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thelordofgifs · 1 year

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the fairest stars

What if Angrist was a little tougher, and Beren and Lúthien managed to steal two Silmarils from Morgoth instead of one? Somehow I’ve already written NINE parts of this unhinged bullet point AU here and decided it was time for a fresh post to avoid that one getting too long.

Where we left off: Lúthien has been negotiating with Mandos like a pro, Maglor is nearly-but-not-quite-dead in Menegroth, Thingol has taken one Silmaril from him, Fingon has the other Silmaril and ditched Curufin outside the Girdle even though they did some bonding on the Worst Road Trip, and people are still upset about Celegorm’s death. YES I am well aware that the pipeline from the fairly normal first sentence of the post to this mess is insane.

Fingon and Maedhros are both very, very good tacticians. Between them, it isn’t very difficult for Fingon to follow Maedhros’ directions towards Menegroth, and then to find the hidden pathways by which Huan led Maedhros out of Thingol’s halls.

It helps that Thingol is still under the impression that the Girdle is impenetrable with the aid of his Silmaril, so he doesn’t have anyone keeping an eye out for the High King of the Noldor sneaking into his realm on an Adventure.

Finding Maglor's sickroom/prison cell/whatever is a little trickier, but not impossible. Long ago in Tirion Fingon was a mischievous child, so he's well aware that the best way not to get caught sneaking into a forbidden place is to make it perfectly clear that you belong there.

He strides confidently down the corridors, silently reciting Maedhros' directions to himself. Nobody stops him.

He's hoping that Curufin was wrong, and he'll know Maglor's door by the holy light showing through the cracks; but when none is evident he's forced to take his chances and start trying doors in the area Maedhros indicated at random.

Since he has plot armour is very lucky with this whole improbable-rescue thing he comes across Maglor without any trouble.

Maglor is only half-conscious – quite apart from the wounded leg, he hasn’t eaten in days – but his eyes flicker open when Fingon comes in.

“Hello, Makalaurë,” Fingon says, deliberately cheerful. “I’ve come to take you home.”

“You can’t do that,” Maglor says dazedly. “It burned – in the Bragollach – remember?”

Fingon opts not to answer that. “Russo said you were healing when he left,” he says instead, frowning at the bloodstained bandages around Maglor’s leg. “What happened? Has Thingol been mistreating you? I thought Lúthien at least was kind!”

Maybe he was too hasty in leaving Curufin outside the Girdle.

Maglor hurries to explain that Lúthien is dead, and that he’s actually in this pathetic state by choice or something.

“Right,” says Fingon, “well, you’re coming back to Himring now.”

But Maglor shakes his head. “I can’t, Finno,” he says. “Thingol took the Silmaril from me. I don’t – I’ve been trying to hold it back. The Oath. But I can’t leave it in Doriath and go, I can’t. So you’ll have to leave me behind.” He manages a brave and tragic smile.

On Thangorodrim while Fingon was struggling futilely with Morgoth’s iron shackle, hopeless tears running down his face, Maedhros said, You’ll never be able to free me, Finno, just kill me, please—

Fingon is rather sick of Fëanorian melodrama.

“One step ahead of you,” he says brightly, and he produces Maedhros’ Silmaril from its box, handing it to Maglor before his Oath can stir at the sight of it. “Here it is.”

This would never normally work. But Maglor is very tired and ill, and not thinking as clearly as he otherwise would.

As long as the obvious question doesn’t occur to him until they get outside the Girdle again—

Maglor takes the jewel and gives a relieved little sigh as the bite of the Oath eases. “You really took it from Thingol?”

“Of course,” Fingon lies. “Let’s put it back in the box for now so that it doesn’t attract too much attention?”

Maglor acquiesces. He and Fingon aren’t close exactly, but they get on well – certainly far better than Fingon does with Curufin. There’s an odd shared camaraderie that comes from loving Maedhros; it lends itself well to cooperation in difficult circumstances.

Fingon picks Maglor up – he's alarmingly light – and they begin to make their way back out of Menegroth.

"You're to be my betrothal gift," Fingon tells Maglor, and Maglor actually laughs.

Unfortunately it's much harder to look innocuous when you're carrying someone about five minutes away from expiring on the spot.

They haven't got very far before an angry voice comes from behind them: "Who are you and where are you going with the Fëanorion?"

Damn.

Meanwhile

[I should clarify my definition of "meanwhile" here. Evidently time runs much slower in Aman than it does in Middle-earth, even post-Darkening, or it's difficult to fathom why Beren and Lúthien canonically took two years to return from death. In vague support of this, the Fellowship find that time runs slowly in Lothlórien, presumably with the aid of Galadriel's ring, so I posit that the more Divine Stuff there is near a place (and Galadriel was ofc a student of Melian too), the more weird time shit occurs. So since I've anyway fudged the timelines so that travel times work out conveniently, we can also put the bits of story occurring in Aman here for funsies.]

Meanwhile, Finrod has been following Celegorm around in the Halls of Mandos.

"Was it worth it?" he asks. "Did you take joy in the lordship of Nargothrond, once I was gone?"

"I could ask you the same," says Celegorm, responding for the first time. "Did you die for anything in the end, Ingoldo? The mortal's here, after all your efforts. So much for your oath."

"So much for yours," says Finrod; "it looks like that eternal darkness you doomed yourself to wasn't that dark. Or eternal. So what was it all for? Do you even regret any of it?"

The dead can't lie. Artifice and deception are matters of the flesh, and they are buried with it.

"I didn't want you to die," Celegorm says.

"Well, that's a start!" says Finrod. "I can't say I'm glad to see you here, either."

"O Fair and Faithful one," says Celegorm, "spare me none of your pity. They are already whispering that you will be released soon, first of all the Exiles to walk again in Aman. So it's all turned out rather well for you, despite your evil cousins' machinations."

"I suppose it has," says Finrod, thinking.

The thing is, it was worth it. Beren's life mattered. It mattered that he saved it, even if he died to do so, even if Beren is dead now too (although word is that might be changing).

He did not do it expecting a reward.

"And my werewolf was bigger than yours," says Celegorm.

Finrod rolls his metaphorical eyes. "At least I actually killed mine."

Cousinly bickering is still kind of fun, even when you're dead.

Curufin, fuming outside the Girdle, would not agree.

After a time he's forced to conclude that the only thing he can do is head back to Himring.

The ride through Himlad, once as green and fair a land as any, does not improve his mood.

Also his burned hand is still hurting.

Look: here's the little stream where Celegorm caught a huge fish once; and here are the low hills where, a couple of centuries ago, they held some war games and Curufin's people thrashed Celegorm's decisively.

Here's the copse where, years before the Dagor Aglareb brought tentative peace to East Beleriand, Curufin and his son were surprised by a party of orcs, who took their small patrol all captive.

Tyelpë was just barely of age at the time. How trusting his eyes, then, how baby-soft his hair: how easily he had believed that his father would fix everything.

As for Curufin, he spent the hours-long ordeal learning anew what terror was, rendered compliant by the mere possibility that they could hurt his child.

They were fine, in the end. Celegorm rode up to the rescue while the orcs were still quarrelling over where to take them.

But Curufin remembers: how disabling love can be.

Meanwhile Fingon finds himself surrounded by a crowd of angry Iathrim in their home city.

He sets Maglor down on the floor and sets a hand on his sword-hilt, wondering if he is about to become a Kinslayer again.

(Fingon regrets Alqualondë more than anything; and he'd do it again, for Maedhros' sake. He knows this about himself.)

Before things escalate too far, Thingol shows up at the scene of the disturbance.

"We haven't met," Fingon says. "Fingon son of Fingolfin, High King of the Noldor in Beleriand. I've come for my cousin." He gives Thingol a rather dangerous smile.

Thingol thinks he might be in serious trouble. He attempts to adopt a conciliatory tone (which is really really hard for Thingol ok he's trying).

"He'll die if he's moved," he says, nodding to where Maglor is slumped against the wall, shivering.

"He'll die if he stays here!" Fingon says. "Is this the famed hospitality of your halls?"

"He has been offered every treatment he could ask for," Thingol says. "It is not the fault of Menegroth if he chooses to refuse them. Now tell me, son of Fingolfin, how came you through the Girdle of Melian – without her leave or mine?"

Maglor puts the pieces together. "Finno, you lied to me," he breathes, glancing at the box in Fingon's hand.

Fingon wonders if it would be diplomatically insensitive to kick Thingol.

"The jewel alone does not explain it," Thingol insists. "While I hold the Silmaril my daughter won, surely—?"

"I could have told you that, had you asked," says Maglor. "Silmarils aren't weapons! You can't use one as some sort of military defence."

Thingol is now questioning all his life choices.

He only took the Silmaril from Maglor in the first place because he thought it would protect his kingdom, and now—

Maglor is feeling resigned. He should have known Fingon's claim was too good to be true. Thingol still has the Silmaril, and Maglor can't leave Menegroth without it.

Face pale and set, he attempts to get to his feet, mostly unsuccessfully.

Fingon looks down at him. "Seriously, Makalaurë?" And when Maglor ignores him, he says, "Sorry about this," and kicks Maglor's bad leg – carefully, but still hard enough to hurt.

Maglor faints.

Fingon picks his limp body up. "The Silmaril isn't yours," he tells Thingol.

"The white ships of Olwë my brother's people were not yours, either," Thingol returns.

Fingon inclines his head, acknowledging the point. "I don't wish to start a war over the Silmaril," he says. Maglor is so cold and still in his arms. "My cousins have done enough for that cause lately. Only let me take my kinsman home."

Thingol hesitates. The iron box in Fingon's hand is so close, and Fingon is outnumbered, and he has his injured cousin to worry about—

It could all be over, if he took the second Silmaril. He'd never need to worry about his people's safety from invasion again.

"Elu," comes a voice from behind him, "enough of this. Let them go."

"Queen Melian," says Fingon, bowing his head.

She barely looks at him, meeting her husband's gaze instead. "Time and again you have disregarded me," she says. "Lúthien is lost, and yet you persist with this. Will you heed me now?"

Thingol stares at her, and then, finally, he waves his hand. The bristling guards move aside, allowing Fingon free passage down the corridor.

"I trust you can remember your way out," Thingol tells Fingon, and turns away.

Fingon looks at Melian. "Thank you," he says, "and I am very sorry about your daughter."

He has met Maiar before, of course, in Valinor: but Melian is still unsettling, with her implausibly flawless face and eyes that hold yet the memory of a time before Time.

"Little king," she says, "only hope that you will not know any such pain yourself."

Fingon manages a smile. "I'm good at that," he says. "Hope."

On that note he leaves Menegroth, carrying Maglor, and begins to make the long trek back through the Forest of Region, and thence to Himring.

Curufin has managed the journey significantly more quickly. On a crisp cold morning he rides back through Himring's gates.

Maedhros has been... managing. Not well, but he trusts Fingon.

Beloved, I will bring them back to you. Beloved, I will bring them back to you. Beloved, I will bring them back to you.

But here's Curufin by himself, looking pale and tired, and after all it was only a hastily-scribbled note, not an incantation.

Maedhros arrives at the gate at a run.

Scarce weeks ago it was the other way around, Maedhros riding into the fortress with Fingon's cloak only just concealing his bloodstained clothes: and Curufin met him as he came in and he can still feel the terrible jolt of knowledge in his stomach, and Celegorm is still dead.

How can it be borne?

A thought comes to Curufin and for a moment he thinks it the cruellest idea he has ever had, but Celegorm is dead and his hand is still burned and nobody expects any better of him anyway.

"They're dead," he says flatly, "they're both dead," and Maedhros just – stares at him.

(to be continued)

#silmarillion #my fic #bullet point fic #the fairest stars #fingon #maglor #finrod #celegorm #thingol #curufin #maedhros #theme of the day: lying #thingol makes one (1) good decision!#curufin makes zero (0)!#maedhros has a really bad day!#what else do we expect from this au

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aotearoa20 · 28 days

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Penance: Part One. One/Two/Three

The little messenger of the Valar was actually very lucky to have found them all together at the same time.

There were many rooms and long corridors in Mandos. Ambarussa had found Curufin in this one some time ago, on the small outcropping of rock by an underground waterfall. And he would not be moved. He sat with a form that was barely distinguishable and stared out at where the water hit the pool, causing a continuous spray of bioluminescence.

Caranthir had no intention of lingering beside his brother’s bitterness. He wandered, often to the Halls of Vaire. He met his grandmother and her handmaidens. Sometimes he looked for news in the tapestries. Sometimes he could persuade the solemn to give him work. They never let him do more than untangle threads but in a being barely corporeal, it was enough of a challenge to keep him for utter boredom.

Ambarussa wandered too, Amras trailing after his twin as he showed every nook and cranny left in the Halls. But they returned now and again, trying to coax their brothers into their explorations. Celegorm followed them once or twice but usually remained within eyeshot of the little room with the waterfall.

It was pure chance that Caranthir had ended at back there at the same time as the twins and nothing was said of it. They didn’t speak all that much, well, save Amrod who never really stopped. He seemed scared of the empty space.

Mandos is quiet. For weary broken souls, the silence is a balm. A space to reorient and to heal. But Amrod has long come to terms with himself. Amrod is long healed and Caranthir knows the dark quiet has been smothering him. He thinks he may go mad and could almost laugh at the irony.

A light appeared in the doorway and it was strange. There was light down here. Green flamed lamps and plants that glowed hues of violet and blue. But this was different. This was warm and too bright for his imagined eyes. The figure obscured its glare was tangible enough for his footsteps to echo.

"What news, friend?" Amrod smiled.

Caranthir shivered. It’s eerie the ease with which Amrod could speak with Namo’s Maiar. Their presence still filled him witth a sense of dread, though this one didn’t seem to. Celegorm stood as it drew near but made no move towards it. There was somethingwrong about it. It was too bright, too solid -

“I’m looking for Maedhros Fëanorian.”

There was a beat of silence before Amrod grinned, “You are not dead”

There was a excitement in his voice that sounded nearly like a threat. The stranger lowered the lamp and as his face came into view, Caranthir was almost certain he knew him.

“Lúthien,” he heard Celegorm whisper and with that he was certain.

“You’re Elros’ brother” he said as he rose to his feet. The elf opened his mouth to reply but for a moment no words come out. As if he didn’t know where to pursue his first question or ask a new one.

“He came this way before he left.” Caranthir continued making the choice for him, “He also asked for Nelyo.”

“I am Elrond Peredhel.”

Half Elven. Dior’s grandson. He would have been the Prince of Doriath if fate and his family had been kinder.

“But you are not following him?”

He would have assumed so. He knew their own twins dealt ill with being parted. Elros had not stayed long. Caranthir’s remembered thinking of asking him to carry a message to the otherside. Perhaps he should have.

But it would appear this one was not bound for the Doors of Night. Amrod was right, he was still living and evenso he could sense a solidness to his fëa that his brother did not have.

“No.”

“What do you want?,” Curufin's voice cut sharp from his little crevice of stone.

“To speak with Maedhros.” Elrond replied, undeterred by the coldness of it.

“Why?”

Caranthir took a breath he didn’t need, ready to defend the poor boy from whatever was about to leave his brother’s mouth when they were both silenced.

“Elrond?”

They all turned to the shadowed door.

Maedhros had arrived so close to fading, they feared they would lose him forever. Even now his fëa was barely a wisp of a thing. It was as if the darkness had found a voice.

“So for this one he’ll appear, but we are not so worthy,” Celegorm doesn’t quite growl but Caranthir elbowed him as hard as an incorporeal spirit can elbow another. He might scare Nelyo away for another hundred years.

“Maedhros…” Elrond began, the word hung in the air a moment before he shook his head and looked away, “I have petitioned the Valar for your release.”

“Little pity,” Amras echoed softly.

Elrond turned to the voice and nodded, “but not none at all, I have come to you all with a proposition”

“All of us?” Celegorm said in surprise, he like the rest, assumed any bargaining would be for Nelyo alone. But the half-elf smiled and went to sit on a small shelf of rock. His grip on the lamp shook faintly as he placed it down.

He took a breath and said, “The Valar, Namo especially, have no desire to keep you in here until the world’s breaking. Some of you have been in these Halls longer than Morgoth himself and your crimes though terrible could not be counted as worse than his.”

Caranthir didn’t intend to laugh, but Celegorm chuckled beside him and he found he could not help himself.

“Even so,” Elrond stared at them both unimpressed, “There are many who would argue most of the great woes of the world came to being at Morgoth’s first release and the Valar would have you free to sow discord in Aman. If you were to return there would be conditions.”

Unease shivered through his fëa. Caranthir wasn’t sure he wanted to know of whatever deal Elrond teased out of the Valar. Return would be a curse while the Oath hung over them. Here at least it slept once they realised there could be no escape from the Halls. Better they languish here until Maglor deigned to joined them, and with him any chance of reclaiming the last of their own. And then to Darkness, whatever that entailed. Compared to rhe alternative it would be a relief.

Not that he didn’t appreciate the boy’s efforts. Misguided though they were he had no reason to go through the trouble. It was sweet really.

“You would be put under the responsibility of one of the Valar and under their service – ”

Never mind, he was a petty bastard. Caranthir almost respected him for it. He laughed again, harsh and deliberate. This had to be a joke.

“That’s no reprieve, it is another prison.” Curufin had no face with which to glare. The flickering mist the made him up seemed to pulse and condense in on itself.

“But we could be free of this place.” Amras muttered, wincing more out of habit than anything else as his twin gripped his shoulder.

“To what end?” Curufin hissed, “Are we to be thralls until the end of time?”

“The Valar agreed they would be poor judges of the length of such service. A small council was appointed to judge when it would be safe for you to be left free and unchecked. Olwë, Elwing and Nimloth. Idril also was asked but she said would trust in the wisdom of the three.”

“Then we should be slaves forever! Who would agree to such a bargain?!”

More was said, by most of them, with far less grace. Caranthir himself had no desire to be the lackey of any of the Powers. He was quite comfortable down here, awaiting their doom in his own dread and despair and he was more happy to explain that to the little upstart.

Elrond sat patient enough until their protests died down.

“I have spoken with my father,” he said, quietly softly now, his eyes landed on each of them, “He said if you would agree to these terms, he would return to you the last of the Silmarils for as long as it was necessary to release from your Oath.”

The silence that fell was black and cloying. Maedhros had told them he and Maglor had watched over the peredhel twins for a time. He’d said little more, only to get him off his case, the last time they had been visited by other. Given the extent the Oath had ravaged him by the time he arrived here, they all gathered that it would not have been a pleasant experience for any involved.

He studied the boy’s gentle expression. Did he know the power he held over them all in a single sentence? He must. He must know he could get them to agree to anything for the sake of that offer. It would be a fitting and complete vengeance for this prince of the Sindar to hold the fate of them all at his mercy. Except he couldn’t align such cunning with the person before him.

And for all the humiliation being at the beck and call of the Valar would be, given the truly limitless possibilities, it was a fairly tame punishment. Perhaps it would have to be for the Powers to agree to it.

“What of our father?” Celegorm said suddenly, his voice strangely void of its usual elegance, “and Maglor, we don’t even know where he is.”

“This offer is open to all of you, I can go no further into Mandos like this but Namo said he would speak to Feanor” Elrond sighed, “As for Maglor, he is found. He rests in my house.”

“Is he alright.” Maedhros asked in a tight voice.

“He is not,” Elrond replied and for some strange reason he seemed grieved, “He will not allow himself to be helped but has conceded to follow whichever fate you choose. I... it is not a choice to taken lightly, but please don’t tarry, for his sake.”

“We will do it,” Curufin spoke up. He paid no heed to the stared that stares leveled his way, instead he turned to Maedhros, “We have to don’t we? What use is there debating it?"

Maedhros sighed so deeply him might have dissipated himself into dust. But he nodded and all at once Caranthir’s grip on eternity pitched once again. He had half a mind to resist it. He did not have to agree to this deal that he had not hand in shaping or bargaining. There were too many loop holes that could be explored and exploited both ways. But a familiar heaviness gripped him and turned his tongue to lead. He could not risk Elrond recinding his offer by asking too many questions.

The smile on the half elf’s face was drenched with relief. If he didn’t know better Caranthir would have thought the lantern itself shone brighter at the news. He couldn’t fathom why. His head hurt, so little has happened for so long, for everything he knew to change once more! But to be free... Such hope was as sharp as a knife pericing the depths of his fea. He tore it out and shook his head. Free to do what?

#cross posted on ao3 #my writing #silm au #i put here #So when I make moodboards later #they make sense #maedhros #celegorm #maglor #caranthir #curifin #ambarussa #silmarillion #tolkien #penance au

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