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herenortherenearnorfar · 3 years

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This Tornado Tolerates And Respects You

A little story about Gothmog and orcs that I’ll probably put on other sites later. But for now, a tumblr exclusive! CW for the terrible reproductive politics of evil (implied reproductive coercion, forced childbearing, light eugenics), orc awfulness, disdain for incarnates, radiation poisoning, chemical weapons, Fingon’s fate, mentions of cannibalism, malnourishment, ear cropping, and all of the above with the implied harm to children.

Orcs, Lord Melkor’s special pet project, a blasphemy first and a strategic asset second, didn’t make the best troops. They could swarm over a target in a useful mass of bodies but they lacked skill and drive. For the Captain of Angband’s own force of fire and shadow, spirits sprung free from the tyranny of the Valar, orcs were a sea of troublesome bodies, cluttering up the field of battle. More flesh to whip through, barbed wire quick, more lungs to choke with lime gas. An annoyance, not an ally.

He didn’t have very high expectations of them as a source of soldiers and there were very few individual orcs who he respected. Gorfaunt was one of those rare exceptions.

They’d fought on the same battlefield under the taunting stars, in those blissful days before the heavens changed, and he’d been impressed by the orc commanders ability to marshal troops. Very few in that division ended up trampled beneath Balrog feet. Even the retreat was prompt, almost orderly, without sacrificing that wild spirit which was one of the orcs’ few redeeming qualities.

When it came time to capture the stripling-king of the elves he’d requested Gorfaunt’s orcs in particular. Once again they’d proven their mettle and the commander had become of of the Captain’s favorites. If orcs had to be stationed next to their betters it was preferable that it be Gorfaunt’s orcs, who knew how to comport themselves and could fight near Balrogs without dying in droves.

Now with the latest glorious battle (and another successful collaboration, the Captain still glowed at the memory of the Noldor’s latest king cracking open to spill his red insides over his silver banner) behind them and Lord Melkor demanding Nargothrond and Gondolin, they met once a month to strategize, share intelligence, and complain about everyone else. To an outsider they might have passed as friends. There was less formality between the two of them than another high general of the iron fortress might have demanded, they sat at the same table and spoke freely.

(The Lieutenant still asked commanders to bow before him; that was why even his own troops called him Sauron behind his back. Gothmog was a superior appellation, less insulting, more fearful, but he still didn’t hasten to encourage its use.)

Despite their surface level amicability and the handful of tried-and-true inside jokes—mostly having to do with how enemies had died— they could bat at each other, they knew very little about each other’s lives. Meat and smoke only mixed when making a brisket, trying to relate two such different ways of being seemed impossible.

But when he saw Gorfaunt waddling into their monthly kvetch with a belly round and swollen like a tick’s, the Captain felt driven to say something. He was the marshal of Angband, he couldn’t let his king’s forces go to seed.

“Are you ill? Cursed?”

Gorfaunt managed to pull out a chair, made for a Balrog three times the size of an orc, and hoist themselves into it with rangy arms. “No? Just five months with a baby kicking around in my insides. The little bugger’s finally starting to show itself.”

That took a second to decipher. “You’re having a baby?”

Of course the Captain knew the basics of how incarnates made more of themselves. It was a topic of great fascination in the old days, when Yavanna was first figuring the system out, and of course the Lieutenant would prattle on about warg breeding to anyone who’d listen. They had sex— another thing that did not come naturally to beings of spirits, though some Maiar had made astounding progress in the field, for pleasure was pleasure and even Nienna’s acolytes sought catharsis and comfort—then there was lots of squishy biology on a level invisible to the incarnates themselves, then a little parasite was somehow blessed with Erú’s fire, to be nurtured until it could nurture itself.

He also knew that orcs, like elves and dwarves, had little distinction between men and womenfolk. Useful when it meant you could channel your entire adult population to battle. Startling when you realized that a key ally had been quietly pregnant for months without you, a greater being able to perceive stalactites growing and the scales on insect wings, noticing.

In truth he’d been doing a lot less noticing of late. His senses were dulling. Perhaps it was the light of the cursed gems, which painted everything in blinding, indistinguishable holiness. Or he was just losing his touch.

If he focused now he could see it. It was easiest to sense on the plane of wraiths. There was Gorfaunt, a guttering candle; wheezing, weak. All orcs had that fire, however dim. No one had managed to fully extinguish it though it had been much suppressed. Tucked against her, nearly imperceptible, was a little spark. Not much yet but given tinder and carefully fanned it could grow. “You’re having a baby,” he marveled.

Gorfaunt’s face was… orcs were hard to read at the best of times, bubbling over with noisy pain and anger that obscured their true emotions, prone to skin diseases and horrendous eye infections that muddled their expressions. She didn’t wear her gas mask around him anymore, though most were quick to cover up around any Maia of Morgoth. It helped little, her face was still opaque as the mountain itself. “Yep, Captain.”

“Good?” You congratulated an ally on a new weapon, a new bond, a promotion. Which one was an infant classified as? What was the correct form?

“Hopefully it’ll be over and the little goblin will be in the caves with the old’uns by the time we find either of the cities.” Gorfaunt provided, only barely contextualizing his felicitations. She was chewing on the inside on her cheek; sometimes she would gnaw until she spat black blood. “Terrible time for it. Terrible time. But the high ups are worried about reinforcements down the line, I suppose.”

Orcs came from orcs. It was a fact so simple it barely bore considering. Another department handled it. The new ones just showed up, springy and long limbed, faces still soft and unmarred. “Goblins” he’d heard older orcs call those fresh pale creatures. Barely even monsters, more like stunted, crepuscular versions of the elves and dwarves they fought.

“How much longer?” They had a few good leads on Nargothrond, a promising word about Túrin Turambar. The Captain could not sack that city himself, the honor had already been promised to the sulfurous worm. Apparently they wanted to test the mettle of these dragons. But Gothmog could assign a few good orc commanders to supervise, make sure the worm was not overstepping his bounds.

Dark blood trickled out of the corner of Gorfaunt’s mouth. “Five months, I’m told. Could be more, could be less. Then I have to wait until the thing is independent enough to leave alone, that’s another few months.” She was probably counting months as the orcs had started to, by the moon. Wretched traitor, Tilion, who’d laughed with them at the idea of running away then turned his face when the time came to flee for freedom. They hated it as much as everyone else but in their hatred they were aware of its cycles. They rejoiced when it went dark.

“You’ll still be able to manage your underlings?” Orcs, and freed Maiar, were fractious. They did not respect a leader who lacked the strength to force them to obey. It could be exhausting. And Gorfaunt was already so round. The Captain did not wish to lose her support over one orcling.

“I think so. So far… in old days you’d den up somewhere for a year, avoid everyone prowling for blood, but I don’t want to fight my way up the ranks again. I’ve got an ax and I’m using it.” Despite that she sounded tired.

Long heartbeats stretched between them, that exquisite embarrassment of two coworkers suddenly forced to talk about private affairs.

“This is your first,” the Captain didn’t reach the tone of a question with that one.

“Yes. The recruiters were getting growly so I grabbed a fellow. I’ve been avoiding it for too long.”

“You don’t want a child.” Again, not quite a question. He was feeling it out as he goes along. This is the longest conversation about orc reproduction he’s ever paid attention to, for the Lieutenants diatribes we’re always dull.

It was no matter to him, except that this was the only orc commander he could tolerate working with and she was chewing through her own cheek in discomfort.

“They take something from you,” Gorfaunt admitted. “Dame and sire both, but worse for the dame since she has to carry the clot. You go… stretchy. Bleached like old bone. I’ve seen soldiers and after twenty children they’re not good for anything but shoving onto a line of pikes. Raw meat for the wargs.”

That didn’t make sense to him, but he was never a scholar of flesh or spirit. He knew how a skull split and how a soul fled, how this matter-sprung life withered, how it died. That was all that counted. He also knew how to value a resource.

“There won’t be any after this,” he said firmly. “Not if you don’t want them.” If need be he’d escalate to Lord Melkor, frame it as sapping strength from their command structure and propose making officers off limits from breeding programmes.

“As you command, Captain,” she said with a bowed head, but she looked gratifyingly relieved, and their conversation could finally move on to the latest stories of occupied territories and the search for the hidden cities.

The next few months Gorfaunt somehow managed to get bigger and bigger, until she was no longer able to swing herself into a chair and had to take their meeting standing. Her leather armor no longer fit and with just a thin layer of rags over her distended stomach it was easy to see the squirming creature inside.

Ferocious little animal. It would go so still and then kick out again, as if it could burst free of its creator by force of will alone. The kernel of its mind was forming too, a hazy bubble of sensation and half formed emotion. He could see what had the Lieutenant fascinated. It wasn’t his field but it was morbidly interesting, seeing the shape of something new and moldable come together right in front of you.

But he had not been made a sculptor or a craftsman. He’d been born a wild thing, a tornado, a volcano, every disaster meant to fell cities, and though he had not known the words yet he’d sensed in his core, seen in glimpses in the song, that he was a creature of war. Like many other wild things—Ossë, the simpering coward tied up in Uinen’s tresses, excluded— he’d found his way to Melkor in the end. Oh, he’d idled for a time with Vána, heard Námo’s dolorous call, but it was Melkor who he came back to and Melkor who he picked in the end.

Melkor taught him so many more ways to be. The smoke, the blood, the screaming not in sorrow but in anger. He taught the others who came to him as well. In the Captain’s little squad alone there was one who learned the slaver’s whip and the threat of fire, one who learned the ooze of pus and malodorous air, one who came to appreciate the ravenings of rabid beasts. From the dragons in the treasure-caves to the cat in the kitchen to the vampires in the highest towers, they were all Melkor’s creations.

Gorfaunt, born and raised here in the shadow of his ancient power, was even more Melkor’s than most. This was how the Captain rationalized his continuing fondness for her as she weakened, his interest in her spawn. Works of the same maker might gravitate together. They could see parts of themselves in each other, the way he could once see himself in other Ëalar born of the same bit of song.

When Gorfaunt came in four months after their revelatory meeting with a sagging belly and a bundle nestled against her chest he was excited to finally see what had been made.

It took a bit of coaxing to get her to show him the baby but no orc would outright refuse an order from anyone stronger than them, they knew better than that. The newborn was dutifully unwrapped and presented, though Gorfaunt’s expression suggested that she considered this all a silly waste of time.

It was a rumpled wet creature; mostly skin and bones, with a cranium as big as its rounded torso. Small too, barely bigger than Gorfaunt’s hand, and Gorfaunt was smaller than all elves and many humans; based on overheard complaints failure to grow was an ongoing issue with their kind. When it was unswaddled sticklike limbs flailed out and began batting at the air ineffectually. Despite this wriggling its face remained in a sleepy scowl. It wasn’t until Gothmog moved one cherry-hot finger closer to it that it opened its hazy grey eyes and tried to focus on him. Even then the dismayed frown stayed put.

An unscarred orc was always an interesting sight; for it revealed the scale of their reworking. How much orcishness was self-replicating, as the Lieutenant liked to claim, and how much had to be beaten in? This one had a droopy brow bone and already peeling corpse-grey skin but it did not look much like an orc besides that. It even had hair, which most orcs lacked (aside from a few lank patches). The fine red down covered its whole body, thickest on the head and face and arms.

“It’s supposed to fall out,” Gorfaunt said, “Everyone says it’ll fall out soon. Even the prisoners lose their hair after a while, especially in the deep mines.”

That was probably because of the miasma of decay that emanated from the ores of Angband. Not macro-decay, of skin and bone (that came later) but the infitesimal decay. Every piece of metal— every piece of existence, when you got down to it— was made of little stars. There was a gaseous center of energy and little orbiting specks around that, spinning in probabilistic loops. Like stars some were bigger and some were smaller and some were ready to collapse. Ilmarë loved to speak of supernovas. The yellow and blue metals below the mountain were full of little stars collapsing, reforming, giving off energy in great sums as they did so.

The Captain had noted the negative effects of this energetic output on incarnates some time ago. Elves sickened and humans just died— Lord Melkor had moved the man he hoped would give him the location of Gondolin far from those mines for a reason. A few of the spirits with natures inclined towards metal, salt, and industry had already incorporated the burning energy into their signatures. The Lieutenant doubtless had some wicked little experiment running with it. It was a part of life here, that background hum of a trillion crumbling particles, and the Captain never thought of the effect on orcs, though they were exposed from birth.

Now that he focused he could see the little crumbs of decay glancing off the baby.

Hmm.

It would probably be fine.

It was already rubbing its eyes and going back to sleep, one hand curled next to a crumpled, not-yet-cropped ear.

“Are you recovered?” he asked Gorfaunt.

“I’m fit enough to fight,” she said shortly, defensively, as if afraid he’d snatch her command from her. “I’ll be better soon when this thing is gone.”

The Captain’s huge palm hovered over her infant. He knew better than to touch; his ability to change forms was not what it once was, he could not stop being a bipedal avalanche, to strong, too close, too dangerous. Even just containing the noxious gases— the pustulent yellow and choking green— simmering inside this war shaped body was difficult. If he kept a few feet distance the chaotic heat of his skin faded into the air and the baby wriggled contentedly in the ambient glow, like a little lizard.

“And how long will that be?”

Gorfaunt’s hand twitched. Another few months, till it can manage worm meal and listen to the grands.”

It seemed impossible that anything could be big enough to leave alone in such a short time; but incarnation was not the Captain’s specialty. “And that’s the accepted practice?”

“A little young, but safe now that the master put a stop to the baby eating problem.”

“I wouldn’t want it to be a concern,” the Captain said very seriously, even though his fingers curled slightly around the baby’s limp body. “We can make modifications if the child must stay longer.”

Gorfaunt glanced down at her sprawled offspring. “I don’t— I don’t want this to last any longer. I’d rather have my life go back to normal.”

That, at least, he could understand. It has been a rather troubling experience overall. Revelations are not always useful and though he’s gained some knowledge it’s not very practical stuff.

“One more question, commander, then I’ll drop the matter. What is it named??”

That nascent mind bubble had sharpened with time and experience but was still comprised mostly of sensation. He could not even grasp at a basic sense of self. The child’s mother should know what if calls itself, if anyone did.

(He wanted to remember the name, for forty years from now, when he needed more good orcs. All those rants about the fundamentals of inheritance left him with some ideas about how incarnates develop traits. Another Gorfaunt would be a helpful tool to have on hand.)

The question left Gorfaunt unimpressed. “It doesn’t name itself anything yet, it hasn’t got the common sense. And no one’s given it a name because it hasn’t done anything interesting.”

“It has an interesting look” the Captain pointed out, “Tell them to call it Red Cap,” he slipped into the elf tongue, which had better color words than the one the Lieutenant devised, and in the process accidentally named the child after a former king of the Noldor. “Or something like that.”

Gorfaunt apparently had a better memory for politics than he gave her credit for, or perhaps just a distaste for the elf cant, because she quickly translated it back into Angband’s crackly tongue . “Rotbint.”

“Yes.” A Balrog, even the chief of Balrogs, could not give much to something so soft and incarnadine. A name, incorporeal, existing in the plane the Captain knew best, was the only thing he could offer. “Now, to business?”

Gorfaunt wrapped the little creature away— it woke halfway through the rolling to stare at them once more— then tucked it against her chest.

The Captain was sad to see it go, though he couldn’t say why.

He remembered that he had come to this physical world for a reason once. He had wanted to see all there was to see, to feel and taste everything, chew chunks of Arda up and spit it out new. Disasters hungered as much as anyone. Yet all he’d had lately was war fare; blood-soaked mud and rage-tinged fear.

Deprived of fresh experiences, he clung to the potential, the novelty, of new life.

Perhaps Gondolin would see him out of his funk, he thought. It couldn’t hide forever.

“We’ll find it, Captain,” Gorfaunt assured him stubbornly. “And we’ll tear it down brick by brick, raze their gardens, fill their streets with blood.”

Even with a baby trying to gum her collarbone her firm tone allowed no questions.

Orcs were, as a rule, bothersome, unruly, walking corpses. Fractious, ugly, difficult, bothersome, recklessly stupid. The Maiar serving under the Captain were sometimes stereotyped as simpleminded brutes but at least they were able to perceive the world around them, even if few bothered to use that perception. In comparison orcs were stumbling around in the dark. They were inefficient as well, you needed three of them to take down any decent enemy. But when they were well made they were well made. Those were the ones that made it all worth it.

It had to be worth it. This was freedom, after all.

#the silmarillion #gothmog #orcs #silmarillion fanfiction #angband #fanfic #Sauron gets some mentions

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volvaofowls · 3 years

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Reader is someone who is struggling with depression, but when their elf got captured by orcs, reader musters the courage to save them and bring them back to safety

Maglor

- Maglor was someone you liked to spend time with, you would seek him out and spend time talking to him about everything. You would talk about music, life, family, history, yourselves. Maglor was probably the only one who got you, he would often talk about not seeing the spark in his reflection anymore, and actively avoiding it. It helped you to know that there is someone you can relate you, but it also made you wonder sometimes if he would be better off without you dragging him down. Maglor always assured you in these moments that he prefers the honesty and openness that you have than anything else, that there are moments when you are manage to comfort him and pull him out.

- At first when you heard that Maglor has been captured you freaked out; it was so sudden. It was a chaotic assembly of the finest group of fighters to return Maglor. As the rescue party was being quickly put together you hesitated. Surely, they can do it without you, Maglor is one of the best warriors, if even he couldn’t make it what makes you think that you can do it? You will just be in the way of everyone else, you can get captured as well and let everyone down.

- You were about to return to your rooms when someone called out to you. It was Celegorm who asked you if you got your horse ready. When you replied you were not going Celegorm looked at you confused. When he heard your reasoning of being in the way he got annoyed, saying in a situation like this there are no useless people. You felt getting a little lightheaded, being overwhelmed with emotions. You were not believing in yourself, but Celegorm was right, if you can help to rescue Maglor then it doesn’t matter what you or anyone else thinks. The most important part is to return Maglor home.

- You joined the rescue party and you all rode out, the large group splitting in several smaller ones, going in different directions, covering more ground trying to find your Maglor. Due to your overly nervous state, you were hyper aware of your surroundings, the slightest movement made you turn your head and double check. That is when you saw in the distance a faint flickering of orange light. Signalling to your group, you all made way towards the light, with you in the front, navigating everyone towards it. The company ambushed the orcs, with elves circling the band of orcs, cutting off the escape routes.

- The elves charged at them, someone from the orcs called out and a fight ensued. As Celegorm and others were busy fighting, you were focused on finding Maglor. You see him on the other side of the small battlefield. A rouge orc had one of his hands was in Maglor’s hair and the other held dagger against Maglor’s throat. Maglor tried to get free, but the orc was yanking at his hair with great force, controlling the elf and not allowing him to make a movement wrong under a threat of his neck being pierced.

- Without thinking you took up the bow and arrows that were idle by your side before, running around the field to find a more favourable position. The first arrow you had shot had managed to wound the orc. It provided a moment for Maglor to fall forward and away from the orc. As you come closer, the victorious rage within you surges forward as you shoot another arrow at the now laying on the ground orc. Feeling like it’s not enough, you would have shot another arrow at the dead enemy, but Maglor calls out to you.

- Maglor is still on the ground, he managed to get his hands free. But then you see it, his shirt is covered in blood, the wound on his neck a thin line. You run up to him and fall next to him as your knees give way. Under the influence of your adrenaline rush you rip of sleeve and wrap it around his neck, making Maglor put pressure on it. You take him away, giving single to Celegorm as you two hurry back home with him in front of you, as you make sure your grip is tight on Maglor as you lead the horse.

- When already home Maglor will thank you, jokingly calling you his knight in shining armour. Celegorm will sit next to Maglor has, listening to his words, when you look at him Celegorm will give you just a silent nod of approval and leave you two alone.

Fingon

- In the beginning of your acquaintanceship with Fingon, you tried to avoid him. You liked him but from afar, you think he was quite overbearing at times, and it was annoying that no one else seems to think so. So, you would just be polite with him, smiles and nods, at the same time trying to escape his invitations for whatever endeavour he came up with this time. It seemed to you that Fingon had no sense of personal space, whenever you would be feeling down and isolate yourself to try to cope with it Fingon would appear and invite for a horse riding.

- Usually, you would go along with him, sometimes you will have a good time and others you would just pretend to. Bu this last time has been very bad. For nearly a week your sleep routine was ruined – you were not able to escape your thoughts at night, not feeling any desire to sleep and during the days you were very tired and moody, just lying in bed, isolating yourself from everyone, punishing yourself for not being good enough. That day the despair and anger at yourself would not subside, they will keep growing and festering, clinging to you and everything you touched like a glue.

- It was in a moment like this Fingon found you. As if he knew when you were at your worst and actively sought you out. He didn’t even manage to finish what he was saying as you exploded at him, making jabs at him for being so overbearing and disrespecting your personal space, always being so active around you, as if making it his personal goal to highlight everything you cannot do. In the end you just asked him to leave, saying that if you wanted to see him you would have found him yourself.

- After he left the anger and frustration within you were overcome with a feeling of guilt and disgust with yourself. It was not his fault, and the only person to blame here is you for your outburst. Suspecting he wanted to invite you on a hunt you got ready and took your ride to Fingon’s favourite hunting area, the one he always took you to. You tracked Fingon following the fresh set of footprints, that was until the single footprints were overcome with several sporadic large ones, it was clear as day – an orcish ambush.

- Muttering your breath, you followed the footprints deeper into the woods. You had only a bow with you and a hunting knife, no weapon for a close combat with several armed orcs. You had little hope in success of your mission, but you moved anyway. When you found them, you saw Fingon, thrown on a ground with his head bleeding, seemingly in pain but at least conscious.

- You managed to move silently to a position where Fingon’s eyes met yours. As soon as he spotted you his expression of pain was replaced with terror. But you managed to signal him to be calm and be ready. Making noise by twigs and stones you loured one of the orcs a good distance away from the camp. Jumping at him from the tree you silenced him with your blade.

- There were two orcs to go, you started to feel nervous – how to lour the other two without risking Fingon’s life. You quickly got closer to the camp again to see what was happening. The other two orcs were standing with their backs and necks straight, listening to for the return of their companion. You got your arrows at the ready. As soon as one of them moved a little in the direction of the dead orc and away from the camp you pierced his throat with arrow, making him choke. The second arrow went straight to the last remaining orc but it missed, wounding him on the shoulder. The orc screamed going for a swing at you with a club, but Fingon seeing this attempt kicked the orc with all his force, making him trip over the root and fall in the ground, worsening the arrow inflicted wound.

- In the moments that you had you cut binds you on Fingon loose, leaning him on himself to stand as you run walked to your horse. Returning bleeding Fingon back to safety caused a lot of ruckus within the castle. Everyone surrounding you, bombarding you with questions what happened and how. You delivered Fingon to healer and went into your room, the adrenalin disappearing from your system and realisation of what just happened weighting heavy on you. Slumping in your closed room you cried in fear, thinking about how you and Fingon nearly died, how you could have been quicker and how it all could have been avoided if Fingon didn’t come to talk to you today. As you heard someone approach your room you quickly rubbed at your face, sniffling and clearing your throat, making sure no one would even think that you cried.

- It was healer’s assistant, saying that prince Fingon was requesting for you to come into his rooms. Fingon was in his bed, with his bed and minor wounds already cleaned and bandaged up, it made you wonder for how long really were closed up in your room. He begun with thanking you for saving him and apologising for today. Yet again for today you interrupted him, saying that you also wanted to apologise for your behaviour, you are not like him. You tried to explain to him that you are not like him and you need your space and that there are times when you cannot care to do things, no matter how much you enjoyed them previously, and even the simplest things such as having conversations to other people feels useless and too much. That you hated the feelings and were enraged with yourself for being like this, but couldn’t help it. At this Fingon started to apologise again, saying that he was so pushy because he could sense your sadness and tried to cheer you up, but now he understood you a bit more, he wanted you to know that he will give you space, but he wanted you to know that he will be always available for you and you can seek him out, as he is ready to help you in any way you need him to.

If you want to be in a tag list please let me know.

#maglor x reader #maglor imagine #maglor #fingon #fingon x reader #fingon imagine #Silmarillion x reader #Silmarillion imagine #silmarillion

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ambarto · 4 years

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Finwean Ladies Week Day Two: Lalwen

Headcanons again today, and this time I’d like to talk about my headcanons for Lalwen, which I think I have mentioned a little in the past but what better occasion than @finweanladiesweek to ramble about all my thoughts. I can tell you Lalwen is definitely one of my favorite characters to think about.

Lalwen was what we could call a biologist. She was fascinated with animals, and in particular with all the kinds of bugs, spiders, and various little creatures that crawl on the ground. She liked other animals too, although still of the small kind, and usually animals most people don’t overly like (think lizards, snakes, that kind of stuff). She maintained that those small and often unseen parts of the ecosystem were much more fascinating than the macroscopic world of large mammals and birds. She described many species, and while animals were her favorite field of study, she was also the first in Valinor to posit that mushrooms were not plants, which was a rather controversial statement at the time.

Out of all her siblings, she was the one who got along the best with Feanor. She was quick to brush off any unkind words he might say, and had a sharp enough tongue to put him back in his place. She actually rather enjoyed talking with him, as he was also a scholar, and could keep up with her discussions of the efficiency of spiderwebs even if it wasn’t really his field of study.

Regarding her other siblings, Lalwen’s favorite was Fingolfin. They argued a lot, but it was usually the kind of sibling spats that got forgotten quickly. He was always the most willing to engage with Lalwen’s interests, and to go with her on rides exploring Valinor. Findis and Finarfin, on the other hand, both had a fairly different temperament than Lalwen, and different interests too. While all four siblings loved each other, usually Findis and Finarfin stuck in one corner talking about one thing, while Fingolfin and Lalwen sat in another talking about something else.

Despite being a Princess, Lalwen’s presence in the politics of Valinor was almost non-existent. She learnt early on that all the occurrences of court didn’t interest her, and if she could avoid being present at any given occasion she did. Findis used to scold her sister much for this, calling her irresponsible, as she thought as members of the royal house it was their duty to engage with politics. Fingolfin, on the other hand, usually enabled his younger sister, thinking that there was no need for her to be as involved as the rest of their family.

Lalwen was always, and especially in her youth, a very restless spirit. Already as a child she was the kind of kid who was always outside and running around, and would hate having to be in the house for an entire day. Growing, she became that sort of girl who her parents almost never saw, so much she spent with her friends, and partying, and going on trips. And since she was old enough to travel on her own, she would so often take her horse and leave Tirion for days or weeks, or sometimes months too, to explore all there was to see in Valinor. It was because of this restlessness that she followed Fingolfin out of Valinor - the idea of an entire other continent she had never seen before was too big a temptation for her to stay behind, no matter how much her mother begged.

In Beleriand, she never had a land to rule over, because she never had any interest in ruling. Not only the various details and politics involved were things she had no interest into, but governing would also mean that she’d have to spend most of her time still in one place. For the most part, she made herself a home in Fingolfin’s lands, but would often travel around. It actually made her brother worry himself sick, as Lalwen had the tendency of leaving whenever and without sending letters or word of where she was, until six months later she would write him saying that she was staying in Himring for a while and also did Fingolfin know about this cool worm she had found?

She survived the Dagor Bragollach, but not easily. She was wounded on the field, and was carried out unconscious as Fingolfin’s forces retreated. She lost her hearing in one ear, and one of her legs was wounded in a way that left her with a heavy limp. The impaired mobility in particular wasn’t easy for her to deal with, as it made traveling so much harder. Not that she had much wish to entertain herself, not right after her brother had been killed. She remained in Fingon’s lands until the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, at which point she instead moved to the Falas with Cirdan, and later followed him to Balar. While she couldn’t fight on a battlefield, she had developed a great knowledge of poisons thanks to her studies on various venomous animals, and she helped develop cures for many of the poisons Morgoth used in his weapons.

After the War of Wrath, Lalwen decided she wouldn’t stay in Lindon under Gil-Galad. Part of the reason was that by then she had seen so many of her loved ones die that it brought her genuine pain to be around Gil-Galad and remember that he was almost all the family she had left, let alone have people call her ‘Princess’, as if the title meant anything by then. There was a loneliness in Lindon that could only be cured by being more alone, or at least, not with people who would constantly remind her of everything she had lost. But also, Lalwen’s desire to explore had never really stopped, and by then she had learnt how to deal with her disability, so she took a horse, and left.

Eventually, after much traveling, she realized that she was turning into an old lady, as Men said. She had traveled through all of Middle Earth, much of Harad, and had even decided to go look if she could Cuivienen a couple times, and she was growing tired of always being moving around. When she was a girl, that would have been the ideal, but after many thousands of years Lalwen found herself wishing to find a place to settle in. Not to mean that she would never travel again, just that she would have liked to have a nice house to go back to and rest, and know that there were people she knew waiting for her there. That being said, she also still wanted nothing to do with politics, not to mention that everyone else seemed to be handling things well, and she didn’t feel the need to upset any political balance with her reappearance. In the end, she decided to settle in Greenwood at some point during the Third Age. She did come clear to Thranduil about who she was, and he allowed her to stay so long as she did not cause trouble, which was alright by her. Other than him, very few people knew or suspected who the eccentric Noldo with a cane and a lot of opinions about taxonomical classifications was.

Lalwen had had through her life many romantic stories and affairs, and definitely more than many would deem appropriate for a Princess. With some Elven ladies, occasionally she’d fell in the bed of a mortal, and maybe once or twice in that of a Dwarf. The longer she lived the more she found old Valinorean ideas on marriage and courtship and so on rather stuffy. That being said, she had never really ruled out a wedding altogether, and the day she realized a Silvan hunter of Greenwood was starting to mean a lot to her, she decided maybe she was old enough to leave her amorous adventures behind and get herself a wife. Fortunately, her lady didn’t mind finding out that Lalwen was a mostly forgotten Noldor Princess, and Lalwen’s proposal was accepted with enthusiasm.

Eventually, Lalwen sailed back to the West with the Last Ship, together with Cirdan and Celeborn. She had seen as much of Middle Earth as there was to see, and while she did love the land, she had long since started thinking back about her homeland. Her wife, while not Eldar, had also started to get weary of a land that was more and more mortal and less and less suited for Elves, and decided that like many others of her people she also would have liked to follow the gulls.

Now, Findis, firstborn of Finwe and Indis, Princess of the Noldor, sister to the High King Arafinwe, known poet and debater, was as a general rule against violence, but when she saw her sister hop off a ship after six thousands years of no contact with a wife and apparently uncaring of having basically disappeared, her fist might have just happened to collide with Lalwen’s nose.

#finweanladiesweek #my headcanons #irime #lalwen

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sweetteaanddragons · 6 years

Text

Thingol Doesn’t Get a Silmaril. Now What?

Thingol is smart enough not to ask for a Silmaril. Instead, he pulls something of a King Saul and tells Beren he wants him to kill a hundred orcs and bring back proof that he’s done so. He says this is to prove that Beren will be able to protect Luthien. Luthien’s pretty sure he’s really hoping that Beren won’t come back.

Beren, whose sense of what’s reasonable has become somewhat skewed due to what his life has consisted of so far, is completely fine with this. His only real concern is the proof - he could cut off ears, he supposes, but then they’ll rot. Still. He’s good at killing orcs! He can do this!

Except he’s in desperate need of supplies, having left Doriath with the bare minimum of what Thingol felt like he could in courtesy give him. He thinks he can make it to Nargothrond, though, and this is a reasonable thing to ask for as a favor, right?

Finrod is happy to give him all the supplies he could need, but he sees that as hospitality, not repaying the debt. No, he’ll get some men and go with Beren. They might not be able to help him get the count he needs, but they can watch his back, and Finrod’s past ready to make a strike at the enemy again anyway.

Curufin and Celegorm don’t really get involved. If Finrod wants to go chase some orcs for a few months, that’s his business. They don’t care. They do make a few snide remarks about the situation, but that doesn’t really surprise anyone, least of all anyone who’s related to them.

Luthien is worried, but Beren has done this sort of thing before, and it’s not as if he’s going up against Morgoth himself. Even if she did go after him, she wouldn’t know where to start; out orc-hunting doesn’t exactly give her a direction to head in.

So Luthien’s not happy but no one sees the slightest need to lock her up. She doesn’t leave Doriath. Celegorm and Curufin never see her.

Beren racks up that kill count impressively fast. Finrod and the party of people he brought with him definitely see where all those stories came from, and the lands around Nargothrond are now a lot safer.

Beren gets his last kill and prepares to head back to Doriath. He offers Finrod his ring back, but Finrod feels incredibly guilty about nearly all of Beren’s people getting wiped out, and he still feels the shadow of doom lurking. He tells Beren to keep it.

Beren goes back to Thingol with both hands intact and overturns a backpack full of half rotted orc ears at his feet. He invites Thingol to count them.

(He’s included about a dozen extras, just in case.)

Thingol is reluctant, but a deal is a deal, and Melian seems to approve, and Luthian is finally smiling again …

So Beren and Luthian get married.

The Union of Maedhros takes longer to pull together without the hope the Silmaril represents. In the interim, Luthian and Beren have Dior, who grows faster than an elf would and is now in his adolescence.

When it does form, Nargothrond is fully committed. Doriath is … less enthusiastic … but with his daughter, son-in-law, and his best warriors all arguing for participation, and with no recent offenses from the sons of Feanor, he gives in and leads his armies from Doriath. He insists on calling it the Union of Fingon, though.

The Union is stronger than ever, but the question comes: Is it strong enough?

There are infinite ways the battle could go, losses that could cause fractures in a thousand different ways, victories that could herald a hundred coming shadows, but all outcomes fall into three categories: they lose, they win, or they fight to a stalemate but get the Silmarils.

Let’s say they win.

Finrod keeps control of Gwindor, and the line doesn’t break early. Some of the Men are still treacherous, but with greater numbers they overcome this. Luthien faces Sauron on the field, and her song defeats him so thoroughly, he flees wounded. Morgoth is forced to come out himself. He faces the combined songs of Luthien, Daeron, and Maglor, and the swords of Fingon and Maedhros.

They should not win. They cannot win.

Then Maglor is wounded in the midst of signing a song of power, and his power, called higher through pain, calls to the piece of his father embedded in the silmarils. They blaze hotter, furious, and Morgoth falters.

The others leap on the opening.

And Morgoth … falls.

It’s just his physical body, of course. They know he’ll form another eventually, but hopefully he’s wounded enough that it’ll take awhile.

In the meantime, Maedhros grabs hold of that awful crown, and it’s over, it’s done, all around the battlefield his brothers can feel their oath being lifted.

There’s a huge shockwave when Morgoth falls. A lot of his beasts turn in confusion, and their armies seize hold of the opportunity.

The day is not without losses. Beren fights a Balrog, and while he is still an impressive warrior, he’s not as young as he used to be, and it’s a Balrog. When Finrod sees him fighting it, he knows Beren needs help, and he goes to fulfill his oath.

The Balrog falls. Beren lives.

Finrod doesn’t.

Beren decimates everything around them that tries to touch the fallen king.

Azaghal still falls.

Huan falls taking out the greatest of wolves.

And there are others. So many others.

But they’ve won.

They care for their wounded. They do what they can for their dead. Then they go home triumphant and laugh at the Doom of the Noldor.

Or. Well. Most of them do.

“He’s going to come back,” Maedhros says flatly.

“Of course he is,” Fingon agrees, “but you try telling them that. We’ll stay watchful. At least the Oath’s handled, though. That’s one worry gone.”

Dior grows up and marries Nimloth. They have three beautiful children. Beren dies shortly after the last of his grandchildren are born. Luthian fades from grief and then talks Mandos into letting her share her husband’s fate.

Hurin, naturally, wasn’t captured. He goes home to his wife. So does Huor. There are still remnants of Morgoth’s armies hanging around, so it’s not quite a peaceful life, but they’re making progress. Turin grows up protective of his little sister and good friends with his cousin. Both he and Tuor make a name for themselves protecting their lands.

Tuor is captured by a band of Easterlings. Turin goes after him.

Unfortunately, Turin is intercepted by a certain dragon.

Glaurung has no particular idea who Turin is and no real desire to lay any sort of complicated trap. He just wants to eat him.

Unfortunately for Glaurung, Turin’s as skilled as he would be in a certain other life, and he’s not cursed this go round. Turin wins.

Unfortunately for Turin, he’s lost his cousin’s trail, and he has responsibilities he can’t abandon any longer. He’s forced to turn back, much against his will.

Tuor’s a long way from home by the time some elves attack the Easterlings, and he has a chance to fight loose. He does. He has rather a stroke of luck actually - The Easterlings had been sheltering in these ruins and right when he needs a weapon, he sees some of old Elvish make just lying there.

They defeat the Easterlings. When Voronwe sees just what weapon Tuor picked up, he looks grim and tells the confused Man that they have to go to Gondolin.

Tuor’s not totally sold on this idea since he’s heard that those who go to Gondolin can never leave if they know the way there, but Voronwe assures him that those rules have been much relaxed since Morgoth’s defeat, and a dream from Ulmo seals the matter.

They go to Gondolin as Ulmo prophesied with the warning that it will soon fall.

But the question is - Why?

Rewind to the last battle. Sauron flees, wounded.

A few years later, Annatar appears, announcing that the Valar are very pleased by what the Noldor have accomplished and that he has been sent to reward them with great knowledge.

Fingon is uncertain what to make of this. Maedhros is visiting him at the time, and he’s not uncertain at all. Feanor’s mistrust of the Valar has been passed down to his sons. Maedhros is not at all convinced that Mandos’s reaction to them at least delaying his Doom is pleased.

Also, something about him feels familiar in a way that makes Maedhros uneasy.

Annatar thinks about trying Maglor, but Maglor has combined his people with Maedhros’s, so that’s unlikely to work out well. The mostly nomadic Amrod and Amras have little to offer him. He could try Caranthir, but first he tries Nargothrond. The political situation is edgy, and that suits him very well. Orodreth is nominally in charge, but Curufin and Celegorm are far more influential than he is.

Celegorm follows his brother’s lead. Curufin is not interested in learning from anyone who is not his father.

Celebrimbor is a bit disappointed, and he’s a bit on edge by the whole situation in Nargothrond, but he still trusts his father. He says nothing.

Annatar doesn’t even try to get past Melian’s girdle.

Instead, he seeks out Gondolin.

He finds it.

Turgon’s not quite sure what to make of him, but it’s still fairly close to Morgoth’s defeat. He’s not yet as relaxed about Gondolin’s boundaries as he’ll become. He’s in no hurry to rush the Maia out.

And besides, his nephew is so enjoying learning from him, and the fruits of their collaboration have been quite beneficial.

Maeglin is just happy to have someone who understands, who doesn’t seem to judge Maeglin for his parentage, who teaches him things about smith work that even his father hadn’t known, who sees the way Maeglin is uncomfortable under the sun at noon and who quietly confesses that, while he’s sure it’s not quite the same, he often has a hard time adjusting to various stimulus when he’s incarnate himself.

Annatar listens. He doesn’t judge Maeglin for sometimes still missing his father or sometimes feeling a reflexive wariness around his uncle. He doesn’t judge him when his looks linger on Idril too long. Maeglin feels comfortable around him in a way he never has with anyone else.

And the magic rings they create are fascinating.

Maybe. Maybe if he makes one incredible enough, Idril will accept it?

Idril does not accept it. Idril is disgusted by him.

Annatar finds him and tells him it doesn’t have to be this way. Annatar says he can help him achieve all that he desires. Annatar says -

Annatar says a bit too much, reveals a bit too much, and Annatar, Maeglin realizes, is Sauron.

Here’s the thing: Tuor’s not here yet, making Maeglin jealous. Earendil’s not born yet, taking Maeglin’s place in the succession. Maeglin hasn’t been dragged along by orcs for weeks and taken to the embodiment of evil power and been forced to stare into its eyes at the heart of its power.

Maeglin is afraid, but even in a world where he betrays Gondolin, not even the bitterest of survivors is able to claim he was a coward. Maeglin is hurt and rejected, but he is not yet bitter, and he still wants Idril’s love, not a twisted mockery of it.

Maeglin will not join Sauron.

But Maeglin is also clever, and the twisting ways of his father’s forest were the paths he grew up on. He does not tell Annatar what he has realized. He pretends to be comforted, and then he gets to work.

He forges more rings.

And he sets them into the hilts of swords.

Idril grows unsettled. She builds her escape route.

When he has his weapons and feels he has a prayer of forcing Sauron out of the city, Maeglin tells Turgon all.

Sauron, betrayed, is forced out.

He makes the One Ring. He intends to use it to build his strength, take over Gondolin, take the other rings, and use all their strength together to resurrect his master.

Turgon thinks Maeglin’s rings will be able to defend the city indefinitely. Idril is less sure. Maeglin keeps grimly making more weapons, pouring more and more of himself into them.

Tuor shows up. His warning is … not ignored, but they don’t leave either. He joins the attempts to prepare the city. He marries Idril. She gets pregnant with Earendil.

Turgon sends a messenger to High King Fingon.

Maeglin makes one last ring and puts it on. He sees, then, what Sauron has done.

And he knows his won’t stand against it.

He gives all of his work that he can to Idril and warns her. When Sauron’s army comes, she flees with her husband, her son, all the civilians who will follow her, and ten ring forged swords. One for her, one for the High King, one for Doriath, and one for each of the sons of Feanor.

Turgon and Maeglin still hold one each.

It’s not enough. The city falls.

Sauron tries to take Maeglin alive, but Maeglin is fighting on the walls. On a very particular part of the walls that he chose carefully.

A Maia’s will against an elf’s will prevail nearly every time. But a Maia’s will against a dying curse, a Doom if you will …

A dragon’s tail flings him off the walls.

He falls.

Falls to the rocks below where his father long ago had been felled.

Glorfindel howls and attacks the dragon.

The city falls. The survivors flee to Doriath. Thingol is not entirely pleased, but he lets them in and is very pleased to accept the offered sword.

Little Earendil grows up alongside Elwing. Someday, Idril thinks, they would make a good match.

Messengers send the swords out to those they should go to. Most of them make it. Some of them don’t.

Of the twelve swords Maeglin made, Sauron has five.

Curufin hears the news of who Annatar was and feels vindicated. Celebrimbor hears the news and is horrified. He had been increasingly uncomfortable with Curufin’s growing power in Nargothrond, but clearly, he can’t trust his own judgement. His father is far more likely to know what he’s doing.

Fingon listens to both of the messengers he receives, and he tries not to show how hard his brother’s death hits him. He accepts his sword dubiously. He looks down at the ring set into the hilt.

Maedhros, once again visiting his cousin, looks down at his own. He does not look impressed.

“So what I’m hearing is,” Fingon says to the messenger, “we are once again going to war over jewelry. Magical, powerful jewelry, but jewelry nonetheless.”

“ … Yes, your majesty?”

Fingon waits until the messenger is dismissed before he buries his head in his hands. “I hate everything.”

“Cheer up,” Maedhros says. If Fingon won’t be optimistic, he’ll have to be the cheerful one for once. “At least no one’s sworn any oaths this time.”

“That we know of. Yet. Maybe this is the real Doom of Mandos. We’ll defeat Morgoth and get our treasure back, we make more treasure, he rises to steal it, and it’ll continue in an endless cycle until we’re all dead.”

“Fingon.”

“Oh, alright.” He sighs. “Morgoth hasn’t been resurrected yet. It’s just Sauron this time. How hard could it be?”

#fic #silmarillion #maedhros #beren #luthien #fingon #maeglin #thingol #finrod #sauron #annatar #alternate universe #au #nirnaeth arnoediad #turin #tuor #fix-it fic #sort of

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