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thesummerestsolstice · 20 days

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By the time Elrond leaves for Gil-Galad's camp, he's also been handling most of the healing at Amon Ereb for years. Few of the Feanorians can heal any more, bloodstained as they are, and even as a youth, it's clear that Elrond is remarkably talented at it.

Many of the Feanorians use sleeping draughts. Some of them, especially the former thralls, are plagued by nightmares. Maglor and Maedhros are so burnt out by the oath at this point that they can barely sleep at all.

Elrond is the one who mixes the medicine, quietly in the little room they've started calling the apothecary. No one watches. He gathers most of his own herbs too, from the gardens inside the fortress or the decaying land around it– no one goes with him, because the elves will be noticed by Morgoth's forces and attacked, but somehow, Elrond always slips by unnoticed.

Elrond leaves to get supplies. Elrond comes back. Elrond makes the sleeping draught, every afternoon. Maglor and Maedhros– and plenty of others– drink it without question every evening. They wake up the next morning, and there Elrond is, smiling and asking how they slept.

To most of the Feanorians, who've already started whispering about Elrond's kindness, this doesn't seem strange.

But Maedhros wonders. Maedhros knows that it would be near impossible to tell if the herbal draught had been tampered with. Maedhros knows that many of the herbs around Amon Ereb are poisonous, even lethal. Maedhros knows that the forested lands around Amon Ereb, sick as they are, would gladly shelter Elrond and Elros all the way to Gil-Galad's camp.

Maedhros knows all these things. What he doesn't know is why. Why Elrond stays, why Elrond helps them. And part of him– the part worn down by everything that's already happened to him– is suspicious of that. But he still takes the sleeping draught every night. And Elrond is still there every morning. And Maedhros never quite works up the courage to ask.

#silmarillion #silm headcanons #elrond #elrond peredhel #eldritch peredhel #maedhros #maglor #amon ereb #kidnap fam #but not the happy fluffy kind #tell me if this needs a content warning #I believe that Maedhros cared deeply about Elrond #I do not necessarily believe that Maedhros ever really understood many of Elrond's actions #or the role he'd played in Elrond's life

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searchingforserendipity25 · 3 months

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do elves have gargoyle architecture...i think amon ereb should have some gargoyles. amrod & armas go nuts post-nirnaeth in their own edgy way, and unfortunately they were the best students of nerdanel's spritually realistic school of image-reproduction-via-stone.

so. gargoyles. a bragging of beasts hunted down, a metaphor, a cute-horrible guy-thing climbing the walls. the monsters within the monsters without etc etc.

sometimes their flat stone eyes seem the eyes of spies, seem almost to be looking at you (they are looking at you) (elros and elrond have very specific nightmares) (fortress is haunted) (they give them all names, too, because they have to; because they are children, only children, and the gnarled stone creatures on the walls are company of some sort).

#the silm #amon ereb

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aotearoa20 · 7 months

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Caranthir: Most days I spend my time sitting around and pretending I'm busy

Ambarussa: How do you pull that off?

Caranthir: I always look annoyed.

Caranthir: Yeah, when you look annoyed all the time, people think that you're busy

#ambarussa #caranthir #incorrect silmarillion quotes #amon ereb #silmarillion #tolkien

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melestasflight · 8 months

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Maedhros and Maglor are facing their final challenges in @zealouswerewolfcollector's Now a Quill, Now a Sword.

This fantastic fic and its main art for @tolkienrsb will be live tomorrow, September 8, 2023!

Fic snippet below the cut.

“We should move now if we are intent on doing it.” Maglor’s quiet, discolored voice brought Maedhros back from the maze of his thoughts. He could not bear his brother’s look, cold fury hidden beneath a shroud of nonchalance. “We shall move when I decide so,” he said. “Of course,” Maglor said in the same tone. “What are you writing?” “It is none of your concern.” “What is the point of writing to him? He will never read it. You are doing it only for yourself. But even that is pointless now.” A slow, mocking smile twisted his face. “Do you hope the letter will be discovered on your body and find its way to him?” Maedhros was shaken by Maglor quoting his letter almost word by word. But his brother was not done yet. “Do you hope he will read it and shed a few tears over you?” he continued. “Do you hope he will be moved by your letter and forgive you? He may not even be allowed to leave the Halls until the world breaks. He is a kinslayer just like us.” “Hold your tongue!” Maedhros roared. “He was nothing like us!” “Yes, of course, pure and innocent Fingon, incapable of any wrongdoing.” “I said hold your tongue!” “As you command, my lord.”

From Now a Quill, Now a Sword

#maedhros #maglor #fingon #amon ereb #melesta art #hewerofcaves fic #silm fic #silm art #silmarillion #the silmarillion #tolkien #trsb23 #teaser art #my art

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arlenianchronicles · 2 years

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Alrighty, here’s the @tolkienrsb fic written by the wonderful platinum_firebird on AO3, inspired by my painting of Elrond! You can read the story here :DDD

Fic and art rating: Gen

Warnings: None apply

Relationships: Elrond & Maedros, Elrond & Maglor, Elrond & OCs

Characters: Elrond, Maedros, Maglor, Erestor, and OCs

Word count: 15,969

Elrond is a budding scholar fascinated by history and medicine (among many, many other topics), but the library at Amon Ereb always leaves something to be desired.

After an inspiring encounter with the castle’s bards, Maglor encourages him to begin his own scholarly undertaking -- a book recording the histories of all Amon Ereb’s people, no matter their station or background.

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outofangband · 1 year

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Oh can I get folkloric creatures for Amon Ereb (maybe something Elrond and Elros was told) - and Sirion too if it's not to much

And third (again only if it's not to much) Himrings gardens?

I love your writings they always make my day - and please don't stress, that's not very healthy, take care of yourself ❤

From this world building list here! Still accepting them!

World Building Masterlist

…I am aware this is like two months late and I am so sorry

I’ll do folkloric creatures here and Himring gardens in another post if you’re still interested!

Amon Ereb is a hill in Eastern Beleriand, East of the end of the Andram, a long stretch of hills and cliffs and West of the river Gelion. The Fëanorians retreated to Amon Ereb following the Nírnaeth.

The Fëanorian host post Nírnaeth don’t tell many stories for fun. Their stories are warnings, sometimes barely concealed threats. There are certainly tales of monsters however, both real, imagined and some combination of the two, that are told both among the host and to the few children.

One of the prominent ones describe large, vicious cats with long pointed teeth that dwelt in Nan Dungortheb but spread out through Eastern Beleriand as more and more settlements and villages were destroyed or abandoned. These creatures were said to be a variety of colors but often pale brown or white, and moved still more silently than the elves. They were more a risk to horses and were not usually said to be directly allied to the Enemy but would attack riders or lone travelers to eat on occasion

And of course stories of those Morgoth released from Angband, in varying stages of inhumanity or sentience, grew like a disease through the Noldor during dire times. Some were said to be constructs or else raised dead, pale specters who could mimic voices and lure others out of places of safety

As always please feel free to ask more

#the silmarillion #maedhros #fëanorians #Amon ereb #beleriand #musing and meta

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lendmyboyfriendahand · 16 days

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More in the AU where Elrond and Elros are 16 years old rather than 6 when Sirion is sacked. Tag is "older kidnap fam fic" for previous installments

Elrond wakes up draped over the rump of a horse.

Not, to be clear, his own warhorse. His faithful stallion is being ridden by one of the few remaining warriors of the Gap, the great cavalry of the Noldor, who will be able to keep her seat regardless of what the horse tries.

Elrond isn't initially sure who is riding the horse that he's been set over like a sack of baggage. His arms are stretched out past his head, tied wrists dangling toward the ground, and his ankles are tied as well, tighter than the hobble that he had while walking. He can't see anything but horse flank.

Elrond wriggles around to try and get a better view, and someone notices.

"Lord Maedhros, it seems your guest is awake."

Maedhros pushes down the middle of Elrond's lower back to pin him more surely to the horse. "Lie still. If you fall off while riding in formation you're liable to get stepped on by the next horse, even if the rider wished to avoid you."

"I know how to ride properly."

"Yes, I saw that you were quite skilled when you killed my soldiers, which is why you're staying right there."

"Could I at least sit upright, even if I have to ride behind someone else like an infant?"

"Maybe tomorrow, if you give your word not to escape."

"I'm not stupid enough to try and bargain with you again, after you broke your word about setting us free from the cellar."

"I never said I'd set you free, I said I'd leave the city and wouldn't kill you. Sirion crumbled in the first assault, but I did no more damage after taking you and your brother into custody. If they're smart enough to repair the castle first, everyone should be able to keep warm this winter."

"And if they focus instead on burying their dead, or rebuilding their houses, or rescuing their kidnapped princes?"

"Who knows? But I'm not king of even the Noldor anymore, and the people of Sirion are not my responsibility."

"You would just let them die?" Elrond wanted to glare at the Feanorian, and nearly slipped backwards off the horse as he tried to sit up.

Maedhros caught Elrond deftly by the bound wrists and pulled him back into place. "Next time you do that, I'll let you fall"

"So you don't actually intend to even spare my life."

"I agreed to spare you, not to save you . None here will harm you, but I won't rescue you from consequences of childish stupidity, no more than I will rescue Sirion from winter. If you would rather bash your head open rather than remain my captive, I am not so cruel as to deny you that escape."

Elrond had nothing to say to that topic, as his first retort about more palatable escapes seemed likely just to enrage his captor, as did any question about cutting off hands. "Where's Elros? Was he at least left back in Sirion?" Elrond wanted his brother to be safe, and his people to have a leader with his mother drowned. But he, selfishly, also did to want to be alone with the kinslayers.

"He's here as well, don't worry. Nornmalo has him, and I trust him not to torture a prisoner, despite what it may sound like."

"The moans of pain might be a headache, he drank rather a lot of beer while we were trapped."

Maedhros laughed. "Well, a hungover child soldier. He will at least bother Nornmalo less with questions."

"Could I give him something to soothe the headache? I know a bit of healing."

"No. A headache won't kill him, and he'll get water when we stop same as you."

They stopped only once that day, to water the horses at a stream. Elros was pulled down from the saddle - feet first, luckily, though he still landed in a heap - and his hands untied. Maedhros tossed him a canteen, and said "if you need to piss, now's the best time. You won't get piss all over the horse or your clothes, and we're downstream of the rest of the company."

"My legs are still tied."

"The ropes low enough you should be able to unfasten your belt."

"Are you going to watch me the whole time?"

"Until I find another guard, yes."

Elrond drinks little enough water to avoid the issue, for the moment.

When it's time to ride again, Elrond puts up a fight about having his arms tied again. That just gets Maedhros pinning his face in the dirt while a soldier ties the rope.

Elrond is slung back on the horse like a parcel.

They stop again just before sunset to make camp.

Elrond's hands are untied again for dinner.

The food is simple, waybread and water, and Elrond wonders if he should mention that Men need to eat more than once a day.

Far more exciting than the food though is the figure dropped on the grass next to him, clutching his own canteen and waybread.

"Elros!"

"Elrond! By Ulmo, you're alright!"

"I am, just a bit bruised from the horse. You?"

"Here's something for your healer's notes: do not put people with hangovers upside down for hours. I must have thrown up a dozen times."

"That's terrible! Maybe we can ask-"

At that point the guard tells them to hurry up, they'll be taken to where they're sleeping in ten minutes regardless of how much dinner they've had. Elrond and Elros focus on eating.

They are not, apparently, going to be sleeping near each other. "Too much chance to plot."

The Feanorian soldiers have tents. Some of them share, some of them have their own. A few soldiers have tents obviously designed for two or three that they go into alone.

The horses stolen from Sirion are tied to a picket line. It's loped through the reins, but one person untying the end would let all the horses scatter.

The horses the Feanorians rode into town on are not tied at all. They are loyal old warhorses, and will not flee from orcs in the distance. If wolves do sneak past the guards into the camp, better for the horses to run, and come back at their masters' call when the danger is passed.

Elrond, by contrast, is tied to a tree trunk. His hands are tied in front of him rather than behind, and his legs are unbound. Maedhros's brother - and Elrond learned from a careless remark that their is only the one left - even tossed a blanket over Elrond's legs, to guard against the chill of the night air.

It is the most freedom of movement Elrond has had all day, but that's saying little.

He is stuck sitting up, feeling every root and rock underneath him, unable to reach his hands back to where the rope is tied behind the tree.

Elrond sleeps poorly, stirring at every noise, whether it's a guard on their rounds or an owl hooting its warning.

In the morning, Elrond is given a breakfast of water and waybread again.

Maedhros says "You know it would be suicidal to flee, alone in the wilderness, yes?" and lets Elrond ride behind him sitting up.

Elrond's hands are still bound, and a rope leads passed Maedhros to the saddle horn. If he fell off, he better hope he can keep pace with a cantering horse, or else be dragged on the ground.

Elrond stays on the horse. He figures out his balance well enough to turn, and sees Elros riding similarly.

Thing continue like this for over a week, until they reach Amon Ereb.

#older kidnap fam fic #my fic #silm #silmarillion #Nornmalo means oak friend #he was originally one of Curufin's followers I think; he is more used to defending a fortress than riding long distances #but all the best riders in the Feanorian host were either a) in the Gap during the Bragollach and so a lot of them died in fire #or b) on the riverlands of Ossirand under Amras and so extremely pissed off at Elrond and Elros now #Maedhros trusts /most/ of his soldiers not to torture or kill prisoners against his orders; but he does recall Doriath and Elured and Eluri #better to put the annoying enemy teenagers with someone who is grieving a bit less and so is less likely to strike them in anger #Maedhros is confident in his own self control in the field; he has scheduled to break down in tears three hours after they reach Amon Ereb #in the meantime he ignores all his emotions and doesn't attempt introspection

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imakemywings · 1 year

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As Little As Might Be Thought

Fandom: The Silmarillion

Characters: Maedhros, Maglor

Summary: Maedhros and Maglor disagree about the education of the Peredhil.

Length: 2,903

AN: For day 6 of @maedhrosmaglorweek "With Elrond and Elros"...the twins don't actually show up here, but they are the subject of the conversation!

AO3 (w/ more AN) | Pillowfort

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"...and love grew after between them, as little might be thought." (Of the Voyage of Eärendil and the War of Wrath)

Amon Ereb was quiet at this hour.

Quiet in a way that scratched at the back of Maedhros’ mind, a regular, dull reminder of their ever-dwindling supply of followers not looking to run them through the belly (not lying dead in the mud at the river mouth, piled up like driftwood with the intended targets). Himring, for all the snow that blanketed the land and muffled sound like a quilt thrown over the world, had rarely been quiet, outside the most distant corners of the fort, or beyond its walls. There was always someone clashing blades in the yard, or banging iron, or barking orders, or singing (in the early days, or after Maglor and the Elves of the Gap had come).

There had been too many of them, with too much to do, for Himring to be quiet.

But Amon Ereb was quiet. Maedhros listened to the crackle and pop of the fire in the hearth at his feet, watched the flames lick around the air beyond the soles of his boots, the heat reaching through to his skin. With one finger, he idly balanced an empty goblet on the rim of its base on the table just behind him. (Sometimes he went and called a person by name and they were simply gone, bled away into the night, leaving a reeking air of shame behind them.)

Maglor would have the Peredhil shut up in their room soon, and would come down for his nightcap.

Almost as if on schedule, he heard the sound of his brother’s whistling, and the insufferable aura of his self-satisfaction entered the dim dining hall several moments before he himself did.

“Their lessons progress quite well,” Maglor announced to an audience of zero, plus Maedhros’ back. Maedhros did not look away from the fire as Maglor helped himself to what was left of the cold spread on the cabinet, and swept aside the uncleared plates from dinner earlier to set his dish down, along with a bottle of wine. He poured himself a cup; the noise of it splashing into the goblet made Maedhros grimace and he set his own empty cup flat on the table. “I think I shall test them again soon, and perhaps introduce some more complex poetical forms to their literature studies.”

Maedhros did not turn, so Maglor could not see that he rolled his eyes.

“They still are struggling to keep focused, however,” Maglor went on, as if there were a single solitary person in the whole estate who gave a rat’s ass. “I blame their mortal blood. Short attention spans. The intelligence is there when they apply it, but too often it’s like trying to corral spooked horses!”

Maglor could not abide the silence. He never could; he hated hunting in Himring for the silence of the air away from the fort. In an empty room, he hummed or whistled or tapped on tables and books and shields. He incessantly sought someone else to murder the quiet, and in absence of a partner’s aid, would kill it himself, and talk, and talk, and talk, until Maedhros ground his teeth to dust. (Had Maglor’s noise always bothered him so much?)

Maedhros should not respond; Maglor was only talking to fill the empty space and Maedhros should ignore him, as he usually did.

“Yes, poetry,” he rasped. “Perhaps you can teach them the many metaphorical uses of fire.” Maglor hesitated; Maedhros heard the scrape of his fork against the plate; he was deciding if he was being goaded. “Or perhaps that old rhyme about children who wander off in wintertime? Certainly they would find some cultural value in that. Doubtless your vast knowledge of Iathrim poetry will prove most engaging to them.” The quiet click of the fork being laid on the table. (Maglor, of course, had no knowledge of Iathrim poetry, outside what bawdy limericks he’d picked up from Daeron at the Mereth Aderthad.)

“Ah, I see,” Maglor said, in that silky, chipper tone that preceded a fight. “Yes, always right, you are, brother dear! How foolish of me! Foolish to make an effort in educating the Peredhil. Let us rather house them in the stable and let them run about like beasts; I’m sure that would please you better.”

Maedhros snorted derisively and rapped his flesh fingertips against the tabletop.

“Oh no, let me not silence you!” Maglor implored piteously and Maedhros could see the simpering look on his face without turning. “You have more advice for me, I beg you give it! Let this poor wretch learn from such a wise and noble soul!” Maedhros snapped his head over to Maglor, who wavered a moment, debating if he had pressed too far. One didn’t want to wind up with more of a fight than was sought, after all.

“Stop making a fool of yourself,” Maedhros said at last, and turned back towards the fire. The coppery light illuminated his face and turned his hair bright, letting the brown fall under the thrall of the red; he was no less lovely to the eye then than he had been in Aman, Maitimo indeed, save for the fell shadow of his eyes that warped his fairness into something chilling. “You prance about like a trained pony and then look for someone to applaud you. Let it rest.”

“They must be cultivated,” Maglor said, apparently once again determined to impart on Maedhros the importance of behaving as if the condition of the Peredhil mattered, or could be ameliorated, as he stabbed at a bit of cold sausage. “Particularly given their—well, disadvantages. I’m quite confident that can be made up for. With effort. Which you are so clearly unwilling to—”

Maedhros reached for the goblet again, Maglor fell silent, and after a moment’s contemplation of its still-empty depths, Maedhros set the cup down once more.

“Someone must look out for them,” Maglor was saying then, and Maedhros weighed the effort involved in getting up and leaving the room as opposed to cracking that plate over Maglor’s head. He should have said nothing; Maglor would have finished his wine and been gone by now if he had, perhaps.

“I can think of no one better suited to the task,” Maedhros said, but Maglor missed or purposefully overlooked how grave an insult Maedhros intended the remark to be. Perhaps he ought to be blunter.

“…there is no reason not to,” Maglor was going on, “and when they reach adulthood they will be grateful that someone—”

At this, Maedhros could not restrain the grotesque noise of amusement that burst from his throat. Maglor’s eyes narrowed; Maedhros did not have to look to see it.

“Oh, forgive me,” Maedhros said cuttingly, looking over his furred shoulder at his brother’s pinched expression. “Do carry on explaining how you’ve saved them from their pitiable state.” Maglor was twisting the fork on his plate, probably imagining what it would feel like to stick it through Maedhros’ flesh hand.

“I have given them more than you would allow them to have,” he said tightly. “At least I have attempted to treat them with some—”

“You treat them like the housecats Morifinwë used to dress in baby shifts,” Maedhros interrupted, cutting cleanly across Maglor’s voice. Interrupting him was a move successful only ever by Maedhros, for few others could sufficiently cow Maglor into silence, and in any other case, he would simply raise his voice to talk over the would-be interrupter, and he always won. Being loud was one of his true talents.

“And what precisely,” said Maglor delicately, in a saccharine tone that anyone affiliated with the Feanorians knew to be his teetering on the edge of losing his temper, “do you mean by that, Nelyafinwë?”

Maedhros twisted in his seat to look at Maglor.

“They are amusing toys for you. With them you may play your silly games and make believe we are somewhere else, that we are some other people, living some other lives, and they are too afraid of you to contradict you.”

“They…” Maglor could not refute that the Peredhil feared him, as much as he wished; Maedhros could hear how the words stuck in his throat. He hoped they choked him. “We are making progress,” he corrected himself at length. “I know what you would rather do!” he cried, accusing. “Cage them like animals! Put them in shackles! Or let them run naked through the dirt and the mud like stray dogs!”

“I, at least, am honest with them,” said Maedhros. “But you have always preferred a pretty lie to an ugly truth, Kano,” he said. “And you would have all the rest of us play your game with you.” Now Maglor was undoubtedly thinking of putting that fork somewhere soft in Maedhros. For a moment, that wounded, mulish look on Maglor’s face made him want to press harder, see if Maglor would lash out at him, but he swallowed the words and settled back in his chair, which creaked quietly under the shifting of his weight.

There were two paths they would take now: Maglor would finish his wine and meats in disgusted silence and flounce out of the room without another word; or Maglor would keep talking.

Regrettably, he chose the latter.

“They are infants,” he said lowly, his voice wavering in the way that made others start backing away from him. “They do not need your ugly truths. I know you told them you saw—that you saw their mother’s body in the Havens. I found them crying in their room! And that wasn’t even a truth! We never found her!” Though not for lack of effort, being as she still possessed something they desired.

“Fine,” Maedhros grunted, staring into the hearth. “Sometimes a lie is better than no answer at all. You know what they would think if we told them the truth.” Maglor did not reply, so Maedhros said it for him: “They would never stop believing she would return for them. To rescue them.”

“And is that such a terrible thing?” Maglor burst out, more to disagree with Maedhros than a desire for the Peredhil to rely on the return of Elwing Dioriel.

“She’s dead,” said Maedhros. Or anyways, beyond the reach of any of us, he thought, but this he did not say. He had once mentioned to Maglor about their not finding the body, but Maglor had been so resistant to any conversation about it that Maedhros did not bring it up again. She had probably washed out to sea, and that was all. “You call me cruel, and yet you would allow them to cling to such a thing.”

Maglor was silent a long moment, choosing his next biting reply, and Maedhros wished again he had said nothing at all.

“There is a difference,” Maglor said, “between being honest and being ugly.”

“Where is that line, pray tell?” said Maedhros. “Do you purpose to win their affection before they find out you drove their mother to her death, and hope that softens the blow? This is a fascinatingly stupid plan even for you, Kano.” The thunk of the fork embedding in the table.

“I did not kill—!” Maglor’s near-shriek was cut off hastily and Maedhros listened to the wood of the tabletop being abused, his ears ringing. “I did not! I did not,” he whispered. “I was only talking to her. I didn’t mean for—if she had only—if she had only given it to me!” He flexed his fingers.

Maedhros did not even bother to snort. This conversation was more rote than Maglor’s wounded gazelle look every time Maedhros mentioned it. The fireplace danced, and Maedhros could almost fancy he saw the weight of a young mother plummeting through the flames.

“Do you think,” Maedhros said, drawing the words out as if he were speaking to an idiot, or perhaps an exceptionally intelligent hound, “that will make a whit of difference to them?”

“You are full of such misery!” Maglor exclaimed, leaping to his feet. “You must inflict it on everyone around you! Do you so resent that I might have a relationship with them? Does it so disgust you to see anyone not as miserable and wretched as you are?”

“You think truly that no one sees what gambit you mean to play with them?” Maedhros asked, unable anymore to hold back. He was facing Maglor then, his voice raised to fill the room. Maglor’s thin cheeks were flushed; his nostrils flared; the look in his dark eyes was every bit as wretched as he had just accused Maedhros of being; it was a look Maedhros had never seen on him before they left Valinor. If something had gotten into Maedhros, it had gotten into Maglor too, and all of them, he suspected.

“No; elaborate for me, brother dear,” Maglor said. “As usual, it seems you know something I do not.”

He should keep quiet. He should say nothing. He should get to his weary feet and go upstairs to collapse face-down, fully clothed, on his bed and lay there until the requisite number of hours had passed to say he had slept. But Maglor had that stubborn challenge gleaming in his eyes, that look that said he was spoiling for an argument, as he had worn when he insistently dropped counterpoints to Maedhros’ plans in front of their brothers simply to draw out the conversation and make everyone bicker a while longer.

“Naturally,” he replied, allowing a matching poison to seep into his tone. “You mean for them to save you.”

“Save me from what, my lord?” Maglor asked, languorously, obscenely stretching his words. “Unless it be from the stench of that cloak of yours, I should say nothing urgent. But perhaps the aroma of pig shit is bracing for you.”

“You have looked at your soul and found it wanting,” Maedhros said. “You have gazed upon your heart, upon your fëa, and you see quite a lot of dark. The fear of it creeps up into your throat; it chokes you in the shadows; this fear of what you’ve become. Away it eats at you like rust on a cheap blade until you gnaw your fingernails to bloody stumps. But here are two poor creatures which need caring for! And oh, what chance for charity! What luck, that no one else should snap them up before you do! Now there I would not quarrel with you; it was a fine move to catch them before Gil-galad did, for he will never siege Amon Ereb so long as harm may come to Elwing and Eärendil’s precious children, but I doubt that was in your mind when you dragged them out of that cave.

“So now you have them and all the better if you can protect them from your brute of a brother, and show that you are not that far gone, that you are better than that at least. You will educate them! You will—what was your word?—cultivate them! You will have them sit on your knee, trembling, while you tell them old Noldor stories and play your lute and when they leave—if they leave—perhaps it will be with a few rosy memories amid all the pig shit to remember you by. Caring for them will be your redemption; you will sing about how you saved them, when in fact it is you who has tried to claw your way out of the depths of utter depravity and rapacious self-serving desire by grabbing at their tunic hems to haul yourself free. Do you think that anyone—”

Sometimes, it was tempting to just keep going; to see how many blows he could get in before Maglor objected or simply left. Depending on the response, Maedhros could determine how far under his brother’s skin he’d gotten this time.

Judging by the wine goblet that collided with his forehead, he had done a fairly decent job.

Wine dripped copiously off Maedhros’ face and into the fur of his cloak, soaking the front of his tunic. His nose objected to the abrupt connection with solid metal. Maglor’s face had gone from the faint flush of offense to a furious red as if he had blistered in the sun. He was shaking.

“What does it matter,” he hissed through his teeth, undone, “the reason, so long as the result is good?”

“Perhaps it doesn’t,” Maedhros said with a shrug, rising to his feet, still dripping wine. He swiped a hand over his eyebrows and flicked the residue onto the floor. Truthfully, he was impressed Maglor had not tried to tackle him yet, table between them notwithstanding. He took his time grabbing the bottle of wine Maglor had set on the table and filling the goblet he had been toying with when Maglor entered. He filled it up to the brim and pushed it over to Maglor, sloshing wine over the tabletop. “Here. Don’t trouble yourself; you can see to the education of the hostages as it pleases you, and I will concern myself, as usual, with keeping Amon Ereb functional.”

He did not look again at Maglor’s face before he quitted the room. He knew the look of loathing he would see there. If Maglor wanted to hurt him, he’d have to hit harder than with a mirror of Maedhros’ own feelings.

#maedhros #maglor #kidnap fam #elrond #elros #the silmarillion #tolkien tag #fanfiction #tolkien fanfiction #rocky writes #maedhrosandmaglorweek #Fun times at Amon Ereb

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softlysilverfountainsfall · 2 years

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I think Ossiriand was actually fairly safe in post-Nirnaeth and post-third-kinslaying (and fall of Amon Ereb) Beleriand (for a given value of "safe" in post-Nirnaeth Beleriand).

We're never told of any major military movements into Ossiriand, though that could be down to Noldorin bias or plain lack of information, but I think the more compelling reason is actually just geography. Ossiriand is surrounded by the rivers Gelion, Ascar, and Adurant on three sides and the mountains on the other, and is shot through with no less than four other rivers.

These rivers are not just streams; they look small on the map, but to get on the map they must be of a significant size, and fording rivers with any significant military force is no joke. The dwarves provide an excellent example of this, because when their military force was trying to cross a river, Beren and the Green-elves wiped out every single one of them. With the number of spies Morgoth has (remember when one of his agents infiltrated a human gathering and impersonated Amlach so well no one noticed?) there's no way he didn't hear of this, and if I were him, I would put off invading Ossiriand until I had a way to deal with the rivers and the green-elves.

This is not to say that Ossiriand was perfectly safe, far from it, but I think it was actually a lot safer than you might initially assume with the rest of Beleriand overrun. I think there was a constant risk of death from relatively small groups of orcs that got into Ossiriand and caused casualties, but the green-elves were renowned in the Silm for their skill at staying hidden, which would've eventually lead to death-by-ambush for those orcs.

#the silmarillion #beleriand #apocalyptic beleriand #laiquendi #green-elves #first age military tactics #I can't decided if the blue mountains would be a wall #or an emergency exit #probably both depending on the area #and one's knowledge of the paths #in summary #Ossiriand: very very dangerous post-Nirnaeth and especially #post-3rd kinslaying because Amon Ereb fell at the same time #opening Ossiriand up to more attacks #but still safer than most of Beleriand which was actively enemy territory #softlysilver

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thesummerestsolstice · 2 months

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People ask about Elrond and Elros and the Feanorians a lot, especially in the early days when they've just come to Gil-Galad's camp. Ask about, mind you. The twins are rarely directly approached, but the whispers follow them everywhere. There's a scar, across Elros's shoudler, and the elves point and murmur unhappily whenever it's visible. Elros's half-elven ears are sharper than they think; sharp enough to hear various versions of the word "kinslaying bastard" in angry, hushed tones. Elrond eats very little when they first get to camp– it's hard to adjust from scarcity rations to the relative abundance of Valinor's army– and from then on, rumors of cruel starvation follow the twins wherever they go.

There's sympathy for them, but it's a strange sympathy. They're seen as martyrs more than people. Things– warm clothes, trinkets, baked goods– get left outside their door. But at the same time, no one seems quite willing to look them in the eyes. Gil-Galad is one of the few exceptions, and the twins– Elrond especially– are glad of it.

There aren't many elves who are insensitive enough to directly ask how horrible the kinslayers were to them, or whether Maedhros Feanorian bleeds back like an orc, but there are a few. They don't get answers. Elrond and Elros almost entirely refuse to speak either of Sirion or of Amon Ereb. That just makes everyone else more uneasy. Are they offended, afraid? Are they hiding some awful secret?

Only Elrond and Elros know. And they refuse to say anything about it.

#silmarillion #silm headcanons #war of wrath #elrond #elrond peredhel #elros #maedhros #gil galad

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melestasflight · 1 year

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Stay, Forever

If Elrond is the serene stillness of winter, Celebrían is a bright summer, brimming with life like a wildflower meadow in the evening warmth. What can winter offer one such as her?

The first snow brings bittersweet memories for Elrond. Through remembrance and song, he reveals a feeling that has been budding in his heart for a long time.

@officialtolkiensecretsanta 🎁 gift for... to be revealed. 😉

#elrond #celebrian #celebrian x elrond #maglor #rivendell #amon ereb #tolkien secret santa #tss2022 #gift fic #my writing #silmarillion #lotr #tolkien

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thelordofgifs · 13 days

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Notes on the Care of the Tormented, ed. Elrond Half-elven

Written for @silmarillionepistolary day 3!

Rating: T

Relationships: Maglor & Maedhros, Maglor & Elrond

Words: 4k

I have hesitated a long time over transcribing this old collection of documents, and having them bound together as a pamphlet; but the library at Imladris is well-understood to be the finest East of the Sea, and I do not wish to deprive it of any lore. A point of pride, perhaps. So I have had two copies made, one for our own collection and one for that of the library at Fornost Erain — for I would not have it said that the Eldar hoard their knowledge, and leave Men to labour in the dark.

The library at Amon Ereb was nothing to marvel at, but it was there, in the uneasy days of my youth, that I first came across these notes. They had been written by Maglor son of Fëanor at varying points over the course of the First Age, and were altogether a rather disorganised collection; but I found myself drawn to them the very first time I read them, for the care that had been taken in their composition, and in their preservation through defeat after defeat and flight after flight. Maglor was no healer, certainly not by the time I knew him: his hands had been bloodied too many times for that gift to have lingered, if ever he had it. But all the same, he paid great attention to the care of Maedhros his brother — there was no other Maedhros would permit to touch him, or speak to him when he had an episode.

It would have been easy to conclude that Maglor did it all on instinct, watching them. So I was struck, on first finding these notes, by how much of his practice he had documented. The sons of Fëanor were all diligent record-keepers — ironic, many would claim, considering how much lore was lost in Menegroth beneath their marauding swords, and again at the Havens of Sirion. But none of them seemed to trust to the infallible memories of the Eldar, judging by the contents of even that much-depleted library at Amon Ereb. Still at times I wondered for whom exactly Maglor had written the notes — I do not doubt that he referred to them often himself, but I could never make out whether he had had any other audience in mind. Did he imagine that Maedhros might survive him, and dwell with another? I know not.

[Keep reading on AO3]

#silmarillion #my fic #maglor #maedhros #elrond #silmarillionepistolary #the caretaker burnout fic! in which maglor is so so hinged

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sallysavestheday · 8 months

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Half-elven Week Drabbles #4

For @halfelvenweek, have 100 words of Amon Ereb horror-show.

********

Elrond’s first tooth falls out in a crust of bread, their second week in Amon Ereb. Maglor is horrified at his swift decay. He calls for the healer; digs frantically through the mildewed library for lore on the ailments of mortal children; weeps quietly over his failure in care. Maedhros, drunk and sarcastic, only grins. “Their mother was a bird, was she not? They moult, I believe. Will it be hair or fingers next, do you think?” At Elrond’s frightened gasp, he throws back his head and barks a feral laugh. His own battered teeth gap black against his gums.

#elrond #maedhros #maglor #halfelvenweek

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