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anobscurename · 4 years

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ocean eyes – chris evans

previous part: PART XIII — masterlist

concept: a celebratory trip to the hamptons results in an altercation the first night you're there. the slowest of slow burns. part fourteen of many.

pairing: chris evans x reader // chris evans x respect women juice

word count: 2,8k

warnings: tw:sexual harrassment (drunken creeps are creepy), homophobic slurs (they're also assholes), angst

author's note: this one goes out to @fangirlovestuff as promised :) the next part will be coming shortly! we on some double upload weirdness, to make up for my disappearance basically the whole of yesterday

"Um, no... Really, I couldn't."

Lily pouted. Even when she pouted, she was beautiful. "Why not?"

"I don't want to intrude, really, you guys go and have fun. It's the Hamptons after all."

"But everyone's coming! Please?"

"I don't know..."

"For Chris? Would you do it for Chris?"

You cast a tentative glance to the man in question, currently in the midst of a tug-of-war with Dodger, barely paying your conversation any attention. If only they knew you'd do anything for Chris. "He is the worst bargaining chip you could've ever even thought of using."

"How about for me?" She jokingly batted her long, long lashes, an enchanting smile gracing her lips. "I won't take no for an answer, and Sebastian will be there."

"Sebastian?" You rolled your eyes at the suggestive arch of her brows. They were under the impression you and Sebastian were involved, somehow. You picked subconsciously at the scars on the palm of your hand, entirely healed and almost faded into nothing now.

"It would mean so much to us. You're such a big part of Chris' life, one of his best friends, and–"

"Alright!" You snapped. Quickly masking your irritation with a laugh, you repeated yourself, softer this time. "Alright, I'll come."

She clapped happily, giving no indication of having been taken aback or even mildly offended at you having practically yelled at her. Guilt pitted yourself in your stomach. You wanted to dislike her, but not only was she exceptionally beautiful, she was also incredibly nice. Beyond nice. Serial killers weren't even that nice. And it wasn't her fault that she was basically Jesus trapped in the body of a supermodel, and it wasn't her fault for Chris loving her – because honestly, it wasn't hard loving her – it was just that it was so fucking difficult at times when people kept calling you his friend. Chris' friend.

It would be so much easier to hate someone deserving of it, but you just couldn't. Because both of them were so beautiful and... nice.

Perfectly matched in every way you and Chris were not.

So you decided to go to the Hamptons beach house because why not?

What's the worse that could happen?

———————

This was the worse that could happen.

You had arrived at beach house Anthony had rented a little later that day, when the sun was making it's slow decent to kiss the horizon.

And the frenzy to all get ready to go out was nothing short of chaotic.

You were tired from the plane, and irritated from having been sat – with little to no form of escape – in the same row as Chris and Lily. It wasn't necessarily a long flight, but a second felt like hours when you put yourself through that kind of agony.

But you'd made up your mind after the gala to get over this little crush on Chris. Nothing good was going to come of it, and you tried to spare yourself further heartache and broken glass.

Easier said than done.

Anthony and Sebastian did not mirror your mood. On the contrary, they were still riding the high of finally wrapping the filming on Falcon and The Winter Soldier, and this was their celebration weekend. And they were going all out for it.

The house was lavish, no expense spared. And when you'd arrived, Anthony had opened his suitcase right in the kitchen, and began stocking the fridge with the champagne he'd packed in there, cushioned by his clothes.

You had briefly wondered why he had brought such a large suitcase for such a short trip, but as you watched the fifth bottle disappear into the icebox, your questions were answered.

"Why the long face?"

Anthony didn't even have to look at you to know you were standing there, bags having been dropped off in your room before joining him.

"Do I really have to come out tonight?" You whined. You hated how bratty you sounded, but you would much rather stay in the house alone for the night than go out with Chrily. You knew Sebastian and Anthony would be there too – Scarlett was also supposed to come, but she had other duties to attend to, being a mother – but you knew no matter how great they were at making you feel better, you would spend most of the night moody and brooding. And you didn't want to ruin their night with your personal issues.

You were being selfless for selfish reasons.

"Is that even a question?" Anthony was mid-stock with the final bottle of champagne when he looked at you. The inside of the fridge looked like a Moët & Chandon ad, with Anthony Mackie as the ambassador. "You're coming out if it kills me."

"But why?" You groaned.

"Because everything is more fun with you there, and besides... It wouldn't feel like a celebration without our best girl."

"Fine. I'll come," you rolled your eyes, turning to head out. "Need to shower first."

And then you heard the champagne bottle shake, the cork popping and suddenly, you were drenched in a spray of Moët. Over the sound of frothing bubbles, Anthony called out to you. "No need!"

And that was why – despite scrubbing your skin almost raw and lathering your hair to the point of chemical burn – you sat there, on the barstool, smelling faintly like expensive alcohol.

"I hate you," you muttered under your breath to Anthony as you and him had taken it upon yourselves to get the next round of drinks for the table.

He chuckled, struggling to grab a bartender's attention. "No, you don't."

"You're right, I don't. I'll always love you. But that doesn't mean I have to like you right now."

"Love me, huh?" Anthony arched a brow. "Now, was that so hard to say?"

"What?"

"It's not me you should be saying that to. You know that."

You knew what he meant, and a heavy sigh vacated your lungs. "You know it's not the same. You're family. With him... It's different."

"I think this is the first time you've ever admitted it out loud."

And it dawned on you that he was right. You had never let yourself properly admit it, even inwardly. The words had maybe flowed from the tip of your pen onto the pale pages of your journal – the only catharsis you found lately – but you never read those entries back, abandoning them to be lost in a sea of random thoughts, forgotten.

It didn't give you a sense of relief, saying the words. Not even slightly. If anything, they filled you up with dread.

"Don't," you rolled your eyes. "I'm over it. Or at least I'm getting there."

"Hey," he shrugged in placation. "Relax. It's not my confession to make."

Being an ex-cocktail waitress had its perks as you made your way back to the table, slipping easily past people with the tray of shots you had retrieved. You were speedy and efficient, even in your heels.

Anthony, on the other hand...

Beer bottles slotted between each finger, he was having much more difficulty getting by. And once you'd set the shots down at the table, not a drop spilled, Anthony's shirt was spattered with beer, hands slick with it.

As you plopped into the seat beside Sebastian, making him shift over in the booth to make more room for Anthony, he gave you a strained smile.

"I don't know how the fuck you put up with them," Seb whispered to you. "They're so lovey-dovey, it's unbearable."

"Just grin and bear it," you whispered back.

"What are you two giggling about over there?" Chris grinned from across the booth. It wasn't a very convincing grin, but you didn't dwell on it. No more allowing Christopher Robert Evans to occupy your mind.

"Just how Mackie would make a terrible waiter," you shrugged, sending the man in question a quick cheeky smirk.

"Oh, haha, very funny," he flicked some beer at you from his soaked fingertips. "I'd make a fabulous waitress and you know that."

You shied away from the alcohol droplets, laughing. "No! Not again!"

Chris took in his appearance. "Jesus, Ant. Is there even any beer left for us? Or are you wearing it all?"

"Wow, you're all hilarious," he rolled his eyes, finally dropping into the booth. "I didn't know I was out with a bunch of comedians tonight. Did I walk onto a sitcom set? Is this a sketch? Whose turn is it next? Seb? Lily?"

You all took turns making jokes and taking jibes at Anthony's lacklustre bottle service, which was only put to rest once the Falcon actor huffed and proclaimed that "you could all go get your own damned drinks."

As the night wore on, you found yourself gravitating towards the dancefloor. Honestly, you just couldn't be in the booth anymore. You knew getting over him was going to be a slow process, but some part of you had hoped that it would be an immediate and simple thing: just falling out of your pathetic little crush.

But it really wasn't, and so you were on the dancefloor. Regrettably alone. Chris and Lily were still in the booth, and the other couple – Anthony and Seb – were absolutely enthralled by a vintage pinball machine lurking in the back of the bar.

Every now and then, you would hear one whoop for joy as they beat the other's high score, only for the competitive nature of their activity to take over for another redemption round.

As you lost yourself in the music, it wasn't long before you attracted the attention of a drunken creep. You didn't use that term lightly, but this one was truly deserving.

You had felt eyes on you, and immediately found who they belonged to. Just to be polite, you had smiled at him, before continuing your dancing.

And then, taking it as an invitation, he sidled up to you, and clammy hands slithered over your waist, pulling your back to him with a strong, commanding grip. Your stomach lurched, uncomfortable with the fast rising intensity of the situation.

"You look so fuckin' good tonight, baby," he slurred into your ear, swaying on his feet. Alcohol was thick on his breath, and it filled your head with nausea. "Just wanna take you home and fuck you better than anyone ever has..."

You turned around to tell him to fuck off, and that was when that strong slithering grip was in your hair, tugging you to slimy liquored lips in a teeth clashing kiss. Your stomach roiled at the taste, and while he was distracted, you shoved him away from you with as much strength as he could muster.

He stumbled back a few steps, but he had returned to his senses long enough to right himself and soon he was stalking towards you again.

You knew his type. If his clothes and accessories were any indication, he was an arrogant rich kid – the tan telling you he was a Hamptons regular. He was your age, and every bit as entitled as his wealth would suggest.

"Get away from me." It wasn't a request, it was a command.

And he didn't like it. His hand wrapped around your wrist, tugging you to him. You struggled against him, desperately clawing for your freedom. Panic was slowly rising.

"You little bitch," he spat.

"Is there a problem here?"

It was Chris. He had seen the unravelling altercation from the booth, and had promptly come to your aid.

You wondered how long he'd been there for, what he'd overheard. His next words gave you your answer.

"I think the lady said to leave her alone."

The guy didn't even look at him, instead keeping his slabbering gaze on you. "Stay out of this."

Chris wasn't having it. Having eyed up the situation – that whiteknuckled grip on you – Chris clapped a strong – if not a little threatening – hand on the stranger's shoulder. He ripped the guy off of you, and with his other hand, he pulled you behind him protectively.

Your relief, however, was shortlived at the bite of Chris' next suggestion. "Look, buddy, maybe you should take a hint."

"Don't touch me, faggot," he slapped Chris' arm away. "I took the hint. She looked at me, she smiled at me. Look at what she's wearing! She's practically begging to be fucked."

That was the last straw for Chris.

Not only had he made the unforgivable transgression of groping you – and not just you, specifically, but any woman – but this man had crossed the line with the homophobic slur. To do that in front of Chris, being who he was, was tantamount to a death sentence.

And you could feel it as he seethed, fury boiling in his blood.

"You're lookin' at me, now. I'm smilin'." And he was, but it wasn't one you'd ever seen before. It was tight, and it was malicious. "Oh, look at what you're wearin'. Gets me a bit hard, if I'm being honest. Do you like that? Do you like me telling you how hard I'm gonna fuck you with this big cock? No? Then keep your fuckin' hands to yourself and well away from her before I break them."

You knew Chris well enough to know the threat was empty. He was a pacifist – regularly attending lessons in Buddhist teachings when he could. But the other guy didn't know that, and the throb of the muscle in the grit of Chris' jaw was very convincing. So convincing, in fact, you were even a little scared of him in that moment.

The guy tilted his head to address you, trying to make himself seem bigger. "Who even is this joker, your boyfriend?"

"Don't speak to her," Chris snarled. "You're speaking to me now. And as a matter of fact, I am. So fuck off."

What the guy did next shouldn't have been surprising. He was clearly not thinking straight. And if he hadn't done it, Chris effectively calling you his girlfriend might've had more of an impact.

But he took a swing at Chris – and although Chris never started fights, he sure as fuck ended them.

Easily blocking the attack, and in three quick movements, Chris had the other guy's arms locked behind his back. You knew, if he wanted, Chris could pop both of this guy's arms out of their sockets. And if Chris was anyone else, he might have. He was angry enough to do it.

"Let it go," came his scathing whisper.

Of course the other guy struggled. He struggled and yelled out curses, slurs, anything his alcohol addled mind could come up with.

It was enough to draw the attention of the owner of the establishment.

"Oi," she yelled. A severe no-shit type woman had come out of the back room to brace her arms against the bar, fixing you all with a withering look. "The three of you. Out."

The commotion had also been enough to draw the attention of the others, and you were on your way out – still protectively clutched to Chris' side by his musclebound arm – when they'd made it to you.

"What happened?" Seb panted.

"Just some asshole picking a fight," Chris explained, rage still colouring his voice. "Could you guys do me a favour?"

"Sure, man," Anthony said. "Whatever you need."

"I'm going to take {your name} back. Could you tell Lily when she gets out of the bathroom that we got kicked out and I'll be waiting for her at home?"

"If you just wait for her, we can all go home together," Seb suggested, already backing up a little to get his jacket from the booth.

Chris shook his head. "I need time to cool off. I don't want her seeing me like this."

"I'm really sorry for ruining your night, guys," you said, your voice small.

They were quick to assure you you hadn't. It didn't lessen the guilt, though.

"You guys enjoy," Chris said as you both hovered by the door. "We'll make up for tonight at the beach tomorrow."

———————

"I can fight my own battles."

It was the first words either of you had spoken since you'd gotten back to the house. The drive was done in deafening silence, and you felt compelled to finally break it.

"I know you can," Chris sighed. He hadn't been expecting a thanks, but he'd at least been expecting something more than that admonishment. "Better than anyone. But you shouldn't have to."

"I had it handled."

"My point is, you shouldn't have to handle this shit. No one should."

He had come with you all the way to your bedroom door, and you both stood, divided by the frame.

His brow was furrowed, thinking. And then: "Are you angry with me?"

"No," you smiled sadly.

The double meaning laced with your next words would serve to haunt both of you the remainder of the night.

"I just want you to know that you don't have to fight for me. I'm fine on my own."

#dina writes #chris evans/you #chris evans fanfic #chris evans x you #chris evans #chris evans x reader #chris evans angst #ocean eyes #anthony mackie #sebastian stan

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one-boring-person · 4 years

Text

Just A Babysitter. (Part One)

The Lost Boys x reader

Warnings: alcohol use

Context: (Y/n) lives/is close friends with the boys, and will do almost anything for them as she sees them as a family. However, since Star and Laddie joined the coven, she's felt a little distanced from them. (I say that the reader is female, but I'm pretty sure there is no explicit reference to gender that isn't easily overlooked, so it can apply to other readers, too.)

A/N: This started as a oneshot, but has now become a story of sorts, so I'll post it in parts. :))

Part Two , Part Three , Part Four , Part Five , Part Six , Part Seven , Part Eight

Irritation courses through me as Star drags me into the crowd of writhing bodies, the half-vampire laughing happily to both herself and Laddie, who is being pulled around by the hand, wincing when some greasy rocker tries to come closer to me even after only being there for two seconds, my elbow landing a hefty thump into his abdomen in order to get rid of him. The music is loud in my ears, though it isn't unpleasant at all, the heavy saxophone-laced rhythm lightening my mood a little as I start to move in time with it, keeping an eye on my two wards, especially Laddie, who has a tendency to run off. For a few minutes, we continue to enjoy the music before I feel her tense up beside me, someone having caught her rapt attention.

Looking over, I follow her line of sight to a brunette I don't recognise, the guy staring at her without abandon, even when who I presume to be his younger brother slaps his cheek. Instantly, I get a bad feeling about him, not trusting the way he eyes the girl beside me, no matter how endearing she may find it. I have the feeling she will try to lure him away from the crowd and make him her first kill; my hunch only confirmed when she passes Laddie off onto me and ducks out of the throng of dancers, leaving me to pick up her pieces again. Growling to myself, I swiftly lift the youngster onto my shoulders, putting on a false grin when he squeals in excitement, giving him some excuse about finding him some sweets back on the Boardwalk to get him to come willingly.

"Where'd Star go?" Laddie questions me, voice barely audible over the throbbing music.

"I don't know. Wanna go find her?" I respond, squeezing his legs gently when he assents, holding onto my head so he can steady himself. Ignoring the gradually building ache in my back, I follow the direction Star walked off into, giving the boy on my shoulders the strict instructions to keep an eye out for the half-vampire, offering him a chocolate bar as a reward.

Carefully, we make our way onto the Boardwalk, avoiding some of the more rowdy surfers and party-goers, my focus set on finding Star amongst the people lining the roads. It doesn't take me long, though I let Laddie point her out to me, allowing him the small burst of pride that likely accompanies the achievement, no matter how small it is. Heading over to her, I reach into my pocket and pass the boy the chocolate bar I always keep on me, smiling when he giggles in satisfaction, the sound of the wrapper being torn open quickly coming from above me.

"Hey Star. Find what you were looking for?" I greet, giving her a suggestive look when she acknowledges me, though it is obvious that she is still distracted.

"Huh? Oh, yeah, I did." She replies, turning to walk away again, silently demanding that I follow her, knowing I can't disobey David's strict rules from before.

"Look! There's Dwayne and David! And Marko and Paul!" Laddie points out after a few minutes of navigating the heaving crowd, gesturing to the right to show us where he means, waving at the coven of vampires as we turn to approach them, my shoulders screaming for relief. Moments later, we break through the people blocking our view of them, greeting the laid-back vampires accordingly.

"Having fun?" Paul questions me in particular, knowing full well I hate having to watch over the irritating half-vampire, his voice teasing as he sends me a pointed look.

"Oh, tonnes." I respond dryly, letting Laddie down as Star climbs onto David's bike with him, wrapping her arms around his waist and looking at me with a small smirk on her face, the gesture inciting a pang of jealousy within me, before she glances off to the side, David following her gaze. Doing the same, I suppress the urge to roll my eyes as I recognise the brunette from earlier, instead focusing on helping Laddie onto Dwayne's motorbike, telling him to hold on tight. In response to this, Laddie smiles at me, Dwayne doing the same as he kicks his bike into gear, thankful that I did the job none of them wanted to do.

"Lets go, boys." David announces, looking at me expectantly, even though the term "boys" does not (necessarily) apply to me.

"I'll catch up." I mutter, before turning away and disappearing into the crowd, aiming for the bar at the edge of the Boardwalk, sighing as I hear the tell tale roaring of the motorcycle engines retreating over the cheerful music lingering in the air.

On my own, I manage to cut a path through the mass of people with decent success, quickly reaching my destination without any difficulty. Pushing open the door, I enter the dusky bar and head over to the counter, signalling for the bartender to take my order. By now, they all know my usual and will just prepare it for me without me having to ask, the tumbler of whiskey swiftly appearing before me, though I stop the blonde girl from leaving as she turns away.

"Leave the bottle, please." I request, pulling out enough money to pay for it from my jacket pocket, handing it to her in exchange for the large bottle of strong whiskey she places on the counter. Thanking her, I swill the liquid in my glass around for a few seconds, taking a drink when I'm satisfied with it, relishing in the burn that accompanies the flow of alcohol down my throat - none of them question my age anymore, not after the boys had a word with them.

I repeat this motion until the glass is empty, choosing to focus on that rather than the reality I face when I get home, back to the boys and their new half-vampire "friends". It shouldn't bother me, I know they all care for me and do their best to show me this, but something about Star and Laddie's sudden entrance to our way of life seems to make them forget this, most of my old friends' attention now lingering on them, rather than on me, like it used to. A bitter chuckle leaves me inadvertently as I think this, mentally calling myself selfish and pushing that last part down into the depths of my mind, knowing that I've had my fair share of attention from them in the past four or five years. I slam the glass on the table as the last of the amber liquid runs down my throat, shaking my head to snap myself out of my thoughts before heaving myself to my feet and walking out, taking the bottle of whiskey with me.

Upon leaving, I swiftly find my bike on the near-deserted Boardwalk, climbing onto it, only to take a moment to take a drink from the bottle in my hand, wincing as the strong alcohol burns its way down into my stomach. As I lower it, I notice a familiar brunette walking over to me, a curious expression on his face as he watches mine become one of confusion; it's not often that an interest of Star's wants to speak with me.

"Hey, can I help you?" I greet him as he finally arrives, looking him up and down a little to gauge his motive for approaching me.

"Err, yeah, I was just wondering where your friend is." The guy explains to me, frowning when I forget to disguise my eyeroll.

"Star? She isn't my friend." I correct him, not too willing to go into specifics with him.

"Star, huh? Nice name." He murmurs, almost to himself as if I'm not right there.

"If you like that kinda thing." I shrug dismissively, taking another drink from the bottle before offering it to him, giving him a small smirk when he accepts.

"Thanks," He says, returning the bottle to me as he continues, "You two aren't friends? You seemed pretty close earlier. You, her and those weird guys."

"Weird guys? Don't say that to their faces." I chuckle, grinning widely at him as he laughs in response, "I'm not close with Star, but the guys are my family, so I guess we're pretty close."

"Family? Like brothers or something?"

"Family in the non-biological sense of the word. They helped me through some tough times." I affirm, once again trying to avoid telling him the truth.

"Right. Well, do you know where they went?" The brunette questions me again, giving me another hopeful look.

"No, they never tell me anything anymore." I reply bitterly, even if the words are only half true, drinking again despite having to drive in a few minutes. What's life without a little risk, eh?

"I thought you said they were like your family?" He frowns at me again, believing that I'm holding something from him, which is entirely true.

"Yeah, but not even a family is completely truthful with one another." I remind him, deciding a stronger warning is needed, "Take it from me, of all the people you can hang with in this town, they should not be your first choice."

Yet more confusion etches itself onto his face at my words, going to say something before I cut him off.

"What's your name, by the way? I can pass it on to Star if I see her again tonight." I promise, though it is likely they will see each other again tomorrow, so there's not much point on my behalf.

"Oh, I'm Michael, or Mike for short." He informs me, smiling again as I reach out to shake his hand.

"Nice to meet you, Mike. I'm (Y/n)."

"Nice talking to you, (Y/n). Thanks for the advice."

"No problem." I laugh, looking at my watch briefly as I try to figure out the time, "Damn, I'd better get going, or the boys'll have my ass for breakfast."

Amused by my "figure of speech", Michael quickly says his goodbyes as I kick the bike into life, relishing in the feeling of the engine purring beneath me. Stashing the bottle in the compartment under the seat, I rev the motorcycle a little before applying he throttle, a delirious whoop of exhilaration escaping me as I charge off the Boardwalk and onto the most direct road to Hudson's Bluff, ignoring the angry protests of the civilians around me, concentrating on getting myself home instead.

Part Two

#david(thelostboys)#joel schumacher #the lost boys #vampire #paul(the lost boys)#dwayne(the lost boys)#marko(the lost boys)#kiefer sutherland #star(the lost boys)#laddie(the lost boys)

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warrioreowynofrohan · 4 years

Note

you mentioned your headcanons on when and if other finweans forgive maedhros... if you wanted to share some (or all) of them I'd be very interested!

Okay, wow, I have a lot of thoughts on this….it basically covers large parts of a fanfic that I’ve had broadly plotted out in my head for a long time but am completely incapable of actually writing.

This is going to be very long (EDIT: extremely long, apparently) - and rather messier and more scattershot than my usual posts - so I’m putting it under a cut. This one only covers events in the Halls of Mandos; I would need another one to lay out post-Mandos headcanons, if I can put it together.

Fingon is deeply conflicted and unhappy about Maedhros; he’s horrified by Maedhros’ actions, but he can’t stop caring about him even if he wanted to, and he doesn’t know what’s happened to him after death and isn’t sure he wants to know. For at least the first couple hundred years that Maedhros is in the Halls, he’s in extremely bad shape and is not communicating with or visible to anyone. (This is not unusual for elves who are wrapped up in their own thoughts or deliberately avoiding others.) And between Maedhros’ actions, and the manner of his death, and the Oath, Fingon can’t be sure of whether he’s even in the Halls, or if he refused the Halls and is a lost spirit, or even if he’s in the void.

Fingolfin is sympathetic to his son’s pain but doesn’t really see any hope for Maedhros, and tries to say that it’s hard, but that sometimes you have to accept that you’ve lost someone you love to evil and they’re not coming back. Fingolfin’s lost his brother (who he still has complicated feelings about. Aulë has lost people. Even Manwë has lost his brother -

That comparison doesn’t go over well and from that moment Fingon isn’t speaking with his father anymore.

When Fingon decides that not knowing is worse than anything he could know about Maedhros’ fate, he goes to Námo and asks whether Maedhros is in the Halls, and Námo tells him that yes, Maedhros is.

He looks for Maedhros. He seeks quiet corners of the Halls, and sings, and hopes Maedhros will hear him, and one day he senses in his spirit that someone else is present near him. He continues to sing, simple things, and then moves to the song he sang at Thangorodrim -

- and Maedhros is there, ragged and shaking and trying with all his might not to look at Fingon. Stop he says. Please, stop. Why must you torment me?

The last thing Maedhros wants is to be reminded that once, he had a chance to do right, that once, he had a chance to recieve mercy and he has thrown it away, to be reminded of the gaping gulf between the person he wanted to be and person he is. You still think you can rescue me? he says with a twisted smile, and holds out his hand. Across the entire palm and to the first knuckle of the fingers, it is charred black. Fingon’s expression goes stubborn and he takes Maedhros’ hand in his own - and then releases his hold in shock. The hand is hot - not as with fever, but as metal newly withdrawn from a forge. Maedhros gives a bitter laugh and disappears.

Fingon cannot find him again.

This brings the story roughly to the start of the part I wrote in response to your last Ask, where Maedhros goes to Nienna and recieves, beyond his hope, mercy and forgiveness and help and healing. That’s not the endpoint of his journey to recovery, but it’s the beginning; it gives him the knowledge that there is someone who can love him absolutely unconditionally, that he’s not beyond redemption. And that gives him the foundation he needs to start facing the people he knew and the people he’s harmed and answering to them and seeking their forgiveness.

The Halls have a will of their own, if you let them; their geography is as much spiritual as physical, and they’ll lead spirits to the people whom they need to resolve things with. Fingon isn’t the first person Maedhros talks to, but he’s one of the first.

*****

FIc snippet

It would have been easier if the Halls had brought him to the Teleri, or even the Sindar. He could bear condemnation from them.

He did not know how to bear it if Fingon turned him away. As he had every right to.

He wanted to flee to some abandoned corner of the Halls and never face Fingon again.

He wanted to lay at his friend’s feet for a year, for a yen, for an Age, and beg Fingon not to despise him forever.

He forced himself to do neither of these things.

Fingon had still not seen him; his eyes were shut, his head bowed to his knees and his lips moving wordlessly, and it was the evident misery in his hunched shoulders that gave Maedhros the courage to kneel down beside him say softly, “Fingon.”

He did not seem to hear. “Fingon. Fingon.” Fingon looked up, made a choked noise of surprise, and grabbed Maedhros by the shoulders, staring into his eyes for a long moment, and then pulled him into an embrace. “Thank you,” Fingon said, low and fervent, and Maedhros knew it was not him that Fingon was addressing.

“You’re all right. I mean - not all right, but - better.” A spirit’s appearance in the Halls drew on both their true condition and their perception of themself. Maedhros was clothed in rags, his hair matted, but his hand no longer burned and he could meet Fingon’s eye with a look that, though still deeply ashamed, was no longer tormeted.

“The Lady of Sorrows has been very kind. Far more than I could ever deserve. Though in truth even to be in the Halls is better than I deserve.”

“Maedhros, surely you cannot believe that you deserve the Darkness?”

Maedhros’ laugh was rueful. “Deserve it? I believe I specifically requested it. Demanded, even! What does it say, that the very worst anyone could do to us would be to take us at our word? But by the end I earned it more in keeping the Oath than in breaking it.”

The question refused to be suppressed. “Maedhros, why? We beseiged Angband for over four hundred years without attempting regain the Silmarils, and the Oath did not trouble you then, yet the moment one was in the hands of Elves - ” Fingon paused. “Maedhros, please tell me it was not because of my death.”

Maedhros’ words came halting. “I blamed myself. I blamed the Valar. I blamed the Doom. I told myself that abandoned you again, this time to your death. I told myself that if this was how I was repaid for trying to win the war, if the Powers had mandated that any attempt to do good could only turn to evil and the destruction of all that I loved, then they had no right to judge me for doing ill. I told myself that I had chosen war on Angband to avoid war on Doriath, and if they were going to punish me for that choice, well, then they were in no position to complain when I made the other.

“I was wrong. We were not wrong to fight Angband, but on my part the Fifth Battle was waged in service of the Oath, and everything done in its service turns to ill. Good becomes evil. Evil becomes…worse. The words we intended to drive us against Morgoth turned to his service, and we did his work.

“I am sorry for what I have done. I will spend the rest of Time being sorry for it. We should have thrown ourselves against the walls of Angband and died there rather than ever again raising our swords against our kin. You have every right to despise me.”

Fingon, lacking words, took Maedhros’ remaining hand and lifted the burnt palm to his lips. “I will not leave you. I hate what you have done - I would rather have seen you dead on my blade than do any of, though that would have killed me - but I will not leave you.” He wrapped his arms around Maedhros again. “Please don’t disappear again.”

“I won’t.”

The dead have times of rest of thought, even if it not what the living would call sleep. A little time later found Fingon resting with his back against a pillar and Maedhros curled on the floor, his head pillowed on Fingon’s feet and an expression of deep contentment in his face.

*****

My thoughts on Aredhel and Maedhros are in the Halls are largely covered in this post.

*****

Turgon, in contrast, is exceptionally angry at Maedhros, especially about the Third Kinslaying, and not at all inclined to forgive or to care for apologies. This is also wrapped up in Turgon’s own guilt about the Fall of Gondolin. He feared that he had left the remnant of his people defenseless against Morgoth, but Ulmo found a way to protect them through the waters at the Mouths of Sirion; instead, they were defenseless against Maedhros and his brothers. And to Turgon, Maedhros’ renunciation of both the Oath and the Silmarils after his death is meaningless, because he did so only after he had lost any possibility of achieving the Oath or obtaining the Silmarils. How can it mean anything to renounce evil only after you’ve lost the ability to commit it or to gain anything from it?

Maedhros and Turgon have an intense conversation on these points (well, intense on Turgon’s part) while Maedhros is in the Halls. Maedhros, for his part, while he does want to apologize and beg forgiveness, does not really have any expectation that Turgon will forgive him; his hope in his early conversations with both Turgon and Fingolfin is mainly to arrange a detente where the Nolofinwëans can get back on good terms with each other by dint of all of them agreeing to just not talk about Maedhros (who is the primary subject of contention between them). This, he does succeed at.

#tolkien #the silmarillion #cliff notes for my unwritten fanfic #maedhros #fingon #turgon

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