#I know fingon is the one who cut the hand off

[echo-bleu]

Noldor hair headcanons (2/4)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Glorfindel is a Vanya and wears his hair completely loose.

We all know how that ends.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s not a nice sight.

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

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

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

Then the Oath awakes once more.

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

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

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

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

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

Elwing’s hair floats around her as she falls.

To be continued

#noldor #maedhros #maglor #fingon #finrod #galadriel #silmarillion #silm fic #tolkien #tolkien fanfiction #tolkien meta #it's a bit of both? #echo's fanfiction #if i am to braid my mystic crown

[thelordofgifs]

In light of recent interesting discourse about Beren and Lúthien's Silmaril theft, and the Fëanorions' priorities in the lead-up to Nirnaeth and after, I started wondering how things might have changed if B&L had managed to steal two Silmarils rather than one. Would pulling the Union together be harder with only one jewel left to draw focus in Angband?

Then as soon as I thought about it some more, I realised the most inevitable path diverged earlier than that.

Then I started writing a fic, got 400 words in, and realised I wanted to actually figure out what happened first. So here's a half (or potentially a smaller fraction) of a sort of bullet point fic/plan/thing, which may or may not get properly written up later. First I need to work out where to go from here.

Angrist was forged by the greatest of the Dwarf-smiths in the master-workshops of Nogrod. It cuts two Silmarils from Morgoth's iron crown before the blade snaps, and Morgoth stirs in his enchanted sleep.

Beren passes one Silmaril to Lúthien, and they run for it.

Carcharoth still meets them, snarling, at the gate. Beren still holds out a Silmaril to ward him off. His hand still gets bitten off.

But when the Eagles come for them, and Lúthien clambers sobbing onto Thorondor's back, she clasps a Silmaril in her hand.

The Eagles bear them towards Doriath, and the Treelight undiminished shines out over Dorthonion and Gondolin.

In chilly Himring, Maglor is shaken awake from nightmares of fire and smoke by his eldest brother, who drags him out of bed and towards the window. "Look! Is that not a Silmaril that shines now in the North?"

Maglor recognises it, of course. Moreover, he recognises the size and shape of Eagles in flight, even at a distance. Recognises, too, that as often as not they bear doom itself upon their great feathered backs.

(His father's jewel stinging his Oath awake, his brother's emaciated bleeding body wrapped in Fingon's cloak - they all mean failure.)

"Thingol's daughter and the mortal must have succeeded," he says. "What can we do?"

Maedhros and Maglor, you see, are Not Happy with the news out of Nargothrond.

That Celegorm wanted to force an elf-maid to wed against her will, after what they heard befell Aredhel—

That Curufin could turn against his favourite cousin, and betray him to his death—

"I am afraid," says Maedhros, "of what it will make us do. What it will make us become."

"We could ignore it," says Maglor, whose first response is always inaction. "Let it go to Doriath—" But it is hard even to finish the sentence, with the Oath choking his words.

And there is a bigger problem: Celegorm and Curufin, who are sleeping now (it is only Maedhros who can be relied upon to pace the fortress by night), will not do so forever. They have already attacked Thingol's daughter once - will they do so again, before she can pass into the safety of her mother's Girdle?

"We have to get to Doriath before they do," says Maedhros, and wonders when his little brothers became the threat to be outpaced.

"And then what?" asks Maglor, who never shies from difficult questions.

Maedhros gives him one of his quick strange smiles. "This is how it works, you know," he says. "Huan has turned from Tyelko. Tyelpë has repudiated Curvo. It turns you into the worst version of yourself, and then it strips away the best thing you have left."

Maedhros has ridden out to claim a Silmaril before, and lost all of himself in the process.

Maglor, too, has been offered all he ever wanted - his dearest brother, returned to him - and turned away for the sake of the Oath he renewed at his father's deathbed.

They are both afraid of what they could become.

They ride out from Himring anyway, swiftly and secretly, before the dawn.

Meanwhile, Thorondor sets Beren and Lúthien down on Doriath's southern border.

Huan comes to join them, and with the power of the Silmaril, Beren is healed sooner than he might have been, otherwise.

The Quest is fulfilled. Beren has no reason to stay away from Thingol's house.

Instead of wandering in the wilds, the lovers return to Menegroth, present a Silmaril, and promptly get married.

Thingol is very surprised (and overjoyed) to see them; the last news he had of Lúthien was that she had vanished from Nargothrond.

In fact, he's just sent out a couple of messengers, led by Mablung Heavy-hand, with a scathing letter to Maedhros Fëanorion demanding his aid in finding the princess.

North of the Girdle: "Hey, isn't that Maedhros Fëanorion?"

"Sure is," says Mablung, who was at the Mereth Aderthad.

"Hail, Mablung of Doriath!" calls Maedhros, who never forgets a face. "What news from King Thingol?"

Well, there isn't news as such. Just... fury.

Maedhros considers the merits of keeping his cards close to his chest versus the dire diplomatic situation he's currently in, and opts to share what they saw from Himring, and what it bodes for Beren's success.

He decides not to share that Lúthien was definitely with Beren, which he knows because his brothers attacked her.

Maglor is not sure how stopping to chat with an Iathren marchwarden is going to get them closer to a Silmaril, but he isn't in the habit of arguing with Maedhros.

Anyway, before the conversation can wrap up, a marauding werewolf appears.

Right. Carcharoth.

The Iathrim make the sensible call and scramble up some trees. Maglor follows a beat later.

Noldor don't climb trees very often. It isn't one of the skills Maedhros has had cause to practice one-handed.

Not that it matters, because he's frozen where he stands, eyes wide and bright and thoughtful.

This is unusual. Maedhros would not be the most renowned warrior of the Noldor if he were constantly dissociating in the midst of battle.

He saves the dissociation for after the battle, thank you.

The wolf is almost upon him.

Well, thinks Maglor, about time I did some saving for a change.

Maglor is not Lúthien. Does he need to be? He knows enough about madness, and enough about torment. He knows how to sing the suffering to sleep.

He drops down from his perch to begin a lullaby.

Carcharoth slows down when he sings, and comes to a momentary halt, and Maglor takes the time to hiss, "Nelyo, run—"

"They burned him," Maedhros breathes, still with that bright faraway look in his eyes that means he is half-lost in memory. "His hands were black and ruined. No evil thing may touch them."

The wolf lunges.

[I want to kill Maglor off here but I'm a coward. so.]

Carcharoth savages Maglor's leg and he collapses.

That brings Maedhros back to himself.

Mablung and his party aren't heavily armed. They were only meant to be messengers, after all. They get a few shots in at the wolf, who runs off, still maddened.

Maglor isn't moving isn't talking and there's so much blood—

(to be continued)

#silmarillion #my fic #bullet point fic #beren #luthien #maedhros #maglor #I think I know what happens next #but not what that leads to #I had to look at a map for this do you know how traumatic that was #anyway turns out bullet point fic is quite fun to write #maedhros and maglor have entered leithian and derailed it #maybe fingon will make an appearance too #who knows I'm tired #what even is this actually #cw blood

[doodle-pops]

Puppy Love

A/N: A little bit of fluff for the holidays :)

Words: 600

“Hey, where are you looking? Keep your eyes on me,” he whispered, his lips hovering just above yours, his voice commanding and gentle all at once.

You couldn’t deny that you had a tendency to avoid making eye contact with him. It was an intense experience that never failed to make you feel flustered. He had noticed this quirk of yours and took every opportunity to lock his gaze with yours, just to watch you stumble over your words and witness the bashful expression that would invariably spread across your cheeks. He found it endearing, and it became something of a playful game between you two.

His fingers reached out to pinch your cheeks between his larger hands, playfully squishing them together. He made it his mission to help you learn to maintain eye contact, but the task proved to be a challenge. So, he resorted to another tactic.

Peering at you from beneath his long lashes, his eyes took on a darker shade, focusing intensely on you. You felt the sensation of his gaze like a physical weight, and you bit your lip to resist the urge to look away. His hand on your chin held your head firmly in place, but despite his efforts, you blinked rapidly, trying to alleviate the intensity building inside you.

He couldn’t help but grin victoriously as he observed your struggle. “Eye on me, stars,” he murmured, his voice filled with a mixture of affection and mischief.

You gulped, aware that you were teetering on the edge of surrender. You longed to wipe that triumphant smirk off his face. For five more seconds, you held your gaze, determined not to give in. But eventually, you shifted your vision elsewhere, and he chuckled, releasing his hold on your chin.

Throwing his head back, he howled with laughter into the night sky, leaving you scowling in his direction, albeit under your breath. “I win. That last piece of cake is mine. I told you, you couldn’t beat me,” he declared, reaching for the final slice of marble cake and sliding the plate toward him.

“Whatever. It’s not my fault you have such beautiful eyes,” you grumbled, pausing midway through your disappointment to glance at him.

“Oh, come on. Didn’t you want to win the cake? I’m offering to share. Just one bite…” His smile widened as he enjoyed your sullen demeanour. He knew you wouldn’t stay like this for long; you just needed a little incentive.

His eyes flicked over to your sullen expression and pouting lips, and he couldn’t help but smile. Turning in his seat, he cut a small portion of his cake and wiggled the fork towards you. “Say ah…” He held a fork with a piece of cake poised before your lips.

Still sulking, you turned your head in the opposite direction, unwilling to share in his victory cake.

Setting the plate aside, he rested his hands on either side of your chair and leaned in to kiss your cheek. The moment his lips met your skin, you turned your head in disgust, prompting him to move to your lips. You squealed in protest, knowing exactly what he was trying to do. Your hands came up to cover your mouth, but he was undeterred. His hands moved to tickle your sides, causing your hands to drop and allowing his mouth to claim yours for a swift kiss.

“Are you done sulking, love, or are you going to pout some more because my eyes are beautiful?” he teased.

“As a matter of fact, yes, I have,” you replied, a mischievous glint in your eye, “but now I’m ready to beat you for good.” With that, you launched out of your seat, chasing him through the backyard of his parents’ house. The sound of your laughter filled the air, a joyful chorus that reached the ears of his parents, who sat nearby, smiling at the happiness their son had found.

Maedhros, Maglor, Celegorm, Amras, Amrod, Fingon, Argon, Finarfin, Finrod, Aegnor, Glorfindel, Galdor, Egalmoth, Beleg, Elladan

Masterlist

Taglist: @lilmelily @rain-on-my-umbrella @mysticmoomin @aconstructofamind @asianbutnotjapanese @batsyforyou @ladyenchanted @mcwentfandomtraveling @involuntaryspasms @stormchaser819 @addaigio

If you would like to be tagged, click the taglist link to join.

#reactions #maedhros x reader #maglor x reader #celegorm x reader #amrod x reader #amras x reader #fingon x reader #argon x reader #finrod x reader #aegnor x reader #glorfindel x reader #galdor x reader #egalmoth x reader #beleg x reader #elladan x reader #finarfin x reader #silmarillion imagine #middle earth imagine #x reader insert #house of feanor #house of fingolfin #house of finarfin #house of elrond #lords of gondolin #doriath #silmarillion #silmarillion x reader #doodlepops writings ✨

[eight-pointed-star]

i would draw this but i barely know any composition so i need you to imagine this instead. maedhros getting his desires eaten along with his hand by a demon who's actually morgoth or sauron. like in that one panel

the problem is 1) the original page itself is insanely gorgeous and so disturbing and i could never do it justice 2) i have no idea what i want the demon to look like. maybe i could keep the goat? but it doesn't feel fitting for someone like morgoth or sauron. need to think of something more appropriate (suggestions welcome)

3) this is a minor thing but i'm not sure what to do with the hand. i guess the demon could twist it or something but it wouldn't be as horrifying as the eye thing + though in some drafts tolkien had morgoth chop off maedhros' hand, i prefer fingon doing it. so idk idk

also. half-snake fingon. is this anything

the page i'm talking about under the cut, spoilers ahead + TW: violence and some gore and generally scary things

+ the previous one because it's also so SO good and scary omg

#laure watches dunmeshi #dunmeshi spoilers #dungeon meshi spoilers #dungeon meshi #dunmeshi #silmarillion #spoilers #tw violence

[searchingforserendipity25]

silm smut fic rec

@silmsmutweek is winding down, and in the spirit of challenge participation and appreciation of the many great smut fics in this fandom, i've jotted down a list of some non-event related smut fics that absolutely shaped the way i read and write smut.

these are just a few - the true list of favourite smut fic is enormous, and growing every day, in good part due to the mods and everyone who also participated in this event!

Flying Like A Bird To You Now by Harp_of_Gold. @foxindarkness

"He’d betrayed his lover in more ways than he could count; no joyful reunion with the Lord of Trees could be expected. He owed apologies and more to an awful lot of people, but first and foremost to Oromë. That’s where he’d start, and when his beloved had crushed those futile hopes, perhaps he’d be able to move on." Celegorm is re-embodied in Valinor.

A welcome distraction, by firstamazon. @ettelene

Nerdanel is trying to work, but Fëanor has other ideas.

in the afterglow by lonelyvisitor for starlightwalking @i-am-a-lonely-visitor

For how long it’s been, darling, since we had one of our long talks, you must see this novelty of Curvo’s, but really any excuse for your company, come at once, or anyway as soon as I’ve finished with the chorus practice, it will be about the sixth hour. And informal attire, Turno, I must beg, you know I get itchy even looking at you sometimes…

prick a finger, cut your hand by welcoming_disaster. @welcomingdisaster

Míriel finds her rooms just as the sun sets over the horizon. She comes, as ever, with her hood drawn up over her face, wearing the simple white-and-silver robes of the unwed maidens that come and study poetry under Indis. The white symbolizes purity, the silver steadfastness. Sacrilege, Indis thinks, watching Míriel slip off her cloak and hang it delicately on the back of a dining chair, it is sacrilege.

Bow and Helm and Hand by jouissants. @jouissants

“It’s been far too long since you’ve journeyed with us, Mablung,” Túrin says. Mablung gives a rueful smile. “I go where I am ordered, and King Thingol orders me elsewhere. You have made yourselves too great a name together to be parted, and in that you are fortunate."

a most faithful vassal by starlightwalking. @arofili

Lord Fingon summons his favorite servant to keep him company on a lonely night.

Like a lover's voice fires the mountainside by BloodwingBlackbird. @bloodwingblackbird

For the prompt Maglor/Halbarad, public sex.

Of Changing and Shifing Shape, by polutropos. @polutrope

Daeron is the beneficiary of Lúthien's Maia shapeshifting prowess. They have a nice time in a treehouse that isn't a prison.

pulls you back, by orphaned account.

Maglor wanders the shore.

#silmsmutweek #fic rec #fic rec list #silmarillion fanfiction

[alicewritingstories]

Febuwhump Day 6: "You lied to me"

CW: Aftermath of torture, mutilation, suicidal ideation

AO3

---

Fingon held onto Maedhros' emaciated body as tightly as he could as Thorondir carried them back towards home. It was hard to keep pressure on the stump of his cousin's wrist and keep his limp form balanced on the eagle's back, but he did his best, trying to ignore the amount of blood soaking through the cloak he'd wrapped around Maedhros' arm.

To his relief, Thorondir landed as soon as they were in relatively safe territory and crouched to let him scramble down, half-lifting and half-dragging Maedhros to the ground with him. For his part, Maedhros didn't react. Fingon was torn between gratitude and worry about that; while unconscious, Maedhros couldn't feel pain, but there was a horrible, gnawing chance that he never would wake.

Now on a solid surface, Fingon pulled his blanket out of his bag and wrapped it around Maedhros as best he could, then started unwrapping the cloak from his arm enough to start cutting it into strips to use as bandages. He didn't know much about how to treat a wound this severe, but strapping the wadded cloak over it tightly enough to stop the blood would surely help.

As he worked, Maedhros finally stirred, groaning softly.

"Maedhros?" murmured Fingon softly, freezing in place. "Don't worry; we're on the way home."

Maedhros moaned again. Fingon took his water bottle from his hip and tried to give his cousin a drink, but Maedhros turned away, his eyes flickering open.

"Maedhros?"

Maedhros blinked as his eyes slowly focused on Fingon's face. "Wha… happened?" he murmured.

He had still been conscious when Fingon told him of the plan to cut off his hand, but Fingon repeated it anyway. "I cut off your hand. I'm sorry; it was the only way."

Maedhros frowned. "Liar…" he whispered.

Fingon blinked. "What? You know there wasn't another way."

"You… promised. You said… you'd kill me. Why…"

"When Thorondor arrived and brought me up to you, I realized it wasn't the only way to rescue you. I -"

"You lied to me." Maedhros coughed to clear his dry throat, but once again turned away when Fingon tried to give him water. "Told me… you'd kill me."

Fingon frowned.

"Taking me back… to be… cut off my hand and… taking me back crippled to… laugh…"

"I'm not taking you back to laugh at you; I want to save your life!" exclaimed Fingon indignantly.

Maedhros didn't reply. His eyes had fallen closed again and Fingon guessed that he'd fainted. He set his jaw and went back to bandaging Maedhros' wrist. That had been exhaustion and hunger and blood-loss, that was all. He could think about it later. For now, the important thing was to keep Maedhros alive until he was in the hands of skilled healers.

And it hadn't been a lie. He'd promised to save Maedhros and that was what he was doing. Maedhros was the one who had asked for death as an alternative to staying where he was.

Fingon had broken no promises.

He could only hope Maedhros would see it that way too.

#febuwhump2024 #febuwhumpday6 #silmarillion whump #cw: suicide #cw:torture #cw:mutilation #fingon #maedhros

[zealouswerewolfcollector]

500 words, T

Warnings: cannibalism

On Ao3

Hypocrite, Fingon thinks as he brings the axe down.

Hypocrite, he thinks as he cleans the meat off the bones.

Hypocrite, he thinks as he chews and swallows and fights to keep it down.

He cannot waste it. She volunteered for it, this woman who keeps them going for another day. Before she would succumb to the cold, she agreed to sacrifice her body to sustain the rest of them. After the first few times, Fingolfin would not have it otherwise.

There are others marked like her. Others who will be stripped down to their bones and consumed after they die. Aredhel was one of the first to volunteer. 

“Bury me not in an icy grave,” she pleaded. “I take heart from the thought that I can give you strength even after my death.”

Fingolfin, too, has given his consent. A king should lead by example. Yet, Fingon knows the mere idea makes his father sick. He must have felt he had no choice. No choice but to lead his people over the Ice. No choice but to accept this sacrifice from his people. No choice but to offer his flesh in return.

Turgon agreed after Elenwë’s death. But he beseeched his father and siblings to spare Idril even if she offers it herself.

“I care little what happens to my body once I am gone,” Finrod said. “Do with it as you will.”

His brothers echoed the sentiment, but Galadriel did not.

“I shall live,” she said and added nothing more.

They expect Fingon to volunteer too. No one says anything, but the looks are enough. He should do it as a leader and a prince, as his father’s firstborn heir. 

But he cannot.

He volunteered instead for preparing the meat for consumption. Undressing the body, cutting it down, separating sinews from bones. Bit by bit, he undoes someone who once lived, who once smiled, loved and despaired just like him. And now nothing is left of them. 

That is what terrifies Fingon most of all. The thought that all of him will be gone. The thought of teeth tearing into his skin, pulling him apart, consuming the body that he has adorned so lovingly, that has borne the touch of mother’s hand, of lover’s lips. Nothing will be left to prove that he existed. Every little bit of him will be gone. It is infinitely preferable to be buried under ice and snow. Alone and forgotten, but still there, still present, still whole.

When he goes after Maedhros, he knows there is a good chance he might be dead. Yet, he cannot turn back as long as there is hope he can recover at least a part of Maedhros’s body – something to rage at, something to mourn over. He cannot bury a ghost.

Later, when Fingon confesses his fears to him, Maedhros promises he will recover his body if he falls. It is this promise that brings Fingon some comfort as Gothmog’s axe rises above his head.

#silmarillion #fingon #silm fic #zwc fic #dead elves: do eat #cannibalism #it took me over two weeks to write 500 words #miss not being swamped with work that i hate #and having time for something else

[annoyinglandmagazine]

Feanor’s Funeral in an Organised Crime AU (1920s England)

He would have hated this, the droning voice of the priest speaking the blessings he’d scoff at, the stifling stench of incense hanging in the air of the even more stifling chapel they’d found, with some difficulty he gathered, it seems few places wished a tombstone carrying such a name on their sacred ground, to lie one such as his brother beside the devout, as if his cold flesh could taint the damp earth about him. As if there was any difference between them now, as if that quiet, motionless thing in that box was still Feanor Curufinwë.

In the end Nerdanel had intervened and arranged the sermon with an old friend of her father’s as a favour, in a remote parish far from London where his name held more weight. She would not be here today, she’d told Anairë so when she was giving them the directions. There were precious few there today, though if desired they could have filled a cathedral with those paying respects to their former boss and condolences to their new one, here he and his siblings with their children slipped into a pew at the back with the only other attendants being his sons and grandson with one or two personal friends of the deceased.

In what could have been years as easily as moments they were beneath a line of yew trees, the sunlight streaking through the branches to cast shadows along the neat rows of stone, the gravediggers had left leaving only the family alone at the grave. The grave of his dead brother. Feanor. It should have been impossible, it had been for how could such a thing happen to one who’s every whim changed the course of so many lives, who seemed the sun with all other’s merely stuck in his orbit.

And somehow he was now just gone. He would never know if one day he could have made him care for him, if Feanor would always have hated him regardless of what he did or if he’d missed his chance to finally get what he’d craved from his childhood.

‘You have some nerve showing up here,’ Curufin glowered while striding towards him, almost as if rearing for a fight, handing his child off to Maglor with little ceremony. Maglor thrusted Celebrimbor at Caranthir before hurrying after him. A good de escalation tactic certainly, if Curufin was rearing for a fight chances are Caranthir was also, best to preemptively restrict his involvement.

‘Did you expect me to not turn up for my brother’s funeral?’ he spoke neutrally, not wishing to provoke his nephew.

‘He’s dead because of you. If you hadn’t decided you knew better than him and led that split we would have had many times the manpower we had that day, it’s your fucking fault, you have no right, no right!’ Curufin stalked right up to his face, voice raised and Maglor had to move to grip his wrist back. No matter where this went none wanted to come to blows over Feanor’s grave.

‘Do I not have a right to grieve my own family? My brother just died and you’re acting like I’m making a move on your territory.’ He began to feel that cold firm anger but restrained it in a way none of his family could evidently, keeping his tone measured but not particularly well masked.

Caranthir cut in while still rocking his nephew soothingly to his chest ‘Half brother. You have another and two sisters still who care far more for your company. A mother willing to comfort you through your mourning. We will never have another father.’

Curufin looked ready to speak again but Maedhros stilled him with a hand settled on his shoulder and his slow and weary voice. ‘Fingolfin, I think it would be best if you left.’

He opened his mouth to speak again, to reprimand his nephew for taking the side of one so obviously filled with spite when Fingon appeared at his side and whispered in his ear.

‘It’s not worth it father. You should let them mourn, come back tomorrow.’ Fingon’s resigned gaze never left Maedhros as he spoke.

Finarfin however took his other arm before he could think of a response and gently but firmly guided him away. ‘Give them their privacy. They’re still young and they just lost their father after all,’ his brother had a sometimes infuriating tendency to always sound reasonable even when proposing that they were somehow intruding by being at the grave of the man who, despite recent events, had been their family as much as anyone’s.

He’d just opened his mouth to reprimand his siblings for just giving up on seeing off their own flesh and blood and suggest that he was in the wrong when Findis spoke sharply, the tone eerily like their mother’s (who perhaps unsurprisingly had not accompanied them) making it clear that this was one of the rare occasions in which she wished to remind them that the position of most senior member of this family did not in fact rest with Fingolfin as it did in matters of business.

‘Oh for goodness sake Nolofinwë, how can you ignore so plainly what is in front of you? This is not some play for power, I’m sure few of them genuinely blame you for his passing, it’s not about you and everyone else knows it! They mean to weep. Why do you think they did not make an event out of this, invite the entire gang of them, they want to be able to sob over the grave of their father without it being attached to business. And you, though once you were family, are now simply business to them. And they do not want you to see them cry. So just- leave the children be.’

The children. At the end of the day that was what they would always be wasn’t it? No matter how much blood was on their hands, how many trembled and cursed as the entered a room. He remembered his son’s face, splattered with blood that was neither his own nor that of the lowest of the low that on occasion stained Fingolfin’s own hands. The blood of mostly innocents, who dared to stand in the way of his brother in his rampage of grief. Yet he’d kissed that same forehead the next day, as Fingon mourned the loss of himself and those he’d slaughtered hopefully more than that of his….. friendship with Feanor’s son but it was hard to be sure what made him shake so.

He could have been filled with disgust, would have been at any other most likely, yet he’d wiped that repulsive blood off his son’s skin with a damp cloth ever so gently while he was in too much shock to do so himself. So Anaire didn’t see him like that because he knew that she would never be able to see him another way again if she had (she’d been told of course but she hadn’t seen).

While this was certainly not true for his nephews it also wasn’t something to be dismissed that when he saw Maedhros he couldn’t help but be reminded of the child that had practically glowed at being able to chat away at someone for hours about his favourite novels (always ridiculously precocious choices of course, he was still Maedhros). He’d ruffled up their hair, slipped them sweets, some of them had helped Anaire in the kitchen at dinners or with the little ones.

He remembered thinking that Maedhros was the most trustworthy person to hand a crying baby to, a man who had merely weeks later gained a reputation of brutality that spread throughout the city, leaving graveyards in his wake. Yet he still felt pity when he saw him helplessly put his arm around his not yet grown brothers in a desperate attempt to shield them from their grief when it should have been a parent doing so.

When he himself should have been comforted through such a bereavement at the young age of twenty four, who in regular circumstances would simply be starting out his career not already holding most of the wealth and power of the city in the palm of his solitary hand. He would not be in any role other than that of the protector, always in control, even after he retired for the night, no doubt to the house his father had purchased only months earlier for them to build a home in and attempt to fill the void Finwe and Nerdanel had left.

He snapped out of his shock when he saw Curufin slump against Celegorm with the unmistakable shaking shoulders; he turned sharply away in shame and the gate creaked as he left his brother once again.

#silmarillion #tolkien #maedhros #caranthir #Fingolfin #mafia au #historical au #Curufin #feanor #fingon #finarfin #findis #celebrimbor

[meadowlarkx]

Maedhros/Maglor and 26?

26. ...as an apology

Ensconced by the bookcase, Makalaurë strummed a minor chord. The strings shimmered in the shadowy corner, releasing a sound like a sorrowful sigh—like snowfall—like the rustle of leaves in a withering tree. His black curls, disheveled as the robe he wore, blended seamlessly into the shade. Maitimo reflected rather ironically that his little brother had found the only darkened corner in Fëanor’s house: the study where Maitimo spent the fifth day of each week.

The flowing music faltered, and an audible sniffle could be heard.

Maitimo raised his gaze from the tract he was reading for next morning’s lessons and resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

The harp was as big as Makalaurë was, but he had managed to haul it across the courtyard and up the stairs. His head was bowed in sorrow near the harp’s shoulder, and with his robe askew he resembled a crumpled bloom or perhaps a slug on a leaf. Still his weeping tugged at Maitimo’s heart.

“Makalaurë…” he began.

“Cease your interrupting,” Makalaurë sniffed. “I am composing.”

Here? Maitimo bit that back.

He returned his attention to the book. His tutor had been explaining some key points of Tirion’s history…

“You would not understand,” Makalaurë sighed. “There are times one must give voice to the emotion that lies in one’s heart, or resign oneself to Mandos’ halls with Grandmother.”

“Is this about what I said earlier?”

“No.”

Makalaurë went on playing. The melody now filled the room, one solitary, desolate note at a time. He started to hum in his beautiful voice, and lyrics threatened upon the horizon.

At the desk, Maitimo exhaled slowly. He hated when Makalaurë was angry with him. He was his favorite, dearest and brightest companion, and Maitimo could not bear to see him unhappy. He was also the most insufferable person in the world. He was very lucky, Maitimo thought, that Maitimo’s tutor had explained the concept of a tactical concession: and that he had Maitimo, who was older and smarter and reasonable in every way.

He closed the book and steeled himself. “I’m sorry,” he said.

Makalaurë cut off the music with a jarring motion of his hands; the strings twanged unpleasantly. “Whatever for?”

Determined, Maitimo rose and went to the shady corner with the bookcases. “I am sorry,” he said carefully (if tersely), “that I said Tyelko was better company than you.”

“Oh, it matters not!! You were simply expressing what you truly felt. You should always be honest and speak plainly. I am not upset at all.” His voice wavered.

Maitimo could not conceal the sigh at this.

Makalaurë wiped away tears and snot with the back of one hand. “You don’t really wish to speak to me,” he pronounced.

Maitimo grabbed the dampened hand. “I’m truly sorry.”

Makalaurë looked hopeful, but quickly disguised it, closing his traitorous eyes to become the picture of noble woe. “Empty words; you are merely appeasing me—"

“I am not. Do I spend all my days with Tyelko? I did not mean it, and I should not have said it. I’m sorry, Káno.”

Makalaurë peeked at him. “Are you?” he allowed.

“Yes.” Maitimo kissed his dark hair, and then his brow, and then his cheek. And lo, victory! everything was well again.

Maglor did not go to Maedhros, at first, when the news came of his return. He shied away from his presence like a shadow skitters from the light. Of course, his excuse was setting things in order in the Mithrim camp before departing for Fingolfin’s tents, but he lingered longer than he needed to—partly because he could imagine how the Mithrim camp might look to Maedhros, and that was humble, poorly-fortified, and rustic, despite the progress he had made in thirty years ruling there. The day drew on and at last, he could not resist the impulse to know, and see.

When Fingon showed him to Maedhros’ bedside, Maglor understood that Maedhros would not be surveying the Mithrim camp a while yet, nor anything else. His brother was asleep amid the furs, so still that Maglor first feared he was dead in truth. His right arm was bandaged and bloody, and his body scarred and windburned and starved. His eyes moved beneath his pale eyelids, as though chasing out some evil, and his breathing beat weakly. Weak himself, Maglor watched and made himself learn every detail, every wound and scar. Fingon, with a sympathetic look that was entirely unwarranted, showed him a chair and some poultices and left them alone.

He did not take the chair, but knelt by Maedhros’ bedside as he had done at his brother’s coronation. His mind refused to understand that Maedhros really lived and might yet wake. What he understood thoroughly was that Maedhros had suffered. It was one thing to know it, to imagine it every sleepless night and every moment his gaze drew towards the dark fortress of those mountains—to think of it each time he told his council there could be no attempt at rescue. It was another to see it.

When Maedhros woke, Maglor knew he would not want his apologies, or his company. He would do better to give them now.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “Nelyo, my love, I am so sorry.”

The words felt blasphemous in the chill air: a presumption, however quiet. He kissed Maedhros’ mouth and felt the warmth that still pulsed in his brother, and hoped that somehow, it would carry them all through whatever came next.

#this got away from me.... i couldn't pick which to write so i wrote both! i hope you like it anon! #maglor #maedhros #maemag #maemags #silmarillion #silmarillion fic #my fic #kiss meme #anonymous #maedhros x maglor #maglor x maedhros #discussed the first scenario with multiple ppl ik by this point bc it entertains me so. glad to have a version of it floating about!

[swanmaids]

Hello! For the kiss prompts, russingon and 19 if that catches your fancy? Thank you ❤️

19. for luck

Fingon looked out over the lake. The glimmer of the morning Sun against the mere was not the same as the light of the Trees reflecting off the waters of Aman in Fingon's memory, but there was a beauty to it all the same. A new day, he thought, a new day in this strange Middle Earth.

By his side, Maedhros looked forward too, ahead to his brothers' encampment on the northern shore. The two of them sat in pleasant silence, with only the wind in the reeds and the splashes of the waterfowl for company. It was early enough that they were the only two elves about. If Fingon were to close his eyes and listen to his lover’s breathing, he might pretend that they were the only two in the world.

But he was grown now, and the time for playing pretend was over.

"Are you really going to do it?" he asked Maedhros instead.

His cousin smiled vaugely. "Yes. Today, I think. Sooner is better than later."

"You know -" Fingon said, because it suddenly felt very important, "that was not why I set out to find you -"

"Finno," Maedhros cut him off, "I know. This is something that I want to do. Your father will make a good king."

Fingon nodded, and they watched the ducks together for a moment.

"Does it have to be today?" he asked eventually.

"I think so. I have sent some of father's retainers out to find suitable land to raise up keeps to live in, all of which are near to completion. Once we have crowned your father, I will be able to take my brothers out from under his feet to lands of their own almost right away."

Fingon decided not to comment on that we. "And they will go quietly, do you think?"

Maedhros snorted a laugh - not quite the same as his laugh before Thangorodrim, but close. "Have you ever known Caranthir to go quietly, in his life? Celegorm won't be happy either - if what Maglor says is true, he was close to ripping the crown off Maglor's head when his back was turned, without me. And Curufin is in for a nasty shock, once he realises I've dispossessed his child. But I'm not worried, if that's what you're asking. I can still wrangle them all well enough, even with one hand."

"Curufin's child? Have I missed something?"

Maedhros laughed again. Evidently, his coming dispossession had him in good spirits. "I'm the eldest of seven. You think I can't tell when a man's wife is bearing? It won't be long before she's showing. Better to have them moved to their own lands before it's born."

The thought of a child born in these lands was strange. Fingon was not sure if it was a good omen, or the worst idea he had ever heard. "You'll be an uncle," he said instead, and then, pointlessly, "my niece hates me."

"I'm sorry," Maedhros said, "I think that might be my fault."

Fingon dug his palms into his eyes, frustrated. "It isn't your fault," he said, although in a sense it was. Idril, motherless and untethered, hated Maedhros, and all of his brothers, and anybody who still loved them. Fingon did not like to think that he loved his cousin more than his brother's only child, but he did, and he had proven it.

Maedhros said nothing. Fingon leaned his head into his shoulder. He breathed in his scent, imagined it filling up his lungs. Imagined that he could somehow keep a piece of Maedhros with him always.

"I don't want you to leave," he said, mumbling it into Maedhros' neck.

Thankfully, Maedhros did not patronise him by saying that he had not technically mentioned his own leaving. "It's not as though we'll never see one another again. And I'll miss you too, as it happens. It's entirely possible that I'll summon you to my side as soon as I'm moved in."

"I'll be the crown prince. Perhaps I'll be summoning you."

"Perhaps indeed!"

The Sun was almost fully risen in the sky. If Fingon strained his ears, he would be able to hear his father's host readying themselves for the day. Maedhros moved to stand.

"Wait."

He gently tugged Maedhros back down, and Maedhros allowed himself to be moved.

"I know you have it all in control. But all the same - for luck?"

He tilted his head and pressed his lips gently against his cousin's, and the shores of Mithrim faded around them as they kissed. Fingon sometimes imagined climbing inside of Maedhros in moments like this, or somehow tying their fea together so that they would never need to be parted again. When they finally pulled away, his lips were swollen and tingling.

"Thank you," Maedhros smiled softly, "now I feel very lucky indeed."

"Then you are welcome," Fingon responded, "now go and heal the Noldor, Maedhros Kingmaker."

#russingon #maedhros #fingon #the silm #my fic #i've actually never written them before so i hope this is ok!!! #the longest one so far i think... #kiss prompts

[outofangband]

Capture of Húrin: Extended Musings

So I have extended musings on Maedhros’s capture and first meeting with Morgoth here so I thought I’d do Húrin as well! This is an updated version with more writing. This combines both reading/interpretation of the text, headcanons and just prose. Like with my Maedhros ones this incorporates a lot from my various Angband world building posts! Feel free to ask questions about that I had so much fun writing this to be honest Angband world building and aftermath of captivity masterlist

I have many related posts including this one!

The battle that would be called Nírnaeth Arnoediad, Tears Unnumbered is drawing to a close and Húrin Thalion knows it. He has long since lost sight of his brother and the other men of his house. Countless Edain, Eldar and enemies lie at his feet, dead and dying.

We are told that Húrin slew Gothmog’s troll guard. His own weapon having been cast aside, he is fighting with the axe of a fallen orc. He fights for vengeance and for his life, not knowing it is not his death that his enemies want. Not yet. By the time he collapses beneath the pile of the dead, he is thinking only of his family. His wife has before told him that he has an unrealistic view of his own mortality but he thinks right now his view is clear. He will die here among friends and enemies alike, no mortal injuries suffered but all energy spent.

And he is wrong.

He is pulled from the wreckage. It is not a rescue. He knows this and struggles futilely against the inhumanly strong hands that lift him into the air and the voice that laughs when his legs flail, too far from the ground. He recognizes the demon that grips him as the one who so easily knocked him and Lord Turgon aside in pursuit of the king.

When the demonic creature had first seized him in one dreadful claw, bits of the metal had melted to his skin. He had realized then that he could still scream. Gothmog had let him drop to the ground where he lay, splayed on his back, one of his legs twisted and no weapon in reach. He thought then that he would die. He thought that Gothmog had pulled him from the mass of bodies where he would have collapsed from exhaustion and suffocation so that he might be tormented and his death more gruesome and public.

(It will not be long before Húrin sees that the lord of balrogs has not taken merely him as a prize but also the ruined, still smoking helmet of King Fingon)

In the chaos of the dying battle and his exhaustion and fear, it does not yet occur to Húrin the reason for his capture. He has spent years patrolling and scouting for Lord Fingon, he knows that his kind are rarely taken as captives to the Enemy, except by bored groups of orcs or the men who serve Morgoth. Creatures like balrogs should have no interest in him except his death. The demon lord can hold him in one hand, restraining his own power to keep from burning him alive. Húrin’s armor is uncomfortably hot against his clothes and skin but still he fights when at last Gothmog sets him down and orders its removal. He has no weapon and so little strength as he is set upon by six or seven orcs who take hold of his limbs, pin him down and pull off his vambraces, breast plate, and even his boots. A blow to the head dizzies him, turning his thrashing into a feeble twitching that causes his captors to actually pause in their laughter. It is one of the first times Húrin will wonder at where they find their amusement.

It will be far from the last.

Again at Gothmog’s orders, they bind his hands and blindfold him. The adrenaline that had carried him through the battle is gone and he stumbles as they push him along. His fear and anger had acted as shield against the pain of the  innumerable bruises and cuts he had amassed during the fight but his shield is broken and a thousand aches set in, making his pace still slower. There are times he wonders if he will reach their destination alive and marvels at the irony of this, to survive the battle that killed so many only to collapse in these desolate lands from exhaustion.

They give him water at some point.  He tries to refuse it, on principle, automatically but once again he is overcome by sheer numbers. The flask is forced to his lips and instinct taking over, he swallows so he will not choke. The water fills him with a new fear:

They want him alive.

It is two or three days into the journey that Húrin fully realizes something still worse; that the fact that he wasn’t dead yet wasn’t simply spite on the part of his captors; they were keeping him alive for a purpose. At this point he was overcome with dread and began to suspect the reason for his capture.

It might be at this point he wonders, vaguely at first, of Lord Turgon, if the enemy was observant enough to see their reunion, perhaps even to hear his brother’s words. He will think himself paranoid several times before he accepts the truth; his and Huor’s miraculous return to their people had not gone unnoticed by unfriendly forces.

They arrive at the fortress after over a week of travel. He has amassed a dozen or so new bruises and minor injuries from how he is pushed and pulled along without care.  The blindfold has fallen off and no one bothers to replace it. Húrin does not go through the typical processing of captured prisoners though of course he does not know this. He is left in an empty cell with water but no food and made to wait. Passing orcs jeer at him and say nothing, do not even respond to when he eventually loses his temper and attempts to antagonize them. Even a fight would break up the awful monotony and dread of waiting.

He does not know how much time has passed before another enters his cell and binds his hands before him, attaching a long chain leash to them and begins to drag him wordlessly through the corridors. His trousers and tunic are torn and stained with blood, both his own and that of others. His anticipation is all that stops him from attempting to fight those who have come for him.

Húrin has managed little restful sleep but is no longer so exhausted. Something else has taken over, something that grows as he is dragged through the massive doors into the Nethermost Hall where Morgoth sits upon his throne.

Húrin feels the hatred exuding from the Dark Lord even as his enemy puts on a show of mocking courtesy, rising slowly to his full and impressive height. The many’s eyes find the limp in one leg and in the depths of Angband, Húrin feels the slightest twinge of satisfaction; the rumors of Lord Fingolfin’s deeds were true.

He looks higher now. The  eyes of Morgoth glitter strangely under the crown.  Húrin feels as though they seek to swallow him whole. The cold of the throne room is suddenly nigh unbearable, a non existent wind obscures his senses.

But the monster’s clear loathing is matched only by Húrin’s own hatred. He thinks of Lalaith succumbing to that dreadful fever, of how Morwen still wakes sometimes in the night, prepared to flee the fires of her nightmares, of watching his father fall in battle, of how they have failed to make these lands safe for his people, of so many lives taken or destroyed, homes abandoned and burned, because of this horrid enemy.

All this is the fault of Morgoth.

Húrin’s anger builds up a newer, stronger shield. He does not falter under the dreadful gaze. He raises his head to meet it.

To be continued…

(so yeah these are my extended musings on this, part one! as always feel free to ask any questions!)

#the silmarillion #the children of húrin #Húrin #Gothmog #in the iron hell #musing and meta #mentions of: #Morwen #Turgon #Fingon

[thelordofgifs]

please tell me more about maedhros in part 30 of tfs beloved 🌟🌟🌟

(director’s cut ask game)

Oooh excellent question ty!!! Part 30 of the fairest stars is probably one of my favourites and I have SO many ramblings I can do about it. Under the cut for spoilers.

There was a lot riding on part 30: I wanted it to be very sad, and also very suspenseful, and to function as a character study of Maedhros while also not revealing to the reader what he was actually planning to do. Which was tricky! I think I managed to pull it off, but it was definitely technically challenging to write (also emotionally challenging, it made me so sad ok).

Not long after I realised that the third arc would end with Maedhros going to Sauron, I also realised that it would be best not to reveal too much of his thought processes: so, although he's the most central character of the arc, he actually gets very little point of view in it. He narrates a couple of lines in parts 23 and 24, but the last proper extended pov he gets is in part 22 – which worked quite well, because as the arc progressed I wanted to hint at his gradual mental deterioration without alarming the reader too much. In part 30, on the other hand, you are meant to be extremely alarmed. Interestingly, Maedhros himself, who is very wedded to the idea of himself as Logical and Sensible and Always Right, does not really have any idea of how bad a state he is in during part 30.

There's stuff like this incident, for example:

“No – no – you’re wrong,” Maedhros says, a little wildly. “Finno is good, he wouldn't—”

Turgon watches him, not unsympathetically, as he struggles for words, and then fetches him some water and waits until he has regained his composure.

He did pretty much have a panic attack in front of Turgon there, but without acknowledging it to himself.

Or this one:

Still, cowardly, he finds himself dawdling; after leaving Fingon’s chambers he wanders through the corridors for some hours.

(It is hard to keep track of time these days; he might blink and realise that it has grown dark outside without his noticing, or else that he has no memory of coming into this part of the fortress.)

Maedhros. Baby. You are having a severe mental health crisis.

It’s not that he’s unaware of this! Which comes across mostly clearly in what is imo the single saddest line of part 30 and possibly of the entire fic:

If Maedhros said, No, it is all dark inside my head, and I cannot see a way out— If he said, I know what I must do, but Valar curse me, I am afraid, I am so afraid— Or even if he said, Káno, help me, help me, help me—

It’s just. he’s so close. If he had only asked for help – you only ever have to ask!! – all the tragedy could have been averted; and Maedhros knows that! He knows that Maglor would do anything to make him feel better, but he can’t bear to keep relying on his brother any more, and so does not do the sensible thing and reach for help.

(A lot of Maedhros’ thought processes in part 30 were written to feel like those of a suicidal person. That was deliberate for many reasons: of course Maedhros is the only named Elf who canonically does commit suicide, and for me one of his defining traits is a very… unelvish instinct for self-destruction – consider also the fact that he begs Fingon to kill him on Thangorodrim. Then there was the simple plot-and-suspense reason that I did want the reader to maybe get the inkling that the ill-advised decision he is planning to make is to commit suicide: in a way it is, because he isn’t expecting to ever leave Sauron’s captivity, I don’t think. So this is why he states explicitly that he “cannot see a way out”, and why too he is so concerned that Fingon does not blame himself when he finds out what Maedhros has done. When your mental state is this bad, it’s very easy to start thinking in black-and-white.)

Hmm what else. Of course the first two thirds or so of part 30 are really about Maedhros trying to set his affairs in order before he leaves (again… he really does feel like he’s dying, in a way), and in particular to tie up loose threads in the two relationships that most define him, his relationship with Fingon and his relationship with Maglor. So first of all he talks to Lúthien about the Silmaril in Doriath, which he frames to her as wanting to win for Maglor’s sake – which is not strictly true, of course. Maedhros wants the Silmaril because of his Oath. But convincing himself that he needs to fulfil the Oath because Maglor deserves to be free of it is… a rather convenient way of putting it to himself.

Then he talks to Turgon about Fingon, and asks him not to hold a grudge against Fingon on Maedhros’ account.

“On your account,” Turgon repeats. “You do rather think everything is about you, don’t you?”

Here’s another Hard Truth for Maedhros, after Lúthien’s insights about the nature of the Oath: he’s not the main character! He needs to stop thinking that he’s the main character! (I do think the failure of the Union in canon was mainly because Maedhros saw himself as the protagonist of the fight against Morgoth. He’s just so utterly unable to recognise the shape of his own narrative.)

Turgon is right in this conversation, but he’s also pretty harsh on Maedhros. In particular, he attacks the one conviction Maedhros usually takes as gospel, which is his belief that Fingon is a good person:

“Alqualondë,” says Turgon, with an air of dreadful finality. “You know as well as I do that he would not have leapt into the slaughter were it not for you! He followed you into it, and he will follow you to his doom just as blindly. Will you stop him, Maedhros? Or will you drag him down with you into whatever accursed acts of evil your damned Oath compels you to next?”

“No – no – you’re wrong,” Maedhros says, a little wildly. “Finno is good, he wouldn't—”

The thing is! Maedhros loves Fingon very deeply: and he is fundamentally unable to see the people he loves with any degree of objectivity (see also: Maglor). This came up all the way back in part 8, when he is worried that Fingon might launch an invasion of Doriath:

“Finno,” says Maedhros, “you don’t – you won't—”

Fingon kisses him. “It’ll be alright,” he says.

Maedhros trusts him, of course he does. But he is also frightened.

A lot of his general worldview is predicated on Fingon being a good person.

So Turgon's accusation sends Maedhros spiralling. Although he wasn't expecting to succeed in convincing Turgon to forgive Fingon, he also wasn't expecting to have to reevaluate something so fundamental.

He does not know whether he has succeeded in softening Turgon’s opinion of his brother; his thought was to mend the breach between them, smooth out the little anxious line that appears between Fingon’s brows when he sees Turgon from afar – but he should have known it would not work, he who ruins everything he touches.

But could he ruin Fingon? Does the taint in him truly run that deep?

It is not possible. Fingon is all goodness and light and purity, the shining hero, the Eagle-rider, who brought Maedhros back from his living hell and drove Glaurung away from Hithlum and – and slew the Teleri at Alqualondë, and – kissed Maedhros on the field of his victory as though he were truly nothing but the spoils of battle—

his internal monologue is... very fucked up here, to put it lightly. Maedhros has spent a long time talking about himself as "corrupted" and "tainted" – very dark and loaded vocabulary which he does fully buy into. (This is a relic of Angband. I've long thought that one of the most destructive things to do to a person, far worse in some measures than physical torture, is to make them believe that they are evil and irredeemable – and Maedhros, who had very recently become a murderer at the time he was taken captive, must have been such a prime target for psychological manipulation of that sort! Easy to hurt, indeed. And then the events of tfs – most notably the stabbing – have done nothing to disabuse him of that notion.)

While I was writing this part, I was working off a list of Reasons Why Maedhros Makes His Decision – I didn't write it down anywhere, but in order of priority they probably go something like this:

he wants Maglor to hate him

he thinks he deserves to suffer

he doesn't want to be Fingon's trophy and if he is nothing but a trophy and a lovely thing to be admired, then he might as well be Sauron's

he has a plan to get the Silmarils back (it is not spoiling much to say that this plan is very, very stupid. but it's there)

he needs to leave so that he doesn't snap and accidentally kill Maglor

NEW!! he needs to leave so that he doesn't make Fingon evil

he needs to leave because he is hurting Maglor by relying on him so much

he needs to leave because he is politically toxic for Fingon, as the fallout from the kiss has shown

once again!! he is so so so fucked up!! But, back to Turgon: he pretty much sends Maedhros into crisis by pointing out that Fingon is in fact a three-dimensional and morally rather flawed person, a fact which Maedhros prefers to ignore – but in the end, instead of taking the right lessons from his conversation with Turgon, he just concludes that he is the entire problem here and if only Fingon were free of his terrible corrupting influence he would be as good and heroic as Maedhros knows he actually is. You idiot that's not how any of this works!!

He calms down a bit once he has managed to wrangle this realisation into another reason why he should leave, though, and manages to keep a pretty cool and collected mask during his conversation with Fingon.

“Well, he was right about one thing,” Fingon says softly. His eyes are fixed on Maedhros’ face. “I do love you best. I would put you above any of them.”

Maedhros does not flinch.

“Very romantic,” he says, endeavouring to sound wry, “if perhaps not a sentiment you should express in public.”

look at him deflecting!! wouldn't it be nice if he actually said what he was thinking for once. oh well.

There's also this:

Maedhros squeezes his fingers, and meets his eyes as earnestly as he can. “You are not – you are not cruel, Finno,” he says. “You are not – like him. You are not.”

(Sidenote, but – and I've mentioned this in previous director's cuts – Maedhros is usually pretty articulate and well-spoken, the diplomat, the linguist's son; when he starts stumbling over his words, or speaking in sentence fragments, it's a pretty clear tell that he is in a terrible state mentally. In part 30 it's so bad that even his thoughts and internal monologue are full of em-dashes and incoherent half-clauses and clumsy repetition. I put thought into this ok!)

Anyway, this is actually Maedhros just talking to himself, trying to convince himself that Turgon was wrong, that Fingon isn't evil (which isn't what Turgon said but ok Maedhros), and that he is not like Sauron, one impulsive adrenaline-fuelled kiss beside. Unfortunately, Fingon is not really giving him the reassurance he needs, mostly because Maedhros won't tell him what's troubling him:

The last time they kissed, Fingon tasted of blood. The cold metal of his gauntlet left deep marks on Maedhros’ cheek. Now his mouth is sunshine-sweet, and he twines his bare hand in Maedhros’ hair, drawing him closer, inhaling him, possessing him, and Maedhros lets him—

Maedhros lets him.

You will lead him to his ruin, said Turgon.

They break apart at last. Fingon rests his forehead against Maedhros’ and looks at him like he has never seen anything lovelier.

This is part of the weird little tangle Maedhros has got himself into, which goes something like: kissing me knowing I didn't want him to was bad and something Sauron would do = Sauron said I am easy to hurt = being in a relationship with me is going to turn Fingon into Sauron because he can't help but hurt me and I am too weak and corrupted to stop him, which is messed up and victim-blaming and illogical and wrong on SO many levels, but yeah. Anyway, that phrase, "he has never seen anything lovelier", was pretty deliberately chosen, in light of Maedhros' statement in part 29 that he does not want to be merely "a doll, a trophy, a lovely thing to be admired"; and Lúthien, too, signals to him that she understands this hyperspecific fear of his, when she tells him, "It is very hard, I think, to be treated as nothing more than a lovely thing to be admired." So here, with Fingon's adoring gaze on him, Maedhros is worrying once again that loving him is bad for Fingon, and is making him into a worse person. In a very convoluted way, because, again, he isn't thinking clearly at all.

(Starting to realise I could write another entire post on the russingon dynamic in parts 28-30, and I have plenty more of these director's cut asks to get through, so I'll cut it short here lol.)

Anyway, the last and saddest of the conversations Maedhros has is, of course, with Maglor because I am soooo normal and ordinary about these two. Maedhros isn't actually intending to talk to Maglor before leaving:

Maedhros only means to look at him, but then Maglor glances up and notices him standing in the doorway. “Nelyo! I did not think you were sleeping here tonight,” he says. Then he looks at Maedhros more closely. “Another nightmare?”

This is mostly because Maedhros is worried that Maglor, who makes a habit of noticing his every minor tell, will start to suspect that he is planning something; but in the end he can't leave without giving himself a goodbye, even though neither Maglor nor the reader know that it's a goodbye. (The reader probably could tell? Unsure.)

Anyway, this last scene was mostly about fleshing out all the Maglor-related reasons from Maedhros' list above; namely, making it clear that he does know exactly how badly he is about to hurt Maglor, and is going through with his plan not despite that fact but because of it, because he needs Maglor to hate him. I've already written an entire essay about their dynamic in the third arc, so I'll keep it shorter here, but basically: Maedhros has become all too aware of how codependent and unhealthy his relationship with his brother has become, and has hit upon a very, very bad solution to this problem.

I mean.

When Maedhros found Maglor in the cave, his brother was moments from death, so weak he could not lift his head; and his white face lit by the Silmaril was filled with bereft despair, for Curufin had abandoned him.

In his secret heart Maedhros long thought it the cruellest of all Curufin’s deeds. How could anyone willingly hurt Maglor – how could anyone leave him?

Maedhros: my brother has abandonment issues. I think abandoning him will fix this,

Oooh yes also that reminds me! Maedhros spends a lot of time in part 30 thinking about Curufin: and this is really the crux of it, the fact that Curufin's decision to leave in part 20 and Maedhros' decision to leave in part 30 are parallels of each other. In fact the approximate train of thought of mine that led to this plot point, back in May when I first conceived it, was "everyone keeps being mean to Curvo for being so so stupid but you know what. I think Maedhros can be stupider actually."

Anyway, unlike the three other conversations he has in part 30, Maedhros doesn’t go into his conversation with Maglor with any particular goal he would like to achieve. He just… loves him. And, as he tried his best to play the devoted lover with Fingon, he slips now into the role of the responsible elder brother, telling Maglor to go to bed and scolding him for staying up too late. (Not to get on the suicide parallels again, but sudden calmness/more cheerful behaviour is a somewhat common indicator that a suicidal person has made a decision to end their life.) And, also, I think a part of Maedhros wants to leave Maglor with a good memory of him, even though that's contrary to his actual goal, which is to make Maglor hate him. (This is also why he tries to refrain from touching Maglor throughout the conversation, although he isn't ultimately able to.)

The very last bit of the scene:

Even so, the tune is recognisable: a lullaby Maglor wrote for Maedhros by the shores of Lake Mithrim, in the very early days when Maedhros was too terrified of it all turning out to be a dream to even close his eyes.

Maglor sang it again when he saved Maedhros’ life from Carcharoth, moments before the wolf leapt upon him, and again in Himring with Maedhros’ knife sticking out of his abdomen.

Hearing it now, he takes Maedhros’ hand, and listens attentively; but eventually his eyes drift closed, and Maedhros watches as his breathing eases into sleep.

idk something about the parallels here. the fact that Maglor sang this lullaby at the times when Maedhros hurt him (not that he was actively involved in the Carcharoth incident, but he blames himself for that anyway) and that Maedhros sings it to him now, just before hurting Maglor yet again... I just like the image.

I was rather pleased with the way the scene ends on a very gentle note; Maedhros literally gets up to leave seconds after this, but I knew I didn't want to show the actual moment he walks away, and leave his POV still on this very peaceful little tableau.

Then there's a little interlude in which Fingon and Maglor Find Out, and then we return to Maedhros' POV for the fun final scene of the arc. There isn't a lot to say about Maedhros' walk through Dorthonion; mostly what I was trying to do was to trick the reader into thinking he was walking to Menegroth lol. (Which doesn't actually make any sense, since he can't pass through the Girdle. But I wanted to lead you into considering the possibility anyway.)

One thing I do want to highlight:

Hard to feel very thankful about anything, when his feet are drawn inexorably forward, as though he is walking downhill, although the ground is flat here.

He was vaguely worried, in the dimmed and distant way he feels anything right now, that he would not be able to find his target. It is not exactly marked on any maps, after all.

But he should not have been concerned. Some ugly core of him knows the way he is going.

and also

Ancient instinct pushes him to his knees.

I was deliberately using very passive language here: Maedhros' feet are being drawn forward, he is pushed to his knees. (Also, "some ugly core of him"! He's so convinced that he is fundamentally evil and corrupted!) He has basically completely relinquished any idea of his own agency here: this is inevitable, and he was always going to end up here, at Sauron's feet, and there is no other way the story could ever have gone.

He's wrong, of course. He did have a choice, he had so many chances, and he didn't take any of them.

#asks #that-angry-noldo #ask game #cw suicide #the fairest stars #tfs spoilers #maedhros #this took me like a week omg I have SO many thoughts #tl;dr the boy is Fucked Up

[doodle-pops]

House of Feanor | Getting Into A Fight For Their S/O

Request: hi, your personal kdrama obsessed anon here: Can I request a HC reactions of the feanorians (bonus Finrod too please) of their s/o willing to attend to their wounds after they get into a fight with someone - 🌊anon

A/N: No Finrod since you asked for the House of Feanor. Finrod can be requested with his House next time or with random characters :)

Feanor

You would have to rush to get his sons and more guards to pull him off the poor offender before he finished them off.

Shouts of profanities and threats to end them the next time he saw them in public.

He’d be fighting his own sons to throw them off so he could dive back onto the person. You would have to stand before him and hold his face to redirect his attention to you.

Coos and whispers wouldn’t really calm him down immediately, his sons would have to remove him from the scene so you could attend to his injuries.

He’d be inching to break free and have at it again, but you weren’t letting him go so easily. He needed treatment.

“That bastard was lucky my sons pulled me off. I’d tear his face off the next time I see him.”

You would be rolling your eyes at his antics, only to apply ointment to the area injured to shut him up. “Would you just calm down?” “I'm completely calm!” he softly said.

Maedhros

Maedhros is a force to reckon with and when he’s seething mad and seeing red, I don’t know how anyone can get him off the person.

Not overly muscular and bulky, but he has strength and power which makes it nearly impossible to pull him off.

It would take Fingon and Celegorm to tug Maedhros off the poor offender and drag him off to a secluded area for you to assess him.

You’d be dancing before your lover in an attempt to get him to focus on you and not the crowd behind, but he was determined to finish what he started.

Silently brooding and mumbling under his breath while dancing his eyes to get a good look at the person, only for you to grip his face and yank it to meet yours.

“I think you should let me go – ouch!” you would ignore his complaints as you continued to clean him up, feeling his gaze locked on you.

The only way to get him to remain seated is to bribe him with kisses so his injuries would heal. Would definitely wrap an arm around your waist and nuzzle your stomach like an apologetic cat with some huffs.

Maglor

He’s perhaps the deadliest and scariest of all his siblings when he becomes angry.

He’d move so quick, that his siblings wouldn’t be able to snatch him until he landed on the offender.

Maglor would be easy to drag off, but his glare would make everyone shiver to their core as he stares at the perpetrator.

You would hum a familiar tune for Maglor to stop seeing red and focus his attention on you.

He would be ashamed that you had to see him in that manner and would remain quiet during the entire cleaning-up process.

“I’m sorry you had to see that; it wasn’t my – what was that for?” you’d give him a kiss on the cut to his upper lip to heal.

This would make him feel better but still guilty about his altercation.

Celegorm

I don’t know how you’re getting this hunk of an elf off someone he’s fighting but good luck to anyone that attempts to prevent it.

Celegorm is swinging at anyone who attempts to stop him. His hands are rated E for everyone and anyone.

But let’s say you do manage to drag him off, he cursing and shouting and wiggling to get out of his brother’s grasp. You probably have to knock him in his head for him to wake up.

He’s silent and brooding the entire time getting healed. Grumbling under his breath about going back after them to finish what was started. The only way to calm him would be to sweet-talk him.

“If you behave, I’ll give you some kisses and cuddles and more.” It works all the time. He expects you to mean your words though, otherwise, he’s finding that person.

Celegorm would pull you in and have his arms wrapped around you allowing you to baby him so more.

Caranthir

The one person who didn’t want for you to witness him in such disarray. He’s livid and has already cut through the crowd for the person.

It would take Celegorm and Maedhros to drag him off while you stood at the side observing his frenzied state.

You would have to step in to calm him because if you don’t, he’s ripping himself out of his brother’s arms.

Coos and soft touches to his face bring his focus in and avert his attention to his injuries. His knuckles would be bruised and bloodied from all the hitting.

Caranthir wouldn’t want you to spend your time cleaning him up because he was ashamed, but you didn’t let his reason stop you from taking care of him.

Hugs and kisses to his forehead would be given and you would drag him inside your home to blow some steam off.

Curufin

It would take a lot to make this Feanorian fistfight someone because he isn’t the physical violent type, more the manipulative type, but hey, he’s throwing hands in this headcanon.

Curufin is just as deadly as his brothers so Celegorm would be the safer of them to drag him off and put him in the time-out corner.

Disgruntled like his father and throwing around threats and insults at the person. He’d attempt to fight his way out of Celegorm’s grip, but it's Celegorm, so no escaping.

He’s going to be ultimately grumpy and would refuse to acknowledge your presence because someone was still seething and itching to throw hands. You’re going to have to grip his face and pull it to face you.

Might have to be a bit rough with him to gain his attention. “Ouch. That was awfully harsh – can’t you be a bit gentler? I just got hit to my face.”

It would take you a while to realize that Curufin was only attempting to defend your name, so being harsh on him was unnecessary. You’d sit on his lap and give him a few kisses to cool his steam.

Amrod

The more rambunctious of his twin who’s always looking out for both you and Amras would be the one to involve himself in greater altercations.

His older brothers would easily pull him off the perpetrator while he spewed the deadliest things past his lips. Typical Feanorian behaviour.

His twin would rush in first to calm his brother down before you stepped in to assess his injuries. Little scraps and cuts would be adorning Amrod’s hands and face since the person fought back.

 Amrod would be hesitant to look you in the eye since this would give you the opportunity to assess his Feanorian temper you’ve always heard about.

“You’re such a hot-temper little ginger baby Amrod.” “Baby? I’m no baby.”

You’d tease him to lighten the atmosphere and tell him that he’s a baby because you now had to take care of him. He’d be pouty about it, so long as you comforted him with cuddles later.

Amras

Being the quieter of the twins, Amras's actions would go almost unnoticed when he strikes to action the offender.

Quick his brothers would be to drag him off the person even though he refuses to let them go.

Similar to Amrod, his twin would rush to calm him down before you join him to clean up any injuries and scold him.

He’d be grumbling and refuse to converse with you believing that your displeased state meant that he had no right defending you. To him, he felt as though it was necessary.

Throughout the clean-up, he’d shift his eyes over to peek at your expression and observe how concentrated you were on stitching him up. This would make him feel a bit sad since you ended up spending your time fixing him instead of enjoying yourself.

“I’m really sorry love, I just wanted to do something.” “I know Amras, and I love you.”

Celebrimbor

Anyone who attempted to insult the grandson of the elf who literally combusted into flames without a care in the world while cursing Morgoth is foolish.

He’s a hammer-swinging Feanorian who hates the fact that he has his family’s hastiness and anger and is bulky enough to knock you over with one gentle swing.

His guards would have to pry him over the offender as they insulted you for courting him. Celebrimbor didn’t care about the slurs they threw at him, all that mattered were the slurs thrown at you.

He does suffer a few bruises to the knuckles from how hard he threw his fist and the little scuffle him the offender had, but it’s not much.

Celebrimbor doesn’t wish to be around you because he’s embarrassed that you had to see him in what he considers, the worse state. Just find this big baby and give him some kisses while cleaning his wounds.

Lock the door and sit on him, that way, he doesn’t leave your embrace and you could get the job done. He’s quiet during the entire process and refuses to make eye contact but nuzzle his cheeks and pull him in for some cuddles and he’ll mellow out.

Masterlist

Taglist: @spidergirla5 @eunoiaastralwings @someoneinthestars @aconstructofamind @mysticmoomin @lilmelily @hoshinokurasa

#silmarillion x reader #silmarillion imagine #silmarillion headcanon #feanor x reader #maedhros x reader #maglor x reader #celegorm x reader #caranthir x reader #curufin x reader #amrod x reader #amras x reader #celebrimbor x reader #feanorians #house of feanor #feanor imagine #maedhros imagine #maglor imagine #celegorm imagine #caranthir imagine #curufin imagine #amrod imagine #amras imagine #celebrimbor imagine #middle earth imagine #middle earth x reader #middle earth headcanons #x reader fluff #x reader insert #silmarillion #doodlepops writings ✨

[tar-maitime]

if you stay by my side

Rating: T Characters: Maedhros | Maitimo, Fingon | Findekano Relationships: Maedhros/Fingon, fem!Maedhros/Fingon Additional: War of Wrath, reunions, major character injury, angst, indefinite but hopeful ending WC: 1k

Direct follow up to the last part of "talking to the air"

Fingon has been fighting to get back to Russandol for years, decades now - in some ways since the moment he died, and actively since word came through the tapestries that a fresh army was being sent to Beleriand. The news of two new kinslayings, though they horrified him, did not stop him. The incredulity of his family, dead and living, once he made his course known to them, did not stop him. Nor did Námo’s remonstrations, nor his uncle Arafinwë’s attempts to keep him from the host, nor the slews of orcs and worse monsters that he’s been battling his way through since he landed.

None of it will stop him getting back to her.

And now - now - he happens to glance over at the second force that’s pinned the current batch of orcs in place for his people to finish off, and he sees crimson banners and cloaks and hair like flame, and he nearly freezes. Gray eyes lock with his across the battlefield in disbelieving recognition. He can almost feel the embers of a familiar fire in the back of his mind where the remains of their bond lie, shattered upon his death.

Then an orc chieftain comes up behind Russandol while she’s distracted by him, and plunges a black spear into a gap at the side of her armor.

(It’s at a place that is difficult to manage with one hand, an obvious weakness. She used to have him or Maglor or a trusted aide help her with it. How long has she been letting this slide, why has she been letting this slide...)

(He doesn’t have time to think about any of this in the moment, but later - later, he will.)

He doesn’t even think before cutting his way to her, fighting so fiercely that he’s there before her knees even start to buckle. His sword rams through the throat of the orc who dared touch her, and then Fingon isn’t paying attention to the battle anymore, because Russandol is staggering and falling and he moves to catch her and follows her to the ground, cradling her in his arms.

(Their respective troops have little to no idea what is going on, but they do their work well anyway, fighting past them and driving the orcs back, leaving the two of them relatively safe.)

Russandol’s breathing is shallow and shaky, but she still gazes up at him like he’s the greatest wonder of the world. “Finno,” she murmurs. “It’s you. You’re really here.”

“It’s me,” Fingon chokes out, his hands shaking as he fumbles with his free hand at his cloak. It’s filthy, and the spear probably did damage that staunching the blood flow won’t help, but he presses the fabric against Russandol’s side anyway. “I’m here, Russë, it’s okay, it’s going to be okay. You’ll be all right.”

“How...”

“Ssh, save your strength, all right? I’ll tell you all about it once the healers have fixed you up. We’ll have time.” He can’t lose her. Not now. Not when he’s just found her again.

Russandol laughs weakly. “Again with the...trying to bribe me to...see a healer.”

“Well, this time you will,” Fingon says firmly, then twists to look back towards the support lines and yell, “Medic! We need a medic!” Someone will hear. Someone has to. “The healers will get you taken care of and you’ll be fine. And we’ll be together again.”

“Now I know...you’re making things up,” Russandol says softly. “You wouldn’t want me. Not anymore. Not after...”

“I do,” Fingon says, absolute as granite. “Always. There is nothing you could do that would make me stop loving you.” That had taken some working through in the Halls, but all of his agonizing seems very far away now. “I love you and I want you and I will get you help - medic! - and when you’re better and this is over we’ll--” He searches frantically for something to keep her eyes open and on him. “We’ll finally have a home together. Like we used to talk about. Just stay with me, Russë.”

Her eyes flutter. She reaches her hand up shakily to cup his face. “Tell me more, Finno,” she whispers. “Can we have Gil visit us there? He’s king now...wouldn’ be able to stay all the time.”

“Of course he’ll visit,” Fingon promises. He’s seen their son since arriving on these shores, gotten to talk with him some. Gil-galad is deeply conflicted about his mother’s kinslayings, but they can reconcile. It just needs time. “He’ll visit all the time. And so will Maglor, he’ll drive us mad...”

“And the twins,” Russandol says, and for a moment Fingon thinks she means Ambarussa, now dead, but no - “Elrond. Elros. Adopted them without you - ‘m sorry.”

“They’ll be there, too. I already know I’ll love them, Russë. You’ll have to introduce us - they’re my niece’s grandsons, too, aren’t they?”

Russandol nods weakly. “You’ll take good care of them.”

“We both will,” Fingon says desperately, holding her just a bit tighter. “Russë, please, stay with me, hang on--” He thinks he can hear running footsteps in the distance, prays to anyone listening that they’re healers. “Please, I came for you, I was looking for you for so long, through this whole stinking war; you can’t go now when I’ve just found you.”

“Finno.” There are tears spilling out of the corners of Russandol’s eyes, but she tries to smile. “Finnonya. It’s okay. You’re here with me. I got to see you one more time. It’s enough.”

“It is not,” Fingon says, forcing back a sob and turning it into stubborn fury instead. “You don’t get to leave me alone, Russë, it’s not fair, I don’t care if you want to get me back for the Nirnaeth or whatever this is, pick something else.”

It’s telling, he thinks with a sinking feeling, that she doesn’t argue about the Nirnaeth. She just settles herself in his arms like she would settle into a bed at the end of a long day. “Love you,” she murmurs. “You don’t have to wait for me. If you don’t want. Or if I go to the Void. Can find an Indis. You should be happy.”

“I should,” Fingon agrees sharply, “and I need you, so stay with me, Russë, so help me, if you die I will come and drag you back from Mandos or wherever else they throw you. Don’t make me do it, Russë, meldanya, please, just hang on.”

Her hand against his cheek goes limp, and Fingon has time for a single second of bright, pure panic before a trio of healers with Fëanorian red armbands descends on them and pulls Russandol out of his arms, working over her and bundling her onto a stretcher to carry away. It all happens so fast that for long moments he simply kneels there, staring after them as they run with the stretcher. He doesn’t know what happens now. He doesn’t know what to do.

They didn’t cover her face. They were still trying to help her; when they took her away, they were hurrying. There’s still hope.

Fingon picks himself up and takes off running after them. Whatever comes next, he needs to be there for her.

#silmarillion #russingon #maedhros x fingon #maedhros #fingon #reunions #war of wrath #i promised a follow-up to that cliffhanger and i delivered #although the new cliffhanger might arguably be worse... #roots of my tree #my stories #female Maedhros

[tanoraqui]

☔for the fic ask game!

☔Is there a fic concept you have that you'd like to just explain and share because you're not sure you'll ever write it? If so, what is it?

There is in my heart a canon divergence fic, maybe proper narrative maybe just bullet points, which I have functionally written out as much as I ever will below this cut, in which:

Shortly before the Fall of Númenor and more importantly the Changing of the World, Finrod has a Prophecy of what's coming

He tells Celechwes, who says, "Oh, I...am not okay with it. I didn't plan to go back, but if I can't? If the road truly, utterly only goes one way? That's- that's not okay. I can't, I won't live like that."

So Celechwes goes and talks to some people (quietly, unofficially), who talk to some other people (quietly, unofficially)...

She ends up leading a small fleet that sets out from a southern port just a few days before the Númenoreans are expected to land in the north (fully aiming to avoid the Men). it's about half veterans of Beleriand who have never felt like they fit in on Aman (45% Fëanorians but many close followers of Fingon and more non-Noldor), a quarter elves from other places who don't want to be cut off forever from what was once home, and a quarter Aman-born elves who've grown up on stories of mortal lands and who feel a little restless in the Land of Bliss.

(Finrod joins at the last moment. Amarië found him sitting on a balcony overlooking Valmar and sadly playing the song he once played as the Beorlings woke to see their first shining elf-lord, and she said, "Findaráto Ingoldo, Finrod Felagund Adanil, I will not willingly part from you again - but nor do I want to arrive in the lands across the sea only for war a second time, too late to see all their storied beauty. Also, you know Mingoneth* convinced Veryawendë* to join the fleet, right? Can you imagine how much trouble they'll get into with only Celechwes for supervision?" And he looked up, and saw that she'd packed both their long-distance travel bags.) *OCs, see: "Of the Golden Horde"

(By then, Rawen Ectheliel, once Lieutenant Right Hand of Himring, had already apologized to her wife - who thought they were done with this sort of thing - and followed her lady aboard. She IS done with this sort of thing (ie, rebellion; the House of Fëanor...as it became). But she lost Himring; she couldn't abide herself if she let ill fate befall Celechwes as well.)

The thing about being on at sea when the world abruptly turns from flat into a globe, sailing from a continent that is no longer on said globe, is that you get EXTREMELY turned around and lost. And, frankly, split up as a fleet.

[Cue: several-decades-long montage of several hundred elves - about half hardened (relaxed, but still hardened) war veterans, a quarter friendly nature people just trying to get home, and a quarter kids (in the eyes of all the rest) who have never met a real mortal before - scattered throughout the new southern hemisphere in ones and twos and a few coherent shiploads, trying to find each other and - for most - make their way north toward the lands and people that they know best.]

(If they happen to arrive in time to help beat the ever-loving shit out of Sauron, that's not, like, a drawback for anyone.)

Adventures are had! Hardened war veterans process trauma and old grudges (and sometimes get new ones). People re-find old homes and settle down once more, or realize that either home or they have changed and continue onward with their new companions. Kids grow up.

After a number of sidequests and other delays - flooding rivers, saving an innocent forest from an encroaching swarm of giant spiders, saving a small country from a neighboring evil king influenced by fell whispers from the depths below his castle... It occurs to some of them that all these delays might not be coincidence. They haven't received any official penalties from the Valar for their, er, polite but overt defiance of if not the letter than certainly the spirit of several laws, but...

"I think we are being made Agents of Good," Amarië said thoughtfully. "I think the price of being here is that we must lend a hand where it is needed, where the Great Ones fear to tread for their touch is not...'delicate'...at the best of times."

Celechwes did not like being used without her permission. But, fallen Beleriand never forgotten, she couldn't fault Amarië's analysis.

"I think we should try leaning into it," Finrod suggested. "They'll see that we're here in good faith, and no doubt speed our journey to where our hearts most yearn to go."

(The nearby stream blooped encouragingly, because Ulmo had been explicitly forbidden from giving explicit messages again.)

A few nights later, a local Mannish hunter approached their camp. Emphasis, perhaps, on Man-ish. Her eyes were the blue of a northern wolf-dog. She asked for help scouring the nearby mountains of a dark cult.

[cue: several more decades of montaged adventures. the local folk legends will be rich for generations]

They do arrive in the north just in time to help kick Sauron's fucking ass. Though not early enough to avert the tragedy of the Battle of Dagorlad, they learn later. But before the final, would-be pyrrhic victory; when the soldiers of the Last Alliance are marching into Mordor proper.

Galadriel is the first to know - she's aiding in a healing tent on the foul northern border, ready to ride in a second wave or to hold firm any retreat, when a mind touches her which she hadn't expected to feel again ere either the remaking of the world or her own death and rebirth (for she still had no intention of Sailing.)

Alatariel! her eldest brother calls. How goes the day? I've missed you, of course! Also, do you have a recommendation for where best to land 500 assorted elves, men and cavalry mounts coming up from the south, that we may swiftly come to whatever aid you all need?

A day later, a small host stood at the crest of the path past retaken Minas Ithil, looking out over the shadowed plains of Mordor. All before them was bloodied and embattled: Men fought Men, Elves fought Orcs, eagles and other goodly birds clashed in midair with giant bats and scrawny but deadly petty firedrakes. The very earth groaned in pain beneath the enemy's chains. And far in the distance, near the foot of a fire-spitting mountain, two star-studded banners - one white on black above a white tree, one silver stars on a blue field - approached a red eye on black.

At the head of the bannerless Host of the Returned, Rawen - generally elected battle-leader - raised her blade. Celechwes put a hand on her arm. "Do not call 'Súlaearil.' It's embarrassing. Don't do it." "My lady," Rawen protested, with her particular intonation that made it clear she was saying 'your majesty.' "No," Celechwes said firmly. "'Finwë and the North'?" suggested the elf on Rawen's other side, once third in command of Fingon's Dragon-frighters. "Can't go wrong with that," agreed Finrod, a little further down the line. Rawen sighed. Her blade, which had sagged a little, she raised straight again, then pointed forward with that battle-cry that had long united the great Siege-line of the Noldor: "Finwë and the North!"

"FINWË AND THE NORTH!" roared the Host of the Returned - all hardened veterans by now, though less brittle in it than some had begun. The fiery-faithful of Himring and the valorous of Barad Eithel, the quick of Ossiriand and the cunning of Nargothrond and the devoted of Doriath, the bold and restless of Aman and those who loved Middle Earth so dearly that they could do naught but defend it; slayers of orcs and spiders and feller beasts, saviors of lands besieged and heroes of legend, swept down from the heights to descend upon Sauron's unsuspecting eastern flank.

Ahead of them all streaked a single swift rider, blond hair streaming in the wind of her passage. Her mount was a prong-horned antelope from the plains far to the south, faster than any cavalry horse (and not usually suited to riding, but blue-eyed Alatar had whispered it some encouragement before they'd parted).

They leapt the first line of the enemy, hastily reassembling itself to meet this unexpected new foe. They jerked and dodged and ducked through the others, as behind them the battle lines slammed together. Jagged orcish blades came at her, and the sharp iron of men enraptured or enslaved to the dark, but mostly in passing - they didn't have time for a single rider driving through with no weapons of her own, her only goal the bright silver-on-blue star in the distance.

Eventually a pair of clever firedrakes managed to herd them up one of the low, ragged cliffs that spurted up here and there on the barren land. Celechwes rolled off her antelope to avoid a stream of fire and ran the other way without hesitation - the quick, clever creature would get to safety far more ably with no heavy elf on its back. Without, slowing, she sprinted off the edge of the cliff.

She'd planned to tuck and roll to the bottom, then pick herself up and keep running. The land ahead was clear for a few miles, save for the pits. Instead, great, sharp talons grasped her gently, and (non-specifically) familiar wings beat around her, with a screech that echoed in her bones.

She laughed as one Great Eagle dropped her carefully toward another. With a sailor's grace she landed with both feet on its broad, shifting back, and returned a joyous screech of challenge into the racing wind.

Below and ahead (though less far with every wingbeat), Ereinion Gil-galad looked up. Eagles had been screaming for battle all day, all month, but for a moment he could've sworn -

Celechwes's eagle dove to avoid a vampire. She dropped her knees and gripped its feathers tightly, and thanked the stars that she wasn't trying to do this while keeping someone from bleeding out from the wrist.

As they dove toward the volcano and the forces advancing against one another there, she eagle-shrieked again, in greeting this time, and shouted, "Erein, hold your position! Re-enforcements are coming!"

Even - nay, especially the High King of the Noldor in Middle Earth knew better than to question the finest royal courier in Beleriand, much less his mother the queen. "Hold!" Gil-galad bellowed over the clash of blades.

Celechwes circled back up, looking back across the field. But Sauron, too, had heard her message, and knew a victory when it was about to slip from his grasp. Mighty and fell, he strode forward toward the banners of Gil-galad and Elendil, and the kings of Elves and Men.

In swift, vicious, terrible combat they were soon joined, Sauron with his dark, burning blade and Gil-galad with bright Aeglos and Elendil with shining Narsil. Likely, at best, all would have been slain -

But Celechwes hadn't been the only one of her host riding hard across the dark plains, dallying with no enemy save the greatest foe. She was only (as ever) the fastest.

"HEY, GORTHAUR!" yelled Finrod Felagund, with a particular intonation that made it clear he was saying, Hey, motherfucker! "I CALL REMATCH!"

And this time, as he raised his voice in a Song of trust unbroken and faith fulfilled, of Sea and sand and second chances, Amarië of the Vanyar Sang with him, their souls entwined, she who had learned to Sing from Maiar on the slope of Ezollohar where stood the Trees; and with them also Sang their daughter Veryawendë Tinúviel, named by prophecy from both parents, fated to be a bright melody in darkness and a great change in the world, and this was not her time but still the Great Music swirled thick around her; and you bet your ass Galadriel had also ridden down from the north to join as fast as she was able -

The last time Galadriel and Amarië joined their voices in powerful harmony had been the final duel between Morgoth and Finarfin, Anairë, and the last of the Host of the Noldor. With Sauron's power reflected and redoubled unto himself through his terrible Ring, this duel was no less hard-won, but it was very definitively won. They even prevented him from erupting the volcano as a final spiteful blow.

"We should destroy the Ring," Gil-galad said at the end, exhausted, bloody, and leaning on Elrond for support. Isildur eyed it - shining golden on Sauron's cut-off black hand - with battle-fire lingering in his grey eyes. "I would rather claim it as weregild, for Anarion - " "For the love of - " said Celechwes, dismounted now that the worst of the battle was over (though there was a great deal of mopping-up to do, of orcs, corrupted men and etc.) "Is this still the Noldorin influence?" she demanded, of nobody in particular. "Or is it a new Edainic thing? No, I suppose Thingol fell to it in the end, too - is it being inland? Do you not spend enough time near the sea, and that's why you're constantly obsessed with cursed jewelry? Here, I'll do it - don't go anywhere, Erein; I'll be right back."

She shucked off her leather hauberk to use as a glove, picked up Sauron's still coal-hot black hand, and sprinted up the volcano slope before anyone else could say a word.

"...I'm really sorry," Elendil said into the relative quiet that followed, "I think I know who you are, my lord - " he bowed toward Finrod, as best he could while leaning bloody and exhausted on Isildur - "and Lady Galadriel, I'm so glad you caught up with us. But I'm not sure about any of these other ladies who have come to our rescue? Including that one?" He jerked his head toward the bright-haired figure already halfway up Oroduin's rocky slope, with the air of a man wondering if he should call for soldiers to chase after her.

"That's my mother," said Gil-galad.

"Ah," said Elendil and Isildur, with perfect understanding. They, too, had mothers.

The Forge of Sauron rumbled ominously, shuddered and spat out first sparks, then sprays of lava. Celechwes, briefly out of sight in the cavern near the top, sprinted back down ahead of the molten rock, empty handed.

"Everyone move!" she shouted. "Should've evacuated first! Go, go, go!"

And then everyone lived happily after - though a lot of them probably did Sail not long thereafter, including most of the Host of the Returned - including the Finrod, Amarië, and Veryawendë, though not bold-hearted Mingoneth, and Celechwes, and Gil-galad. Because they'd accomplished a Great Task and Aman is, actually, objectively more pleasant for Elves than most mortal lands (and Beleriand was still gone). The spiritual weather is just so much better. Everyone stuck around to see Elrond and Celebrian get married, though, and to meet their kids and see Gondor and the Greenwood both regain their feet.

With no Gil-galad to come and sort out several conflicting emotions about his parents, Fingon does stay in Mandos, keeping Maedhros company for longer...but not too much longer. There weren't many casualties among the Host of the Returned, but Rawen Ectheliel was among them (her last thought is that her wife is going to be really, truly, perhaps irrevocably disappointed). She manages to find them before she leaves, the memory of Thangorodrim which Maedhros has made to hang from in his self-pity, self-loathing and twisted self-aggrandizement, where Fingon sits by his feet out of loyalty, devotion, stubbornness, pride and fear; and she gives their behavior such a scathing review that Fingon actually pulls his shit together a few years later and tentatively leaves, and Maedhros pulls one of his hands out of the chains.

#my fic #celechwes au #ask meme #the silmarillion #runawaymun

[starsofarda]

So I am now going off with the meta I promised to @tolkien-feels aka:

Has anyone ever written meta comparing Rivendell, Lothlorien and Mirkwood to Gondolin, Nargothrond and Doriath respectively? Because if nobody has, somebody definitely should

And yeah, I usually suck at essays, so please don't ask me to put this in essay form. I will do my very best to expose everything as best as my undiagnosed ADHD mind allows me :)

I would like to start by saying that being able to write meta about what I love and actually being read is something that does not happen to me usually and I am so happy, but I am already digressing.

Everything will be under cut, I apologise in advance if this has too many words, no one usually listens to me blabbering about my special interests.

I am now going to mention this other post, because of the very good points and keys in my analysis, thanks again to @tolkien-feels for the insight and the big galaxy brain <3

To be able to digest the whole thing I am going to pick up the elements for comparison two by two starting with Gondolin and Rivendell, then Lothlorien and Nargothrond and finally Mirkwood and Doriath.

GONDOLIN AND RIVENDELL

Elrond, heir of Turgon: I am going to go to this hidden valley and build a place of safety and lore, the last refuge if all else falls to ruin - @tolkien-feels

To be able to compare the two I think it is important to define what these places are, who lives/lived there and what they represent.

Gondolin was built during the First Age of the Middle Earth by Turgon, and whilst I am not going to dwell for long on its history, whose summary you can find here and in more detail in The Silmarillion, I am going to take into account that Turgon was an exiled elf. He saw the Light of the Trees and although originally he had been against, he followed Feanor and ultimately stayed behind due to "Fingon and Turgon were bold and fiery of heart, and loath to abandon any task to which they had put their hands until the bitter end, if bitter it must be".

Basically he had a whole lot of pride, which really does not surprise me all things considering.

But the thing is, even though you are fare from home and cannot/decide not to go back, you do get homesick - I know the feeling, I have constantly this feeling due to me having had to abandon my country to be able to live.

You still want to find something you can call home even in a foreign land and I think that Gondolin was exactly that for Turgon. A place of solace, where he could find familiarity in what he saw. Because at the very beginning he did not want to leave Valinor and stayed in Middle Earth out of pride.

Gondolin itself was not ever heavily armed, the defenses were relying mostly on the fact that it was hidden in a valley and that barely anyone knew about it outside the valley. So we can more or less safely say that Gondolin definitely was not mainly a place built by warriors, so when it fell it was indeed a tragedy.

And here we can talk about Elrond, Turgon's great-grandson. He is an Elf who has lost a lot of things and people in his life.

He lost his friends, he lost his home, he lost his family - Elros, his twin, decided to take the mortal path, as they are both only half-elves due to his father being the child of an Elf and a mortal (an Edain).

His father became the Polar Star - and I deeply suggest you listen to the Song of Earendil by Clamavi de Profundis because it is an Experience(C). Anyway, I am digressing, but I am also sure that when Bilbo made Elrond listen to the song he cried a lot. His wife Celebrian, daughter of Celeborn and Galadriel, was kidnapped and tortured by orcs and then left for the Immortal Lands and ultimately Arwen became a mortal.

Now I am sad for Elrond.

There is more, like Isildur betraying him and being very much nearly one of the Elves decimated in Eregion, Gil-Galad dying (?)*, but this is to make the point of "Elrond lost so much that he does not want anyone else to experience what he has passed through and therefore Rivendell is born as a Homely House, where you can find solace, knowledge and ultimately a place he can call home.

Huh. Not so different from Turgon - and Elrond surely knows about Turgon. Tolkien is always pointing out parentages and genealogic trees, I am 100% sure none of his characters is immune to the Genealogic Tree Explanation.

So, to be concise: a place to call home, full of knowledge, solace and house for all exiled and lost ones, full of memories, full of nostalgia and magnificent, a remembrance of past times. Tolkien loves doing parallelisms and I apologise because were it not for the post mentioned I would have overlooked it.

And due to these similar motives both Gondolin and Rivendell were born. If we are looking also at the geography even Rivendell appears to be sitting in a valley, although it seems a little better defended considering how much waste Elrond lays of the orcs following Thorin & co. in The Hobbit, so I consider this a lesson learned.

After all, aren't the new generations always a bit more savvy

And I am so sorry, but this analysis hit a bit too close to home for me and I have to go and scream for 15 years. And possibly call my dad.

Anyway, I am now back.

I am going to keep going on my analysis in a different post, once I have gathered again all the knowledge I have on the topic.

#the silmarillion #the lord of the rings #meta #tolkien #tolkien meta #middle earth #jrr tolkien