be vulnerable in front of you.

Warnings: self doubt, insecurity

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

Celebrimbor didn't really know how to behave towards you. So much had happened in his life that it had become difficult for him to open up to other people.

It had only been a few weeks since you had confessed that you were in love with each other. He himself had harboured feelings for you for some time but had never expected you to return them.

His uncle Celegorm had always encouraged him and said he would have had no more doubts if he had seen the way you looked at him when he was working in the forge with his upper body exposed. Curufin, who was less than enthusiastic about Celegorm's comments, had told Celebrimbor that he deserved a happy life more than anyone in their family and should at least give it a try.

And yet he was still unsure. It had actually come about by chance that you had confessed to each other how you felt, but not much more had happened since then.

He had held your hand a few times, brushed your hair behind your ear and looked at you lovingly, but nothing more had happened because he was afraid of being so vulnerable infront of another person.

Celebrimbor knew that you would never hurt him, but he still had this fear inside him, triggered by the many times he had been hurt in his life.

But he thought it was unfair to you, because sometimes he noticed the way you looked at him, as if you were thinking about kissing him or wrapping your arms around him, and even though he would love nothing more than to hold you close and plant several kisses on your cheeks, he still had this fear.

So he avoided you to clear his head a bit, but he felt really guilty about it. You deserved better.

When he wanted to go home a few days later after working at the forge, you were already waiting for him outside. You smiled at him, but there was something sad about your smile that made him lower his head.

"Tyelpë?" you asked gently as you stepped closer. "I- I noticed you were avoiding me and- and I- I wanted to know if everything was okay between us? Have I done something wrong? Are- are you mad at me?"

"Oh Melda, no!" He reached for your hand a little hesitantly and squeezed it gently. What had he done? "You are wonderful. I- I am the problem."

Celebrimbor bit his lip and avoided your gaze.

You gently began to stroke the hand that was still in yours with your thumb.

"What do you mean?" you asked in a soft voice.

"I - I am scared." He swallowed and finally met your eyes. "Afraid of showing someone my vulnerable side." Then he added softly, "I love you Melda, but I am afraid that too open affection would overwhelm me."

It felt right to him to finally be so honest and open with you.

You lifted his hand and gave him a gentle kiss on the back of it, which sent a pleasant tickling sensation through Celebrimbor's body. Then you gave him a look that was so full of love that Celebrimbor's heart began to beat faster and his throat went dry.

"I love you too, Tyelpë." you whispered softly, "And even if we never go further than holding hands, I will always love you. Please do not push me away." You paused for a moment. "But if you do want physical contact, then we can start slowly. Step by step. We have an eternity, and there is no one I would rather spend it with than you."

Celebrimbor stared at you for a while, deeply moved by your words. Tears welled up in his eyes and he asked softly. "Would it be all right if we started with hugs?" Then he gently reached out his arms to you and you stepped closer to him and carefully wrapped your arms around his waist. So gently that he could step back at any time if the hug became too much for him.

He let the tears that had gathered in his eyes run free as he let his head sink onto your shoulder and lost himself in your warmth and your scent, which felt safer than anything else.

#celebrimbor #celebrimbor x reader #tolkien x reader #x reader #tolkien #elves x reader #silmarillion x reader #tyelpe #tyelperinquar #tyelpë #feanorians x reader #feanorians

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tanoraqui · 1 year

Text

I think the Silmarillion fandom is very inclined toward hindsight bias re: the homicidality and moreover the perceived homicidality of First Age Fëanorians. To be fair so is the text of The Silmarillion! But I do think it’s important, when considering political and social dynamics of Beleriand, to remember that:

the majority of kinslaying was 85% of the way through the First Age or later, AFTER everything else had gone to firmly hell first

for that matter, Celegorm & Curufin’s attempted coup of Nargothrond was 80% of the way through, when everything had gone halfway to hell first

the Doom mentioned the House of Fëanor specifically, and of course there’s the Oath, but the Doom very much included “and everyone who follows them” and nobody knew exactly what the Oath would lead to (see: point 1)

exactly 2 people are named in conjunction to the Kinslaying at Alqualondë. One is Fëanor, starting it. The other is Fingon, the Valiant, rescuer of kings and foiler of dragons and High Prince then King of the Noldor, ending it with “the foremost of the host of Fingolfin.”

With that in mind, I think a highly likely summary of Beleriand social/political dynamics is,

Fëanorians, on average: Fuck you all, we did what we did and we’re doing what we’re doing!! (But we did not mean to kill (so many) people to get here, and we’re even kinda glad Fingolfin & co are here for backup, because we may have bitten off more than we can chew. (Wasn’t it generous of King Maedhros to let him wear the crown for now?)

About 1/3 Fingolfin’s people: @Feanorians you bastards led us into kinslaying and Doom and then you burned the ships and LEFT US to suffer on the Ice. You TRAITORS.

About 2/3 Fingolfin’s host, especially those who ended up in Nargothrond and Gondolin: @Fëanorians you bastards led our people into kinslaying and Doom and then you burned the ships and left us to suffer on the Ice. You TRAITORS. / @the ‘foremost’ of Fingolfin’s host: Why the FUCK did you run in and start killing people; what the FUCK is wrong with you

Beleriand locals, led by Thingol: You’re ALL a bunch of lying kinslayers, some more duplicitous than the others I guess—except you, Finrod, you’re an angel and we’re delighted you’re here. Your followers are…alright. Have a third of the continent <3

A number of locals significantly less affiliated with Thingol and Doriath: …okay kinslaying is BAD, obviously, and ship-burning and abandonment…also bad, but less so. Definitely wasteful, definitely a dick move. Your royal family has weird internal feuds. But thank fuck someone is here with better weapons to aim at the Enemy so I can keep living on my farm rather than die or move to Doriath!

That said I can easily believe Fingolfin took general responsibility his people’s part in the Kinslaying, and even when apologizing, specific names of which of them took part, up to and including Fingon, were deliberately left out of the commonly known narrative. Better to have any given individual plausibly innocent (while potentially guilty) rather than some definitely guilty and the rest assumed still potentially guilty and lying about it! But I’m equally sure that detailed gossip from Noldorin infighting slipped through, albeit garbled. Just how much might’ve depended a great deal on specifically how Finarfin’s kids were all feeling about their eldest (full) cousin.

Tldr: for most of the First Age, if someone was side-eyeing the Fëanorians really hard over Alqualondë, they were almost certainly side-eyeing the Fingolfinians for the same reason, and if they were side-eyeing the Fëanorians over treachery/abandonment, it was equally based on hearsay and obvious old grudges, rather than anything they had done in sight in Beleriand.

#the silmarillion #analysis

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aotearoa20 · 27 days

Text

Penance: Part Two. One/Two/Three

There is a part of Este’s gardens that bleeds into Mandos. Silvery trees that line a small path up to the great stone doors. It is on one of the Halls uppermost levels and most fëar avoid it if they can. Curufin could understand why. He felt ill and unsteady in the pale half-light, it was too close for the dead to be to the living. A thin, shimmering barrier lopes over him and his brothers and everything on the other side in blurred just slightly. He could just about see a Maia clad in grey approaching and with him a tall dark figure.

“Maglor,” he whispered because he could not help it. Because his spirit sang at the sight of his elder brother and there was nothing in him that could stop it. Everything is transparent in Mandos. He heard the others shuffling and sighing behind him. It had been so long.

He could not wring his hands - they kept flickering in and out of existence - but he watched them spoke to one another. Their words melted against the barrier, a useless hum of noise but he seemed alright. Damned spawn of Lúthien had had them worried over nothing. Celegorm called over to him and Maglor turned his head. He nodded slowly but before he could say a word a flash of light from further down the path stole all their attention.

Someone else, came forward out of the trees. Curufin could not have recognized them, even if he tried. How could he when in their hands, bright and clear and sharper than anything else he’d seen in the suffocating dark, he could see it. The last of their Father’s Silmarils.

He shuddered and hated himself for it. Behind him someone, Amras maybe, whined like a wounded animal. It was so close. Without much thought he reached forward, the edges of his fingers dissolving as they brush against the boundary line. A hand comes up and grips his shoulder. Caranthir, he knew, they all remember the last time they tried to escape through here.

He doesn’t even know his name, the one who held the gem, but he came up to Maglor and the Maia. He spoke even as his brother trembled, taut as a bowstring. A sudden fear gripped his heart. The constant pressence of the oath had been a companion of his for as long as he could remember. He had carried it’s burden until the scraps of the person were burnt to dust. If this was really the end – if, for he has lived far too long in the world not to suspect this to be another trick of fate – would there be anything left of him at all.

“It will kill him,” Maedhros’ voice was deep and dull.

By the edge of the doorway Namo stands, two Maiar are at his side. All but his eyes are obscured behind a veil and they are fixed on Maglor.

“If he does we shall be there.” He replied gently.

And then the stranger holds out what is all in all a very simple circlet, with the jewel fastened to it. Maglor snatched it into himself and wails. Námo’s Maiar brush past him, catching his brothers fëa brefore his body hits ground.

Curufin tried to speak. He reached out again, this time for Maglor. He thinks he might have screamed too. For a moment everything burns. It is as though something is ripping out his heart and every artery that grows off from it, carefully and cleanly as pulling the backbone from a fish. He falls to his barely corporeal knees and thinks he must be coming undone entirely and then... nothing.

He put his hand to his chest. A sob caught in his throat. There is nothing there. Beside him Morifinwë was also crying, but he takes deep needless breaths in between. When he looked he saw a light in his eyes that he knew died in his own, centuries ago. Curufin looked back down at the slate shards that line the garden path. Tears dry on his lashes. He felt nothing.

“So the agreement is sealed,” Námo said, as Maglor was ushered into the dark, “When you are remebodied in the Gardens, there will be someone to guide you to those you will serve.”

“To whom will we be going?” Celegorm spoke up.

“It has not been decided, you will learn once you wake.”

“Don’t separate Ambrassua.” Maedhros very nearly ordered.

Námo nodded and looked across them all, “You are not obliged to leave now, some of you I’d even counsel to remain a while longer.”

His eyes land on him and Curufin seethed. He crossed his arms over himself, trying to cover up the gaping emptiness within his being. How he hated this place. Hated being forced to take any sort of form. He was exposed. Everyone could see everything. Or the severe lack of anything.

A body at least could hide the lack. No, He would not stay here to be mocked or pitied or worse, not for all the jewels under the Earth.

“We will go together.” He heard Maedhros say and nodded vehemently. Whatever waited out in the Gardens had to be better than this.

#penance au #my writing #silmarillion #tolkien #maedhros #celegorm #maglor #caranthir #ambarussa #curufin #gandalf #lorien #silm au #Námo

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elevenelvenswords · 4 months

Text

Cross-posted on AO3.

The night seemed quiet to Celegorm. Despite the clamor raging on in Tirion, the chaos and utter dismay rising like dreadful clouds of smoke, all noise seemed drowned out around him. He should be grateful for it, for it was with clear intent that he asked Curufin to follow him, to leave that engulfing atmosphere and the people gravitating to it behind. It felt like too much, too soon. The ill news of their grandsire’s passing were not yet gone from his mind, nor the numb shock that they had caused. The sight of his father mourning- the way he tore at his hair, plucking strands clean off the scalp, growling in grief and such bitter anger that it was almost painful for others to behold it. The defilement of their homeland, the strife emerging with violent promptitude between the great Noldorin houses, the ceaseless doubts and fights festering within them all. It felt like impending annihilation. Like a winged shadow it followed their every step now.

Too much, too soon.

Sick to the very core he grew of the preparation for their departure. Of his brothers’ bickering, of his mother’s tears and his father’s foul moods of late. He wished for nothing more than a brief respite. He wished to leave it all behind, even if it was for a little while. Air seemed insufficient in the midst of the city and its mayhem.

Thus he and Curufin saddled their horses and galloped away. Celegorm led, bidding his horse make haste and fly over obstacles rather than go ‘round them. The faster he could get away, the better. Wind whipped across his face and his eyes watered. He blinked the tears away. Saliva frothed upon his horse’s mouth. He patted it on the neck, whispering encouragement to it. His thighs ached with the effort of riding so relentlessly, so recklessly. He squeezed them tighter to his mount’s sides. Resolute in his purpose, he soon left his brother lagging behind.

Climbing atop a hill bordering the northern forest that looked down on the peaks of Tirion, he halted his horse. Curufin joined him soon after.

They talked for a while, filling in the devouring silence. Useless nonsense it was; something about the supplies and how they might ration them on the road, something about Caranthir’s horse growing restless lately and how he might need a new steed that wouldn’t throw him from its back. Nonsense that served as a much welcomed distraction. Celegorm was glad for it. But before long, Curufin wished to depart.

“Safe travels then,” Celegorm said to him, absently poking at a patch of grass with the tip of his boot.

“You shouldn’t linger for too long,” Curufin replied, throwing the reins over his mare’s head. “Father will start to ask questions.”

Celegorm snorted in derision. “Yes, I am sure he’ll be sick with worry. I’ve always been his favourite son, after all.”

Curufin watched him in silence. Seconds trickled by in solemn stillness, a soft wisp of cold air setting the leaves above in bashful motion. No bird song could be heard anymore, nor the comforting buzzing of insects crawling among the foliage. Celegorm suddenly wondered if the hunting grounds he so loved had become a misshapen mirror of his soul. Perhaps the deadness of his heart pulsed out its hatred, and the darkness pooling like hot magma into his chest was infectious, corruptive. Returning to a place of laughter and delight before embarking upon the dreadful journey ahead might have been a mistake, after all. He did not wish to remember those lands as such- quiet, hopeless, engulfed in lengthening shadows and brisk despair.

By the time Celegorm deemed to turn his mournful gaze back towards the road whence he had come, Curufin was already nudging his horse forward, urging it down the slopes of the hills. Perhaps he had bidden Celegorm his farewell, or even asked him to join him, but Celegorm was unhearing.

He turned his attention to the tall trees. Dark and twisted they seemed to him now, heedless of his sorrows and worries. Towering over him like reminders of doom, turned from protectors and guides to beacons of the Great Powers’ scorn. Even so, he walked amongst them. Dauntless or simply uncaring, he couldn’t quite tell.

He walked lightly, pushing branches out of his way, but the purpose of his own pursuit he knew not.

The soft yet indistinguishable crack of a twig made his ears twitch, straining in search of the next sound. Slowly he flexed them, drawing them back towards his nape, intently listening. No other sound followed, but he knew the first one had come from somewhere above, and the culprit lay concealed by the thick branches arching their slender fingers upwards and inwards. Something pressed down upon his fëa, a heavy burden threatening to crush and devour, licking hungrily at his skin. Though no wind blew there and his raiments were thick about him, goosebumps prickled across his skin and he shivered. Malevolence seemed to seep through the tree barks, trickling even by his boots. Like tendrils of dark power it slithered up his feet, his calves, and disdainfully he watched as the thin tentacles probed at his trousers. It seemed to him that they searched for a way in, for a way to reach him. Celegorm considered kicking at them, pushing against them with the strength of his own will, for what further hurt could they truly inflict upon him, after all that had come to pass? But as one frozen in time he stood, and he watched them, and they hurt him not. Carefully he extended his fingers, allowing one of the stretching tendrils to lick at his fingertips. Where he expected cold, warmth pierced through, and the things coiling about his feet squeezed in what felt to him like encouragement. A strange feeling of familiarity rang in those touches, as though intent coursed through their feeble existence.

The ruffling of leaves above stirred him from his curiosity. He still did not turn around. Not at the off-putting scraping sounds upon wood, not at the uneasiness that suddenly coursed through him. If anything, it bound him to his stillness. The slithering vines wriggled at his feet, they clutched at his trousers, and their touch was suddenly all-too-familiar. It bore the will of another, a greater one than himself, and nothing about it appeared harmful to him. No, there was tenderness behind it.

The gnarled arms of the trees above shifted, parted, exposing the clear sky above. A stray ray of starlight glimmered down but by its grace Celegorm was unmoved. The things at his feet withered and perished, withdrawing with alarming quickness, but Celegorm heeded them not. The branches moved once again, and behind him something –no, someone- dragged its body weight.

Celegorm inhaled deeply as that presence and all of the things emanating from it bled away into recognition.

“You may show yourself now, lord,” Celegorm said flatly. His eyes stared straight ahead, darkened, his gaze unfocused and aimless amidst the cold mass of the forest. “I am not yet deprived of my senses.”

Silence settled in for a few moments and Celegorm looked behind him, at long last.

From high above, the creature regarded him with a mixture of curiosity and longing. A ridged beast skull covered its face, white and slender, its curves looping around the wearer’s features. Two twisted antlers curved their way upwards where they divided into lopsided, bony extensions. Akin to a stag’s head it seemed to Celegorm, yet sharp incisors gleamed in the starlight, set within the jaw left slightly agape. In spite of the crudity of that body part, the thing’s gaze spoke nothing of cruelty or ill-intent. It spoke nothing of scorn. Burrowed within two slanted cavities of the skull, a pair of soft green eyes peered down at him, slowly blinking.

A sudden twinge of sorrow stabbed through Celegorm’s chest. Thickly he swallowed as the creature’s two sets of arms moved to grab onto the tree, as claws left their marks upon the bark in its passing. Down it slid, with feline grace descending from its hiding place. The angles at which its body bent and contorted set uneasiness throbbing through Celegorm, but he feared it not. He had seen it do stranger things. He had known its touch and voice, and safety at its hands had always been guaranteed. No matter how terrifying the form it chose. No matter how immense and powerful and wild.

Slowly it discarded the mask; embedded into its very flesh, the skull retracted into the skin and muscle. Visceral and violent seemed that shift in appearance, the metamorphosis of the hröa, and Celegorm watched with the same fascination as ever.

He had told himself that, if the fates wished to grant him one last meeting with the thing he most loved in that realm, his heart would be closed and well-guarded against any assault by the common sentimentalities he used to fall prey to. But oh how sorely mistaken he was.

For there upon the places he ardently wished to escape, before the face of his soul’s dearest song and curse, he felt his heart quiver –and perhaps only for a moment, stop-. How he wished to simply crumble to his knees and leave the tears flow freely; how he wished to take and beg and smash himself bloody upon the shores of the traitorous love that grappled him.

Resolutely he pushed those things aside. Proud and tall he held himself before the huntsman, even as he approached Celegorm.

“Well-met, Fëanorion,” he murmured.

“Oromë,” Celegorm greeted him in return. The name tasted bitter upon his tongue and hard he fought the urge to spit the remnants of it to the ground below.

“I had hoped for a more joyous reunion.”

Celegorm scoffed. Mocking that remark sounded in his ears. Shifting his weight from one leg to another, he frowned at the Vala.

“I had hoped for that too. Yet denied we are in our wishes and prayers of late.” Oromë watched him with calmness that seemed to transcend into mute passivity. Celegorm wondered whether it was intentional or not.

“Each may wish for what they will, yet the fates play their ironies unawares,” Oromë said. The first hints of irritation drove their barbs beneath Celegorm’s at the utterance of such words. “As you may well know by now.”

Apologetic was Oromë’s tone, but to it Celegorm was unhearing.

“Yes, as I well know,” Celegorm hissed, his voice steeped in vitriol. “But do tell me, o’ great Vala, who ever daubs his hand in how the fates turn: how empowering, how exhilarating does it feel to watch little puppets wail over their grievances from the warmth and comfort of your throne?”

The Vala held his silence for a few long moments, tension and resentment overflowing in all of their unpleasantness. Celegorm felt like he might choke on it. Silence would not do; no, not this time. Not when his blood ran hot and perilous in his veins, anger simmering and scorching him from the inside. Disdainfully he held Oromë’s gaze, breathing heavily –in and out- in a fruitless attempt to hold onto whatever shreds of composure yet remained to him.

When the silence stretched on for too long, Oromë infuriatingly still –as though he was a mere statue carved in cold stone, ill-suited to emotion-, Celegorm stepped haughtily forward. And “You will speak to me,” he snarled, “I shall receive answers long overdue.”

Pain and defeat and a myriad other nameless things coiled their way within his chest. How they burned, how they smashed their violent protest against his ribcage. How unfair it seemed to him; Oromë simply stood there, a strange expression clouding his face; something like pity, or something like yearning. Celegorm felt polluted down to the very core, yet guilt swiftly gave way to blistering, blinding fury.

“Speak!” he bellowed, chest heaving and eyes burning in the wake of shameful tears. Oromë did not reply. “Speak, incorrigible fiend! Stop standing there like that, stop staring and fucking talk to me-“

Please.

Hard he panted, but he bade his tears stay. All of those traitorous emotions –sadness, grief, loss, desire, love- he reshaped into rage, revulsion, hatred. He thrust them before him as a shield, impenetrable and fierce.

“What does it feel like to watch me burn whilst you stand unhurt, untouchable as ever upon the summit of your own righteousness?” His voice was quiet now, barely more than a whisper.

“I am not untouchable,” Oromë began in an even voice that had Celegorm on the very verge of bursting into inconsolable tears, “Nor do I partake in the marring of those I hold dear to my heart.”

At that Celegorm laughed; mirthlessly, miserably, he laughed. He tipped his head back and sent his laughter to the mocking stars above as his brows knitted together almost painfully. Oromë swallowed in apprehension.

“You do not partake in marring, say you?” Celegorm scoffed derisively as he stepped closer, until his chest almost brushed Oromë’s. More spitefully he continued then, “How dare you say that to me after all that has come to pass? After all that your brethren have done, after all that you have allowed? My grandsire, our king, lies dead, and my family’s legacy teeters towards ruin. We must endure whilst you sit idly.”

Venom dripped from his words, such was the malice with which he spoke each one of them. Vehemence ignited his eyes and fey was his mood, yet if he expected angry protest in return, or some violent rebuke, Celegorm was left sorely disappointed. For Oromë was seemingly serene; his eyes flickered over Celegorm’s face sadly, as though searching for something that was no longer there. And good, Celegorm thought to himself, let him see that his old friend is dead, let him see that it was he that killed his young, jubilant spirit. Any shame that might pierce underneath Oromë’s skin would be well-deserved. Whatever grief Oromë might experience at the fleeting prospect of loss would be but an insignificant fragment of the raging abyss that yawned open before Celegorm. Betrayal was too small a word to encapsulate the hideous uproar of emotions that screeched inside of him; the enormity of the wound Oromë’s inaction had wrought could not be contained in any earthly language, and Celegorm knew many.

His hands closed into trembling fists at his sides, and though his eyes were glossy with tears, he did not let them fall.

“Was my life truly that unimportant to you?” Celegorm slowly asked, his eyes locked with the Vala’s, “Did you weigh the value of my life and found it worth nothing?”

“Tyelkormo…” Oromë raised a placating hand to the elf’s face, in the same manner he did when Celegorm shattered his humerus after he fell from his saddle in his early youth; in the same way he reassuringly stroked Celegorm’s hair whenever the elf came to him with red-rimmed eyes, claiming that his own father loved him no more. In the same way he let his fingertips gently trace Celegorm’s flushed cheeks as he lay naked and trembling beneath the Vala, a serene smile plastered over his face in the soft afterglow of their passion.

How Celegorm wanted to let himself crumble and simply shriek against the unfairness of it all. Let me stay with you, he wanted to sob. Touch me and let our bodies never part, skin to skin and heart to heart. Yet he violently batted the hand away.

“Do not presume to touch me or utter my name!”

At the abruptness of his voice Oromë flinched and retracted his hand, but it was not without a significant effort that he resisted the urge to ignore Celegorm’s abject fury and draw him into his arms anyway.

“My name is forbidden for treacherous tongues.”

“It is the name that I love,” Oromë replied truthfully. Nausea rolled in Celegorm’s stomach, wretchedly his jaw spasmed as he sought to keep his temper in check. The Vala’s audacity was appalling – “It is, without doubt, your name. The name I called for in my forests and in my halls. My Tyelkormo. Whatever might transpire, your name shall forever be spoken in reverence within my halls. And if my brethren will speak it spitefully, in reverence still my heart shall whisper it.”

“Your Tyelkormo?” Celegorm spat through gritted teeth, “What would you know about me?”

“I know much of you, my wild one.”

Oh, the gentleness, the fondness behind those words sent Celegorm’s spirit tumbling towards ruin. Acrid bile rose in his throat and balefully he looked upon the Vala, wondering how much easier it might have been if Oromë would have just struck him, yelled at him, cursed him a thousand times over. He could have simply turned away then, telling himself that there was no reason for him to stay or look back. Like mantra he would turn the feeble pretexts in his mind- I am not wanted here, he despises the very sight of me, there is nothing left between us, whatever threads still endure glisten red with blood. Over and over he would repeat it, like clockwork, until he became sure of it. Yet now it was difficult to pretend. And it was this, perhaps, the cruelty that Celegorm abhorred most.

Fretfully he pondered Oromë’s words, I know much of you, and quickly found that they rang true. For how could the Vala not know Celegorm when his words flew like arrows and struck their mark effortlessly? When Celegorm followed the Vala’s horn without hesitation, making his way through the murky forests with nothing but quivering excitement and unflinching loyalty to guide his way, who could doubt that Oromë had completely, irrevocably enraptured the young prince? In awe he always watched Oromë, be it as he walked down the ballrooms adorned in ostentatious garments during celebrations, or as he eviscerated a beast. Celegorm could still recall what it felt like to grasp a warm, beating heart with his bare hands at Oromë’s bidding. Viscera steamed in the winter’s chill as he pulled it out and found his way to the stag’s heart. So delicate and slippery it felt; blood dripped through his fingers and soaked his sleeve, arteries ruptured as he twisted the organ to pluck it free. And what pride swelled in his chest at the benevolent smile Oromë bestowed upon him.

My wild one.

Celegorm drew in a hitching breath before softly saying, “I will depart from Tirion tonight.”

Oromë’s shoulders seemed to relax –or tense, Celegorm couldn’t quite tell- by a fraction.

“I would tell you that I do not wish for you to go,” Oromë sighed, “but I know past affections won’t move your heart. I know your ears will shut out any claims of love-“

“You are right in your assumptions,” Celegorm interrupted.

“-but I will tell you this,” Oromë continued patiently, “This is folly. You are marching to your own death, far out of my reach. Your voice I won’t be able to hear, your prayers will go unanswered. You trifle with powers that are beyond your darkest fantasies. Hear me now, Tyelkormo, and take heed: go not thither. Step not where I can’t follow.” A pause followed then, and true melancholy rippled through Oromë’s voice as he added, “I don’t want you to suffer.”

The first seeds of doubt sprouted inside of him then, driving their roots through sinew, thin yet firm.

“I will not be daunted by omens and portents made stupendous by those that would see me and my kin diminished,” Celegorm grimaced. “I pledged my loyalty to my sire and his cause, our cause. I have sworn to follow and never turn my back on my family again. My fealty is not a feckless thing.”

“And yet you cast it aside in favour of precarious promises and vengeful ambitions.”

The snide remark made Celegorm bridle. Oromë couldn’t understand his motives, such accusations were untrue. Streaks of pride might swirl amidst the many reasons why Celegorm chose to walk that path, but other things ran deeper than that. More viciously they waged their war beneath his flesh, they ached in his very bones and bound him to that decision. Yet no longer did he possess the strength or patience to defend himself, to offer explanations that would merely earn him a condescending chiding.

“As I chose to follow you out of my own volition,” Celegorm slowly said, “freely I shall go. My fate is my own and the very heavens will shake and weep at the sight of my wrath if someone seeks to withhold that freedom from me.”

Whatever reaction Celegorm might have expected, it was definitely not a smile. And Oromë did just that- he smiled. Not a cunning, vicious smile, but a warm one.

“There is fire within you, Tyelkormo. I have taught you well. I won’t count this as a sorrowful parting as I don’t want to remember it as such.”

“But I am expelled from you heart,” Celegorm pointed out.

“Nay,” the huntsman shook his head as one of his hands came to gently hold Celegorm’s chin. “I have marked you as mine, and mine you shall remain. The ink needled into your skin will remind you of it. My words, my power, my love thrums through it.” Calloused fingers trailed Celegorm’s lips and it was almost enough to make him sob. “We won’t be so easily parted, you and I.”

With that he released the elf’s face and stepped back, appraising him. A question itched upon Celegorm’s lips, where Oromë’s touch still lingered.

“Will you wait for me?”

It was childish and he was being petulant, Celegorm knew, but he couldn’t quite help it. The Vala looked questioningly to him, so Celegorm pressed: “Will you wait for my return? Will you expect me to come crawling back to you?”

“I know you will. Though whether it is your body or your houseless spirit that will return, I cannot tell.”

Anger flared in him, pride and hurt forced a dark chuckle out of his throat, and Celegorm knew that he had made up his mind then.

Let us see then.

He brushed past Oromë.

I will prove you wrong.

His hand clutched the hilt of his dagger painfully tight.

And even if you are right…

Away he walked, away without further glance or regret.

“Do not wait for me. I will never return to you.”

#these two have been on my mind for a while now #celegorm #orome #celegorm/orome #my writing #silmarillion

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doodle-pops · 11 months

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Hi Mina,

I think someone asked about this in the past but I'm not sure if it was ever written, but can I ask for how the Feanorians would react when their S/O flinches during an argument?

Thank you and sorry if this has already been written!

House of Feanor — Their S/O Flinching During An Argument

...they FREEZE AND PANIC. The minute you recoil from their shout, they seize their actions and become paralysed at your reactions. Not even their soldiers flinch when they shout or bark orders at them, but this was different. Why would you flinch? Don’t you know they would never harm you? It was only their frustration being expressed out of disappointment. Due to how frozen they were, they wouldn’t rush to calm you down immediately. Most likely, you would exit the room while they remained petrified. They would hate themselves for causing you to fear after promising to never hurt you. The both of you would keep to yourself for a few days because they would need some time to calm down and prepare themselves to face you again.

Maedhros, Caranthir, Celebrimbor

...they APOLOGISE. The minute you flinch and back away from them, their words are caught in their throat, and it takes only a minute for everything to register before they apologise. A few might step closer as they apologise, only to observe you retreating with a wounded look. Your arms curled around and your head hanging with eyes darting back and forth between them and the floor, a few tears would fall. They’re aware that you don’t want them approaching, so they’ll quietly express their apologies and request that you want them to leave the room and give you space.

Maglor, Celegorm, Amrod, Amras, Celebrimbor

...they QUESTION YOUR ACTIONS. Strange of you to flinch during an argument when they were expressing themselves. Why would you flinch? You were over there, and they were on the other side of the room. Furthermore, as displeased as they were, how could you assume they would harm you. They knew their temper wasn’t the best, but they would never allow it to escalate to the point of harming you. The argument is over, and they are asking you why you flinched. It’s bothering them that you would think they would stoop so lowly to physically cause harm. Somewhere during the wait, they would take their leave and wait for you to come to talk to them when you were comfortable enough. “…I’ll leave you be, probably be in my room when you’re comfortable to talk. Excuse me.”

Feanor, Celegorm, Curufin

#reactions #feanorians #maedhros x reader #caranthir x reader #celebrimbor x reader #maglor x reader #celegorm x reader #amrod x reader #amras x reader #feanor x reader #curufin x reader #house of feanor #silmarillion imagine #doodlepops responds

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curufiin · 4 months

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Did it hurt Celegorms feelings when Huan chose to betray him in favor of Luthian?

i think 1. this is a bit of an understatement 2. possibly meant for my other blog but i shall answer thee regardless

i think Huan turning away from Celegorm absolutely destroyed the last shred of morality he had left.

No textual evidence for this, all just what I think about the situation so sorry if you like it when people cite their sources. we don't do that here. all of this is vibes and vibes alone <3

so. imagine for a second, that you are a weird little kid in a weird royal family. you are probably blonde which means your dad looks at you and instantly starts crying, you like to run around and smell the flowers and hug the trees and talk to animals while your brothers do "actually productive" things. in a family of scholarly nerds, your nerdiness happens to be in a different field. you like hunting and archery! life is good.

then suddenly you get the attention of not just another hunter, not even the best hunter in Valinor (though it could be argued you are the best hunter in Valinor). You earn the attention of Orome, Vala of the hunt himself. This guy INVENTED hunting. Yes, your family's gone off to toast with Aule before but nobody has EVER went off to study under Orome.

so of COURSE you're going with him! he even gifts you a dog. how nice. you are very, very special, because Orome told you so. that guy loves you! he taught you everything he knew and even gave you his blessing. You're probably feeling like you're on top of the world right now.

And then everything in Beleriand happens. But that's okay, because your special Vala dog is still with you. he's been with you through thick and thin, and surely he'll stand by you as you valiantly try to save your brother's life-

Oh.

It's one thing that Huan turned away from Celegorm, but I feel like the timing of when Huan decided to abandon Celegorm is almost like a message. I imagine Huan to be kind of like Orome's eyes, or at least he carries Orome's spirit in some way (idk if this makes sense but whatever!). Celegorm has clearly been on a bad downward spiral since the first kinslaying, going from personally leading an army to flank the Orcs, to speaking against Finrod, and then kidnapping Luthien. Throughout all of the terrible shit he's done, Huan stayed with him. Maybe he thought Celegorm was redeemable, who knows.

But it's when Celegorm tries to do something arguably heroic (saving Curufin from the consequences of his own actions; Celegorm is not even mentioned to have any real interest in B+L when he ran into them again) that Huan decides "yeah, fuck that guy", and I think that is so messed up and interesting. Of course, you're free to read this any other way, but you're reading MY post and obviously I know everything about Curufin (and Celegorm) so I'm correct and you're wrong (jkjk).

To me, it almost seems like Huan was giving Celegorm one more chance to redeem himself, to turn away from the evil that is his family- or maybe more specifically Curufin, depending on if you count Tolkien's other first age material as canon. Specifically, the note from the Lays of Beleriand where it says that "'[i]t is Curufin who put evil into Celegorm's heart'". Assuming this is canon, it could be interpreted that if Celegorm let Beren kill Curufin (or at least if he had not intervened), Celegorm would've in essence not "chosen the side of evil" and Huan may not have turned from him. But we all know that's not what he did, and so Huan swore him off and attacked him.

From Huan's perspective, Celegorm was actively aiding the side of evil (the Oath + Feanor's cursing of the Valar), but from Celegorm's perspective, it seemed more like his dog, who had been loyal with him all this time, decided that trying to save his little brother was the straw that broke the camel's back. Orome thought that trying to save your little brother from death is what finally turned him to evil. Of course he's pissed, of course he's going to start questioning his entire way of life and everything he's believed in.

Also: I think Celegorm is someone who is very aware that he is not a good person, unlike Curufin. Curufin has convinced himself wholly that his pursuit of the Oath is noble and just, but Celegorm knows he's taken innocent lives and he either does not care, or thinks that he has already fallen so far, that nothing he does can ever make up for the lives he's taken. So he just keeps slipping and slipping, because what is one more crime when you've already slaughtered hundreds? What does it matter if history remembers him as a twice kinslayer when he has nothing good to be remembered for in the first place? If his patron has already deemed him as evil, then he has no reason to try to pretend otherwise.

TLDR: Yes, it hurt his feelings.

#ask #mysterious anons #the silmarillion #celegorm #meta #<- wow!#long post

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lordgrimwing · 26 days

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Illness/Fading #01

[For C+C week hosted by @candcweek. Prompt: Words unspoken]

Celegorm sat in the armchair near the fire. He stared at the flames, eyes open but unfocused, blinking slowly and occasionally as though it took great effort. They looked painfully large in the sunken skin of his face. His thin shoulders trembled under the thick moose fur Nerdanel draped him in before leaving with Elrond to collect herbs. A shallow breath caught in his throat and he coughed once, weakly and thin.

Curufin looked up from where he was shelling walnuts at the dinner table, instantly alert. He set the nuts aside and stood up. Stepping quickly to the armchair, he knelt at his brother’s side. “I’m here, Celegorm. Do you need something?” He asked, laying a callused hand on his brother’s knee.

No response came to the question. He wasn’t expecting one, not really. Celegorm hadn’t said a thing since they found him in the mud and rotting leaves of spring, foot caught in a snare and nearly dead. Curufin clasped his bony fingers, cool despite the warmth of the room.

“You’re so cold,” he murmured, rubbing the hands between his own to warm them. The perpetual chill was unnerving but so much was unsettled on the mountain these days.

Celegorm wheezed again, breath crackling wetly in his chest. Curufin pulled the heavy fur more securely around him, then stood and pushed the chair, brother and all, closer to the fire in the hearth. The wooden feet screeched across the floorboard worn smooth by decades of familiar feet.

A minute passed, marked by a clock nailed to the wall. When the family was young and the children still growing up, that spot on the wall held no clock. They’d debated for a long time before deciding to mount it. Fëanor mistrusted everything that had to be brought from town more and more, worried that they might somehow disrupt the tenuous safety they’d carved out of the thickening shadows. Time, though, was becoming a tricky thing, as malleable as snow on some days and as unholdable as water on others. The clock kept them on track. Celegorm continued to shake.

The mid-autumn sun streamed in through the open windows, warm and soothing.

Curufin looked at the depleted stack of firewood to the side of the hearth. He touched Celegorm’s knee again. “I’m going to get more wood for the fire. I’ll be right back.”

He rose and left, making the short trek out the kitchen door to the nearest woodshed. The sun warmed his back as he collected an armload of fuel.

Three chickens ran over, racing to search for bugs and spiders disturbed from the pile. The plump birds clucked and grumbled happily amongst each other, content in the safety of the glen.

On the way back inside, he spied a lone dog sitting between the open doors of the barn. It had a short, wiry coat and ears that were perpetually half-cocked, one flopping more than the other. The last of the once numerous hounds, this one lived a spoiled life compared to its past packmates, feeding on table scraps and even receiving pats and belly rubs from the younger family members. Elros developed a particular fondness for the animal after Celegorm’s second disappearance.

(There was a fight that evening. Nothing had been right since Celegorm came back and Fëanor finally confronted him about what he’d been doing in town, about the woman he tried to kill. There was yelling and shouting and the argument moved outside until Celegorm, seething about how Fëanor cut them off from the world in their isolated home and taught them to fear what they had every right to enjoy and experience for themselves, tore the charms and protective necklaces from around his neck and threw them at his father’s feed. He’d left after that. Didn’t so much as say a word to anyone else, just took his horse, whistled for his favorite dog, and rode away.)

Returning, Curufin piled the wood in the metal woodbox before setting several on the fire. He sat back on his heels, watching the wood catch until he felt uncomfortably warm so close to the flames. He turned back to his brother, still huddled in the chair, sunken features pinched with unvoiced discomfort.

Surprisingly, Celegorm had moved slightly while he was gone. It wasn’t much, just a slight shift in his seat, but it made the fur slip off one thin shoulder.

Curufin wiped sweat from his forehead. He reached out and fixed the covering. “Hey, now,” He said, voice unexpectedly thick and prickly in his throat. “You won’t stay warm like that.”

Celegorm shook under his hands. His gaze drifted down and to the side of the chair as he blinked slowly, like someone on the cusp of sleep. Perhaps he would. He slept so little.

Leaving him alone, Curufin went back to the buckets of walnuts at the table. He worked quietly. When he next looked up, he found that the fur had fallen again. With a sigh, he got up to fix it with a small apology for not getting it right the first time as he tugged the edge tight and touched it between Celegorm’s other shoulder and the back of the armchair. Despite the heavy fur and fire, he hadn’t started sweating at all, which was a little disconcerting when Curufin’s shirt felt uncomfortably damp against his skin. With his brother securely tucked in, he turned around and went back to the table.

By the time he sat down, the fur was once again slipping down.

He sat and stared at it for a long moment.

Not once in all the months since they’d found him trapped out in the woods had Celegorm done any but the most basic things on his own. He could chew and swallow soft foods and liquids, relieve himself, and occasionally move his eyes, but not once—as far as Curufin knew and everyone would know if things changed—done anything more complex or meaningful on his own. One night, he’d overheard Nerdanel, Caranthir, and Elrond discussing the possibility that Celegorm couldn’t do things for himself after the thing twisting the mountain out from under them toyed with his body for so long, after he was bound to it for so long. Curufin walked away from that conversation and quickly set about repairing loose planks in the hayloft. It was one of those tasks he once found horridly tedious and always left for one of the others to do (the chore usually ended up in Celegorm's hands, since he spent so much time around the barn anyway).

Which was to say, he knew he wasn’t doing this intentionally. He knew Celegorm, his daring older brother when he was a child, his confidant when Celebrimbor was a baby, his friend and companion during the long years as the world slowly spiraled out of control around them, wasn’t letting the fur fall to make him come back over. He knew that but it was so hard to not give it meaning as he slowly stood and walked back across the room to join him.

He stood in front of him.

Celegorm sat unresponsive, leaning slightly to one side so his shoulder rested against the upholstered side of the chair. His eyes were as vacant and unseeing as ever, lost where none of them could reach him. There was a little bit of space on the seat beside him, next to the side the fur kept falling from.

It was so very hard to not see it as something more—to not give it meaning.

Sometimes, though, it doesn’t matter if something should have meaning because it does and that can’t be helped.

Curufin sat in the open spot. It was tight and he had to sit half-turned on his hip to fit without ending up on top of Celegorm. He shifted and twisted and trapped his strong arms around his trembling brother and pulled him onto his lap. With a little more adjusting, he had him curled up comfortably against his chest, still wrapped up, with Celegorm’s blond head resting just under his chin.

“There we go,” he murmured. “I know–” he struggled. “I know you aren’t asking to be held, but I hope you don’t mind.”

Curufin could get no more words out after that, so he closed his mouth and let his cheek fall against Celegorm’s hair. He exhaled slowly, recalling the way his hair used to smell.

Caranthir found them like that an hour later, both sound asleep.

#oh this is an old one. wrote it so long ago that the original draft was so no canon compliant anymore #was the perfect conclusion for c+c week with a healthy dose of rewriting #celegorm does make me kind of sad in this au #great way to end c+c. on a low note #celegorm #curufin #caranthir #the silmarillion #old gods au #c+c week 2024 #grimwing writes

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