#also elwing fully died trying to protect them in this one

[sesamenom]

@general-illyrin @tar-thelien @who-needs-words I think you all mentioned being interested in the reverse gondolin au - is anyone interested in helping with wrangling the timelines, especially the second age stuff? Here's the current outline:

(Edit: anyone feel free to help out if you're interested!)

YT 14365 - Birth of Lomion

YT 14373/FA 1 - Death of Argon

FA

2 - Aredhel adopts Lomion

300 - Birth of Idril

316 - Turgon & Idril kidnapped by Eol

400 - Turgon & Idril rescued. Death of Eol

465 - Finrod more-peacefully passes throne to orodreth while on Quest. Everyone except beren still dies

472 - Nirnaeth. Turgon named High King of the Noldor.

476 - Turgon abdicates official title. Aredhel named High King of the Noldor.

496 - Tuor comes to Gondolin

502 - Wedding of Idril and Tuor

503 - Births of Earendil and Elwing. Idril begins to have foresight dreams about the Fall.

506 - Second Kinslaying. C^3 dead, celebrimbor stays in gondolin. Aredhel denounces the oath/kinslaying and disowns C^3

Elwing survives & is found by Oropher & Thranduil // Galadriel & Celeborn. oropher, thranduil, oropher's wife, and thranduil's then-gf // galadriel & celeborn take Elwing to Gondolin as refugees. The Silmaril is left hidden in the woods of melian's domain.

507 - Elwing comes to Gondolin.

509 - Idril captured by Morgoth. Idril reveals the location of Gondolin in exchange for an Oath to not harm her family (Turgon, Tuor, and Earendil). Idril rescued.

510 - Gondolin prepares for war with Morgoth.

513-522 - Siege of Gondolin. Deaths of Duilin and Rog. Gothmog slain by Aredhel the Huntress. First use of the Three Rings by Lomion and Celebrimbor in defense of Gondolin. House of the Hammer of Wrath destroyed.

523 - Maedhros believes a Silmaril is with Elwing at Gondolin.

525 - Earendil weds Elwing. Lomion weds ???. Adoption of Gil-Galad

532 - Births of Elrond and Elros.

538 - Third Kinslaying at Gondolin. Death of Amras. Elrond and Elros kidnapped by Maglor. Deaths of Elwing and Turgon. Second use of the Three Rings by Lomion and Celebrimbor. Deaths of Maedhros and Aredhel. Lomion named King of Gondolin and High King of the Noldor. Deaths of Salgant, Penlod, and Tuor. Earendil named Lord of the House of the Wing.

540-549 - War declared between Gondolin and the Feanorians of Himring over the Third Kinslaying and kidnapping of Princes Elrond and Elros.

549 - Elrond and Elros recovered. Feanorians and Gondolin severely weakened. Celebrimbor // Gil-Galad declared heir to the High Kingship.

552-554 - Second Siege & Fall of Gondolin. Third use of the Three Rings by Lomion and Celebrimbor. Deaths of Ecthelion, Glorfindel, Egalmoth, and Turgon. Idril and Celebrimbor lead survivors through the Secret Way.

555 - Gondolithlim refugees arrive at Sirion.

556 - Idril departs for Valinor.

558 - Earendil searches for Valinor.

560 - Havens of Sirion destroyed by Morgoth. Gondolithlim/Doriathrim survivors scattered. Elrond and Elros rescued (as adults) by Maglor.

572 - Morgoth controls Beleriand. Earendil and reembodied Elwing come to Valinor and rally the Host.

575-617 - War of Wrath

618 - Maglor claims the Silmaril from Eonwe's camp and casts himself into the Sea. Death of Maglor.

620 - End of the First Age.

SA

1 - Founding of the Grey Havens and Lindon under High King Lomion

2 - Elros becomes the first King of Numenor

c. 500 - Sauron returns to Middle-Earth in the East.

650 - Eregion is founded

1000 - Galadriel is given Vilya; Lomion wields Nenya

1170 - Annatar comes to Lindon and Lomion turns him away. Lomion warns Celebrimbor of Eregion of his suspicions.

1200 - Annatar comes to Eregion. Celebrimbor takes him in to monitor.

1250 - Celebrimbor creates the Seven; Lomion creates the Nine.

1410 - Annatar is kicked out of Eregion.

1600 - The One Ring is forged. Sauron remains in hiding.

1610 - Sauron begins to gather and prepare armies in the East.

1673 - War of the Elves and Sauron begins.

1675 - Sauron invades Eriador.

1677 - Fall of Ost-in-Edhil. Celebrimbor and Lomion remain at the House of the Mirdain. Death of Celebrimbor in battle // Fourth use of the Three in battle. Sauron does not learn of the Seven. Founding of Imladris.

1678 - Sauron defeated by the Numenoreans and the Elves of Lindon.

1679 - Sauron flees to Mordor. First White Council held.

3147 - Civil war in Numenor.

3225 - Ar-Pharazon seizes the Sceptre.

3228 - Elrond claims the Sceptre. Ar-Pharazon disowned. Tar-Miriel named Ruling Queen.

3232 - Sauron taken to Numenor as a prisoner.

3274 - Elrond kicks Sauron out of Numenor and outlaws the morgoth cult.

3310 - Morgoth cult publicly reappears.

3319 - Downfall of Numenor. Tar-Miriel leads a greater force of the Faithful away.

(green // blue means two main options, red means i need to think about it more)

The main details I'm figuring out right now are

does Celebrimbor still die at Eregion - I don't think he's getting captured/tortured, but he could still die in the battle. On the other hand, he could probably survive by using Narya & Lomion using Nenya, but that would definitely have repercussions further down the line

how does Idril's deal work - I'm currently thinking of Idril exchanging the location of Gondolin for her family's guaranteed safety, because it seems in character for Reverse Idril? But on the other hand, even if I limit it to immediate family at the time of the oath (tuor, turgon, earendil) then idk where turgon dies? Maybe Maglor can kill him but that seems kind of random

where and how does Turgon die

how does Prince Elrond's character even work

how does Numenor still fall when factoring in Prince Elrond - I'm thinking that the morgoth death cult gained enough traction during the time sauron was there that even after Elrond kicks him out, the cult still sticks around and reemerges later? The Fall still happens, but they never go to attack valinor and there's a good deal more Faithful (maybe 40-60%?)

#silm #silmarillion #not art #reverse gondolin au #basically elrond is giving me a Lot of trouble here #i tacked an extra 30 years onto the FA (so the SA dates are mostly shifted up by 30 years to balance it out; hence elros being king in SA 2 #this means e&e were adults during the Fall of Gondolin and the war of wrath and all #so instead of 'kind as summer' elrond of the last homely house in rivendell #we have gondolithrim veteran/dragonslayer Prince Elrond of Imladris Stronghold #and later the Bastion of the Faithful of Numenor #ironically enough he turned out way more feanorian when not raised by feanorians #instead of sirion e&e's defining Childhood Trauma was the gondolin kinslaying #in which mae and aredhel duel to the death while screaming at each other about fingon's fate and the Oath #and argon and elenwes deaths on the helcaraxe #also elwing fully died trying to protect them in this one #and then e&e were like 20something and sons/grandsons of two Lords durign the FoG so obviously they ended up fighting there too #and then again at the war of wrath #and by the mid SA elrond has already lived through so many wars he's running rather low on hope #so Prince Elrond still tries to be kind but is also substantially more willing to threaten people if need be #after eregion he founds imladris as a haven but also an impenetrable fortress #he saw the fall of gondolin and he knows that rivendell couldn't last forever #but he believes he can make it last long enough to defeat sauron first #or at least push him back so that the refugees of eregion can rebuild and survive #meanwhile celebrimbor takes up the last homely house role #but yeah Prince Elrond is pretty interesting #he intervenes more with numenor bc hes watching them self destruct and knows (bc foresight) exactly what would happen #so he tries (eventually in vain) to prevent it by disowning and exiling ar pharazon #and later exiling sauron around the time of the burning of nimloth #but it's too late and the morgoth cult already gained enough traction #on the other hand there's a lot more Faithful led by tar-miriel

[sweetteaanddragons]

Where Is the Power that Made Your Pride?

Title is from Rudyard Kipling’s “What of the Hunting, Hunter Bold?”

(Also, please note that the following story is from Celegorm’s perspective. All views expressed therein are Celegorm’s opinions, not necessarily mine.)

. . .

Curufin had always talked fast. His ideas flowed far faster than his mouth could move, but that didn’t stop his mouth from desperately trying to keep up.

Their father had done it to a certain extent too, but their father’s innate respect for language had at least kept him intelligible. Curufin had no such boundaries, and when he got particularly excited, his words had a tendency to run together into a block of sound that left intense impressions on the listener’s mind without imparting anything so mundane as specifics. 

Celegorm was the only one who could reliably translate those rants. He was well used to decoding messages no one else thought of as language. He was the one who could capture his little brother’s brilliant ideas and summarize them for everyone else. Language was Celegorm’s portion of the family genius, and he was never more proud of it than then.

What had finally slowed his brother’s lightning mouth was Sindarin. Curufin had learned to speak it carefully, even through his scorn. He had refused to give anyone grounds to mock him for his ability with the tongue, and so he was careful to speak it perfectly, which precluded speaking at his closest approximation of the speed of thought. By the time he had learned the language perfectly, he was out of the habit.

Celegorm still held a grudge against Thingol for that.

Curufin was talking slowly now, painfully slowly, and Celegorm cursed not only Thingol but every member of his line as he knelt in the accursed halls of Doriath and held his broken brother in his arms.

“It’s . . . dark,” Curufin managed. “So dark.” His voice shook.

“It’s just the torches,” Celegorm soothed. “The fire went out during the fighting. That’s all.” It had been pure luck that he had stumbled over Curufin as he called for his brothers. Caranthir hadn’t answered at all. He was trying not to think about that.

“No.” Curufin’s voice was barely more than a terrified breath. “The Void. The Void - “

Celegorm clung even tighter to his brother, hoping that the shared warmth would convince his brother that he was not yet in the eternal chill of the Void. “You will not go to the Void,” he promised. He didn’t say his brother wouldn’t die. He could hear the strange hitches in his little brother’s breathing. He could feel how much warm blood was even now soaking through his brother’s tunics to his. He couldn’t change that now. Only this. “Be he foe or friend, be he foul or clean, brood of Morgoth or bright Vala, Elda or Maia or Aftercomer, Man now born upon Middle-earth, neither law, nor love, nor league of swords, dread nor danger, not Doom itself, shall keep me from redeeming our Oath. Our deed shall not fail, I swear to you. You will not be left to the dark.”

He was the one talking fast now, and it was just barely fast enough. Curufin’s breath was thin and desperate now.

Thin. Desperate.

Gone.

. . . 

By the time his men had finally managed to catch up to them, thankfully with torches, Celegorm had carefully lain his brother’s body and crawled onward. It had been possible, after all, that Caranthir was merely unconscious and might need aid.

The torches revealed the truth.

Caranthir had fallen on the far side of the room. His throat had been slashed messily.

Terrible technique, a coldly distant part of him noted. Nimloth was dead by Celegorm’s own hand, so presumably the one responsible was Dior, wounded to the point of death by Caranthir’s side.

If things had gone differently, he might have been my son.

He could walk over and finish him off. The king had mere minutes to live, all of them promising pain.

His brothers’ blood lay thick upon the floor.

He turned his back on the scene and looked to his followers. “What news?”

“We found his sons, my lord,” the captain said, shoving two young boys forward. “We’ve searched them thoroughly. Neither has the Silmaril.”

Celegorm looked at them for a long moment and tried to think what to do.

It was like that first terrible battle when they’d lost Ada and nothing had made any sense at all. He had been glad, so glad, that it was Maedhros’s role to be king, and then Maglor’s. It had been his role to hunt - hunt for orcs, hunt for food, hunt for a way to figure out the dark tongue Morgoth’s creatures spoke, hunt for a way into the terrible fortress -

And nothing had changed, he realized with something approaching relief. That was still Maedhros’s role, especially now that all that nonsense about giving up the crown was over and done with and they followed no one but Maedhros once more. It was Maedhros’s job to work out what to do. It was his job to hunt.

“Take them to Maedhros,” he ordered. “If they don’t have it, my father’s work must be with the daughter. I’ll hunt her down.”

. . .

The woods were thick with shadows and webs. The darkness had moved in quickly, eager to make up for lost time when Melian’s protection disappeared.

Celegorm had learned his art in the shadowed places outside the light of the Trees. He was well accustomed to hunting in the dark.

These days, he was even used to hunting with only the ghost of a hound’s footsteps at his side.

He had heard some whisper rumors that no hound would have him after Huan left him. Celegorm always wondered why they thought he’d given any other hound a chance. There was no possible replacement for Huan.

How far from here had Huan died?

He pushed the thought to the back of his mind where Caranthir’s ruined throat and Curufin’s terrified rasps rattled and waited to haunt his dreams. Later, he could think of them. Later, he could find a spot beneath the trees to hurl knives at the twisted wood until something else had as many holes ripped through it as he felt like he’d gained.

Later. But there was no room for distractions on a hunt.

. . .

He found them within hours. There were only two guards with the girl; they must not have run into any other survivors yet. They were out there, Celegorm knew. He’d run into other panicked trails through the woods.

He shot the first guard without thought. It came easily now.

Don’t worry, brothers, Father. I will not leave you in the dark.

He had another arrow nocked before the other guard turned around, not that such haste was fully necessary. The second guard’s arms were full of a little elleth, not a weapon.

“Give me the gem,” he ordered, directing his words to Elwing, not the guard. “Give me the gem, or I’ll shoot your guard and search you for it myself.”

She would be all alone in the woods then, and by her frightened eyes, she knew it.

The guard pulled her closer. “She’s a child, just a child, please - “

“And I’m not going to shoot her,” Celelgrom said agreeably. “Just you, if I don’t get my father’s work back. Now.”

He wasn’t sure quite how young Elwing was, but however young she was, it was too young to prize even the precious light of a Silmaril over the safe comfort of an adult’s arms. She opened her clenched hands, and light spilled out from them.

“Princess - “ the guard said.

She threw it.

Her arms were too weak to throw it far. It landed halfway between them, the light clearly visible even through the undergrowth. 

“Thank you,” Celegorm said. He raised his bow a bit higher. “Now I suggest you run.”

The guard took off immediately, the princess still safe in his arms. Celegorm waited until they were safely out of sight before he dared lower his bow and put the arrow back in his quiver. 

The gem was so close. It seemed impossible that he could just reach out and take it.

He stepped forward. Reached down.

And jerked his hand back as the light burned.

He stared down at the gem for a long moment.

It made sense, he supposed. A Vala had hallowed it, and the Valar weren’t exactly happy with them at the moment.

He used one of his knives to cut a strip off his tunic and wrapped the cloth around his hand before picking it up again. It still burned, but it was bearable, at least for long enough to drop it into his quiver since he didn’t have a better container at the moment.

His hand still burned, but that was alright. He could get it looked at when he got back.

And they were one step closer to keeping their vow.

. . .

Maedhros was dead.

Celegorm stared down at the light spilling from the quiver at his feet and tried to understand that.

For so long they’d stood invincible, he’d almost convinced himself that Ada would be their last loss, and now he’d lost three brothers in one day.

But he still had two little brothers to look after and Maglor to follow. He had to focus on that.

This war was a hunt, and he had to keep his focus until the very end.

. . .

Maglor kept them headed vaguely north. The Oath pulled them in that direction, but Maglor showed little inclination to actually get there.

Celegorm chafed at the pointless wandering, but even he had to admit that they need a plan before they attacked. Plans were now Maglor’s job, so he left that to him. 

Until then, Celegorm hunted. The twins rode out with him most days, and they brought in badly needed meat that grew ever harder to hunt down, even for skilled hunters such as they. 

Celegorm could hear what the animals murmured to each other, though there were fewer and fewer left to do it. The land was dying, bit by bit, and at this point he wasn’t sure even stopping Morgoth’s poison at the source would stop it.

Celegorm wasn’t afraid of dying. 

Not so long as he fulfilled his promise first.

. . .

The first they heard of Sirion’s fall was when Celegorm realized they were being followed by someone, and Maglor turned their people back to encircle the other camp, if it could even be called a camp. They’d crowded under the lee of a small hill for protection from bitter wind, but there was little supplies to give them more protection that that. 

It turned out to be Elured and Elurin, who had shown up with their nephews and about two dozen other injured, starving, exhausted people with orcs on their tail.

Of course there were.

The Feanorians outnumbered them and had the additional advantage of being comprised entirely of warriors. The other group held a few children and those who carried their weapons like they still weren’t quite sure what to do with them.

Maglor had been the one to let Elured and Elurin go free with a few captured Doriathrim guards, so it was Maglor who stepped forward, presumably on the idea that the frightened elves would be less likely to shoot him.

He was also the most diplomatic Feanorian brother remaining, though Celegorm found himself wishing fiercely that Maedhros was here for this.

“We have nothing,” Elured - Elurin? One of the two - called from where he stood protectively in front of his nephews. “We have no desire to fight. Let us go our own way. We bring no quarrel to you.”

“We want nothing,” Maglor said, a hint of soothing power in his voice, hands raised high and without weapons. Celegorm, safely hidden in the trees, had that taken care of for him. “Nothing but news. What brings you out this way and in such a company?”

“Morgoth’s forces have brought down Sirion,” the other twin said, wary, but willing to talk. As long as they were still talking, no one was fighting. “Most fled to the Isle of Balar, but we were cut off from the harbor. We had no choice but to flee. His forces ride hard against us still.”

“Then are you sure you wish us to go?” Maglor asked. “They cannot be far behind you now. Will you not accept aid in defeating them?”

It was an offer the beleaguered refugees could not possibly refuse, no matter how wary they were.

Celegorm’s grin was fierce.

At last, a proper fight.

. . .

It was a proper victory too, and the refugees ended up sticking with them after that. It was an awkward experience all around, but there was safety in numbers, or at least as much safety as anyone could get these days.

Celegorm kept the Silmaril well covered. 

No need to start another fight over its brilliant light.

. . .

They found out the Isle of Balar had fallen when Amrod and Amras came running back to camp with a report of a group of orcs dragging a line of elvish prisoners, one of whom they thought might be Gil-Galad, though it had been years since any of them had seen him - not since he was a child.

They attacked because they didn’t have better ideas and because, Celegorm suspected, Maglor, Elured, and Elurin had the same rising lump of dread in their throats that he did.

The attack was a success, more or less. The orcs were dead, at least, and they managed to save five of the prisoners, though Celegorm suspected at least one wouldn’t last the night.

Gil-Galad might make it, though. The orcs had been careful with him, probably because their master had wanted the fun of torturing the so-called king of the elves himself.

Gil-Galad reported the fall of the city in a blank voice. Elwing’s fate was unknown, a fact that cheered up her wide eyed children and worried her more worldly-wise brothers.

Celegorm felt an unwilling spark of sympathy. He remembered all too well when Maedhros’s fate had been unknown.

Then Gil-Galad announced his next bit of news, and all sympathy for outsiders fled.

Celebrimbor was dead.

Gil-Galad talked about how bravely he had fought as if that somehow made things better, as if they wouldn’t all have a hundred times over preferred it for Celebrimbor to run at the first sign of trouble, or for Celebrimbor to have been a little less brave in Nargothrond, all those years ago.

Follow the leader, Celegorm had told his nephew once on a hunt, when he’d been young and impressionable and mostly done as he was told. Stay with the pack.

But little Tyelpe had grown into stubborn Celebrimbor, and now he was gone.

At least his nephew wasn’t counting on Celegorm to save him from the Void.

. . .

Celegorm confronted Maglor in his tent. The question of power had been tricky since Elured and Elurin showed up and had only gotten more so with Gil-Galad’s arrival, but Maglor maintained the majority of it by virtue of commanding the absolute loyalty of the majority of the people wielding weapons. 

Maglor was the rightful leader anyway, but at least this way Celegorm only had to convince one person of his plan.

“We need to attack,” he said, and Maglor startled from his position of leaning over the battered map on an even more battered table.

“We have less than a hundred men,” Maglor said wearily. “If we couldn’t take Angband at the Nirnaeth, what makes you think we can do it now?”

“We can’t,” Celegorm admitted. “But if we can create a diversion outside the gates, we can sneak in and steal the Silmarils.”

Maglor stared at him for a long moment. “It’s a suicide mission,” he finally said.

Celegorm waved that off impatiently. “The whole continent’s dying,” he said. “We’re not getting out of this, you know that. But we can still keep our Oath.”

“Our Oath,” Maglor said bitterly and turned away.

Celegorm grabbed his arm. “I swore it again,” he said. “I swore it again as Curufin died in my arms, I swore I would not let him be devoured by the dark.”

Maglor closed his eyes and breathed deeply. His hands shook.

“Alright,” he finally said. “Alright. We’ve fought Elda and those born of Maia and Aftercomer, defied bright Vala and every law ever written. It’s time we fought dark Vala too.” His eyes opened. “But if we’re going to do this,” he said, “we’re going to do it right.”

. . .

Apparently, doing it right involved talking the others into not wanting to go gently into Mandos’s good night and then riding out to find as many of the small, desperate bands of Aftercomer, Eldar, and Naugrim that they could. If they were going to charge on Morgoth’s gates, Maglor wanted to make as much of a show of it as he could.

Celegorm wasn’t sure what number they got up to. It was still far less than they’d had at the Nirnaeth. It was still doomed, in every sense of the word.

But it would be distracting, and that was the main thing.

. . .

Maglor ceded leadership of the expedition to Gil-Galad, and Celegorm said not one word of protest. Elured and Elurin eyed them warily, but Celegorm just smiled.

These days, no one wanted to look at him when he did that, he’d learned.

Maglor couldn’t lead the expedition.

They’d need him for something far more important.

. . .

Amrod and Amras were the ones left to lead their men because it was decided that was the slightly less suicidal job, and the twins were the youngest, after all. Maglor and Celegorm were fully agreed on that; it was their job to protect them, one last time.

Celegorm was a hunter, and he was well equipped at finding game trails through places thought to be impassible.

Even if this time, the game trail in question had been made by orcs.

Below them, the free peoples of Beleriand made one last glorious charge. 

Meanwhile, Celegorm quietly led Maglor up the winding trail into Angband itself.

. . . 

Most of Morgoth’s forces were focused on the gate, so it was surprisingly easy to slip unnoticed to the throne room where Morgoth sat directing this last stage of the war.

His throne was at one end of a long hall, with thick pillars carved to look like agonized Eldar and Aftercomers groaning under the weight. 

Celegorm was relieved. Elves were hard to spot in hunting cloaks, no matter what the environment, and he was more stealthy than most, but this was would help his purposes immensely. 

Morgoth himself hurt to look at directly, so Celegorm didn’t try. Instead, he sidled to the side of the room, softer than a breath and noticeable as a dust mote while Maglor threw his cloak off and strode forward.

His brother had been beaten down by the war, but he was still a performer at heart. Even in the shabby finery that was the pathetic best the Noldor could still produce, he still commanded every eye in the room as he strode forward.

He didn’t bother wasting time with a formal challenge. Instead, he just burst into song.

The force of it nearly pushed Celegorm over, and it wasn’t even aimed at him. It must be costing Maglor enormous effort - too much to keep it up for long. And though Maglor was holding his own for the moment, with the added force of surprise on his side, against Morgoth surely it wasn’t doing much. His brother’s power was great, but he was no half-Maia brat to contend with a Vala.

And Morgoth would be warier now.

Any moment now, he would grow weary of this novelty and strike. Celegorm’s feet flew across the floor toward an appropriate position. His bow was ready at his side. He just needed the right angle.

And then two bright presences in his mind - distant, but always noted because it was always important to know where the rest of the pack was - went dark.

Amrod and Amras had fallen.

Maglor’s song faltered, and Morgoth smiled, opened his mouth - 

Celegorm raised his bow. The arrowhead that was nocked against it was dull but heavy. Very heavy.

He let it fly.

He had no illusions about killing Morgoth with it, but that was alright. He hadn’t aimed for Morgoth. Not exactly.

He’d aimed for his crown.

The iron monstrosity with its twin stars clattered to the floor.

In the moment of stunned silence that followed, the orc chiefs and twisted Maia stood frozen. Even Morgoth only stared.

Maglor renewed his attack.

Celegorm was already running.

He heard it when others finally started to move after him, but he hardly cared. He was the only one who’d known exactly when this moment would come - one of only two people who had known it was coming at all - and it didn’t matter if someone caught up with him in a few moments. 

A weapon whistled through the air. Celegorm hit his knees and skidded the last yard to the crown.

His brothers were counting on him. His father was counting on him.

Celegorm grabbed a gem in each hand, never minding the burn, just throwing back his head in a yell of triumph as he felt the Oath’s chain snapped.

He had one in his belt and one in each hand. All three gems were united in Feanorian possession once more.

There was no chance of prying the gems out of the crown, not in the time he had left, but there’d been an idea he’d been playing with ever since he proposed this mission, and he had nothing to lose now.

He let go of one of the gems and drew the third out of its pouch. His hand felt like he’d stuck it in lava, but it wouldn’t matter. Not for long.

The Silmarils were almost indestructible. The Valar had thought they could break one, and they were probably right, but Celegorm was no Vala.

He did, however, have a substance just as hard and powerful as the Silmarils in the crown.

Namely, another Silmaril.

Please, Ada. Let me be right. Let me do this one thing right.

He brought it crashing down with all his might on the Silmaril he’d let go of.

His whole world turned to fire, every fiber of him screaming out as the sacred fire scourged him, fused with him, and burst outward.

The clawed hand that had just reached him turned to ash.

Morgoth screamed out, and the sound ripped through whatever remained of his eardrums and twisted the world, because this was light undimmed, light unfiltered, light so holy that it was the antithesis of everything Morgoth was, and Celegorm didn’t know if this would kill the dark Vala, but it certainly seemed to be coming close.

Maglor screamed too, and it went on for just one agonized moment before his last brother’s light winked out.

The light built and burned and Celegorm would have been screaming if there was anything left of him that could -

And then everything was cool and dim, and Namo was looking down at him with an expression so stunned that even dead, all Celegorm could do was throw back his head and laugh and laugh and laugh.

#celegorm #maglor #amrod and amras #elured and elurin #silmarillion #gil-galad #character death #tolkien #fic #alternate universe #canon divergence #celegorm is the last feanorian #for about .5 seconds

[the-neverending-errand]

Siren Songs - Fic

“'Twas in the Land of Willows that I heard th' unfathomed breath

“Of the Horns of Ylmir calling—and shall hear them till my death.” 

~ From the Horns of Ylmir, The Shaping of Middle-Earth, Tolkien

((Note: Please check the content warnings carefully. This has not been proof read for more than spellings, and, though canonical to the Earendil of this blog, some of it is misrepresentative due to it also being me ditching a really bad mental health day onto a character. A couple of further notes are at the bottom. Quote at the top is taken from a version of the song Tuor sung in the land of willows, that awoke sea-longing in both himself and Earendil. Ylmir is Gnomish name for Ulmo.

((This is very long and rambley and I’m not exactly fond of it but eh.))

His father sings of the Horns of Ulmo, when Earendil is but seven years of age. It is at a memorial feast for all the dead of Gondolin - and all those who have died since, and the people had been begging for that specific song. Though they cannot stay forever, this place is under Ulmo's protection; they can rest and heal and grieve for the time they have, until again they must press on to the sea. He does not understand why father insists on going to the sea, not until that moment.

Earendil does not hear the Horns of Ulmo.

What he hears is an ancient, formless voice. And what he feels is something almost grabbing his soul, tugging at it. Embedding itself there, slowly draining pieces of himself away.

He gasps and his father turns to him, 'no' on his lips and horror in his eyes.

None of the elve can hear it, not yet.

But Earendil does not notice, for all he can hear is the rushing of waves and the voice like a whisper against his ear.

He does not realise father has taken him away from the feast for hours. Not until he manages to fight past the all-consuming of the ocean. The voice is still there, whispering come come come to me come but he can ignore it for now. Almost, anyway. He is cradelled on his father's lap - father who is sobbing and begging for mercy - and mother is running her fingers through his hair, and father's too, and a healer is fussing about them.

"Why are you crying, father? What is wrong?"

His voice is small, and father only holds him closer, rocks them both, and sobs all the harder.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

"Shhh, shh, I love you, you are safe, all will be well, shhh."

Come, little peredhel, come unto the seas. Come little peredhel, come and join with me.

Earendil burrows his face into father's chest, reaching for mother with one hand. She takes it, kissing it and holding it close to her heart.

He does not understand exactly what is wrong, not yet, only that something has immutably and irreparably changed.

By the time they reach Sirion, Earendil knows why father must go out onto the sea. Why he cannot be with them. He can ignore the calling for his lessons, and he plays with Princess Elwing. But whenever he stops, his eyes turn towards the ocean, and its siren call. Mother sighs and rocks him.

The next year he has to wade into the shallows to silence it. Princess Elwing is starting to do better in her classes than he, for he can rarely concentrate enough to pay attention. Mother is unhappy, but for a while it is enough.

After he turns ten, but before he turns eleven, father starts taking him out on his shorter journeys, teaching him to sail the boat. Its a trade, at least; he learns to fish with both lines and nets, and this is the most he has seen of his father in years. He declares that, someday, he will sail all the way to the west, and force the Valar to save his people. All of them. The Princess is proud of his attempts, and he is proud of how adept she is at the studies of state. Mother tells him that, at his birth, she foresaw that he will succeed.

He turns fifteen, and by now he knows what happens if he does not go to sea; the world turns grey, until he is driven from it by the fact only love of the sea remains. The sea is a jealous lover, and is stealing away every other bit of joy and love he has. He hates the sea for it, but he still loves it. And there are only three loves left to him - his parents, the sea, and Princess Elwing. Mother tries to hide it from him, but she cries each time he leaves.

He is twenty two. His wedding is planned, and for a time the sirens are at bay. His joy at his marriage, about bonding with Elwing, is so great it drowns it out. But not all is well; his parents have promised to stay to see him wed, but father is old. Not only is he old, but the call of the sea has consumed him. He can barely sit up for all the energy it has stolen, let alone stay. He goes to sea and is well on the waters, but he comes back and it is only worse; the joy never returns. He knows that, soon, he will lose his father to the ocean. Father leaves on his wedding night, even as he consecrates his marriage. Mother leaves too.

When he is twenty nine, his sons are born. They are beautiful and everything to him, and he loves them with all he is. Everything pales next to them. Everything but the sea.

He tries. He does everything he can to silence the longing . After two years Elwing begs him to try again; he is so consumed by the song that everyone worries, that he not even barely functions as a person. Still, he does not wish to leave his family for as long as he can get away with; he manages to make a deal with the siren-song - he will not go to the ocean yet, but he will build a ship worthy of her, and capable of taking him all of the way west. Cirdan hesitates, but agrees to help. Earendil will travel west, with three mortals he also grows to love on more ways than one, and he will plead to the Valar for both of his races.

He fully expects to die either on or at the conclusion of his quest.

And, honestly, he's fine with that.

Maybe, if he's dead, the sirens will finally shut up.

He goes further and further and further, giving the ocean more and more of himself in the hopes of a few more moments, a little more time, another laugh or story or smile with his sons.

It is never enough.

He tries to wait until he cannot physically stay longer, until the longing has drained so much of him away that he is little more than flesh stretched over bone, unable to perceive anything but the call. Then he drags himself to the sea once more, and sets off. Elwing frowns a little harder each time she stands on the shore and watches him leave, holds him a little tighter each time he comes back.

He pushes himself to breaking point every time. At least for a while; eventually, the twins grow old enough to realise when he is ill. They know of illness, though thankfully only of the mortal types. And they cry and sob and try to make him better each and every time he fails to find the energy to drag himself from his bed.

He cannot bring himself to hurt them more than he already has, cannot decide if being gone or being only physically present is worse for them. Which upsets them more.

When Elwing tells him they are most upset when he is ill, he cannot bring himself to stay.

He starts staying less and less, leaving once he finds himself to smile. It's a struggle, but it drags out the inevitable.

The ocean is happy to see him more often, after all. But it would rather he came further away. He hesitates and struggles and tries to force it silent; he knows he must go to Valinor, he knows it has been spoken of as his fate to cross the ocean.

Eventually, though, it is not enough. He thought - honestly believed - that it would be enough. He went as far as he dared, gave so much of himself to the sea. But he returns home, and the life doesn't come back. Elwing and the boys are there to greet him. She kisses him, and they pull him and hug him and demand his attention.

He falls to his knees and takes them in his Elros and his Elrond arms. They radiate concern, but it barely reaches him. He clings to them, sobbing. Why is he not happy to see them? Why is his love drowned out by the sea? Why can he not love them as they deserve?

He had lost the love of everything but his wife and his children and the sea.

Now he has lost his family, too.

He wants to love them, he wants to be thrilled to see them - and he does love them, he loves them more than life itself. More than anything else in Ea or beyond. He knows this, it is an absolute truth.

So why can he not feel anything?

So many have tried to cross the sea, dying in the storms and horror. The sea took his love for the world and for the green places. The sea took his parents, on what should have been the happiest of days. And now the sea has taken his love for his wife and his sons; there is nothing left any more, nothing but the irresistible call of the sea.

At least, he supposes, if the sea kills him he will not have to deal with its siren-song any more. Will not have to deal with how only by being upon it he can feel.

The next time he leaves, he knows he will not be able to return.

He is sailing and on the ocean, and still Earendil cannot rest. Here the siren call does not trouble him, but worry for his people does. All his is and was and will ever be is consumed by the fear for his children and his wife and his people. He knows his dreams are no mere dreams, and that the winds have so suddenly shifted to lead them back towards Sirion can only be Ulmo's own warning. They sail and sail and sail, praying they will make it in time.

He sits at the helm of the boat, wrapped in a blanket and tired eyes. The moon is shining brightly, and Erellont keeps them on course even as the others sleep. They keep telling Earendil to rest. He has forgotten how.

Instead he stays awake, praying to any and all the Valar that his family are safe. Tells them he will offer anything he has - his life, his death, his body, his mind and soul... anything - if only they will keep his wife and children safe.

When he sees the light coming from the East, he knows his prayers are meaningless. And that he is too late. He curses the sea and its siren song, that pulled him so far. That stopped him from being any help at all.

He would recognise his wife anywhere, in any form, but the silmaril still around her neck gives her away. He doesn't know what has happened, or why she is alone, but for the first time in days he moves from his vigil at the prow, even if only to reach out to her.

Earendil expects his wife to land on his arm. He does not expect her to fall from the sky.

Not quite quick enough to catch his fallen wife, now a bird and shivering even in her unconscious state, Earendil instead gathers her carefully into his arms. As he tucks her beneath his shirt, carefully over his heart, she is cold as ice itself. But he can feel her breathe against his chest; there is some form of hope still. He cradles her form, squinting out over the ocean to see if any other birds are with her. He thinks he sees two smaller gulls for a moment, but it is merely a trick of the moon's light.

When the winds fall silent, he knows then it is hopeless.

Ulmo has retracted the haste; there is no longer any reason for him to return to Sirion.

His sons, his beautiful, precious sons, are dead.

He tells Erellont to set the anchor and that they will work out a plan in the morning. Without waiting for a reply, he finally heads below deck. Discarding his shirt, he burrows under the blanket, and wraps Elwing tightly in his arms.

He has no idea if she will be able to return to her own form, knows not what horrors she has seen or what will happen now. Indeed, there are an awful, awful lot of things he does not know. Just that Sirion is gone, and so are his children - his half-elven children, who have no fate beyond their deaths. Who are not just dead but are as though they never existed.

He knows that, unless he can make it over the mountains of Aman, that his cries might be heard by the Valar, and unless those cries are convincing enough, that every last elf, man and dwarf in Middle Earth will die in grief and torment, under Morgoth's thumb. That there is no hope left within Middle Earth, that nobody can save themselves. So he will go, he will give everything he has, for the hope that as few people as possible have to know this pain. He will plead on behalf of all his peoples; he will tear the Doom of Mandos, he will break the Ban of the Valar, and force them to listen.

He will save his people, and he will die for that crime.

He cannot think of anything he wants more.

Somehow, he makes it to Valinor. He leaves Elwing on the shore; she must not suffer more than need be. The sirens are quiet now, for the first time in years. He would weep for joy, but that he still grieves his children. Not just their lives, but the time with them that was lost to the sea. There is little left of Earendil now; he does not believe the world can be saved, that any hope is still within it. But he continues on, driven by the knowledge that this is the only chance anyone has.

Driven by the change to spare even just one person this pain.

He makes it, he makes his case, they agree. There is no elation in the victory, nor in the offer of the choice to chose his fate. The emotions when he learns his sons escaped the bloodshed, that they are alive, are too raw for him to process; he cannot understand what he has been told - his children are dead, but they are not dead, and the fact they are not seems to shake the very core components of his reality. With the determination to save the world gone, there is nothing.

Somehow he makes it back to Elwing, and he can barely perceive her as a person; he found her on the beach, and upon seeing the waves again the whisper of the sirens comes back. He wants to die. He wants to die right now and be gone from this reality. He thinks he would still want to be mortal regardless of what happened, and is not sure he could ever be happy living forever, but also knows he is in no state to make such a choice. So he hands it over to Elwing.

And she decides they will be elves.

So elves they will be.

They go to tell the Valar, and expect either to be killed and sent to Mandos for their crimes, to be reborn later washed clean and anew (that would be fine, Earendil things, just so long as Mandos washes the sea-longing from him as well). Instead, the Valar tell him he must take the silmaril to the sky, as a beacon of hope to a world sorely lacking in it. That this is the service they ask of him in return for the lives of his wife and children. And that he will just have to work everything through.

Earendil cannot bring himself to feel anything. Elwing beside him yells at the Valar, screams it is not fair to use his desperation for their own ends. The King of the Noldor is more reserved, but plees for his nephew - for them to at least give him time to rest before he is sent beyond - nonetheless.

Nobody stops him from stepping out of the Máhanaxar. The woman who calls herself his great-grandmother opens her arms to him.  He leans against her, and she embraces him. He is too drained to care, too exhausted to weep, too hopeless to try and silence the siren song resurging in his mind . She braids her fingers into his hair and rocks him as his parents did so very long ago, and it is as little comfort now as it was then.

He just wants everything to stop.

((Notes: I feel I should point out that, though they phrase it as such, the Valar are not being entirely malicious here; they are well aware of the fact that Earendil can never feel whole unless he is travelling, even if it is a task - there is no peace for him in Aman. At least, not without fundamentally altering who he is. Also they are aware that he wanted to chose mortality, and would have done even if he wasn't wanting to die at the time, but (slightly willfully) misinterpret a wish to no longer exist with Ea as a wish to know what is beyond the borders of reality - so sending him to patrol the borders of the skies is a compromise that gives him that. They are, however, entirely manipulating him into agreeing to this.

((Also, mortals are not supposed to experience sea-longing. It is bad enough for elves to be drained of all joy for Middle Earth and ability to be at peace there, but for a mortal and a half-mortal child? Who are not equipped to deal with it? Things are much, much worse.))

#fanfic #sea-longing #tw: depression #tw: suicidal thinking #tw: derealization #tw: dissociation #tw: psychosis #((ish)) #((Earendil first arriving in Valinor is not a well adjusted being)) #((Or at any point between Gondolin and then either))