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doodle-pops · 14 days

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House of Feanor | Returning Home After War/Travelling

Request: hi mina i'm so happy you're back! i would love a group headcanon with the house of feanor when they return to their love after being apart for a long time, fighting away from home. angst and fluff are so welcome!! thank youuu :) - Anon

A/N: You asked for both fluff and angst anon, so I gave both :) Maglor’s part was the only one that differed from everyone else’s. Other than that, enjoy!

˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖ Feanor

Feanor’s return after his long yearly trip to Aulë forges would be facilitated by the overwhelming relief and joy of you throwing your arms around him for a tight hug. The rush to the door after the servants announced his return would lead to your feet rapidly pattering across the floorboards and launching yourself into his arms.

“I’ve missed you so much, my love,” you would whisper, tears of happiness glistening in your eyes. “Every day felt like an eternity without you.”

The sensation of his arms tightening around your waist as he draws you for a bone-crushing embrace, lifting you off the ground and burying his face in the crook of your neck to deeply inhale your scent would take him back to comfort and home.

“There’s not a day gone by where I didn’t miss your scent and presence,” he murmured into your skin. “I felt so though I would have gone insane without you.”

“Well now that you’ve returned, promise me that you would never leave for such a long period.”

“I promise, but why don’t we retreat indoors. I wish to spend every second granted within your presence from this day forth, melda.”

˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖ Maedhros

You’re impatient, nervous and fearful of his return. What if he came back in shambles, broken, unrecognisable, or worse, dead? He couldn’t do such a horrid thing to you; not when he swore to be at your side forever. All the promises to protect, love and cherish each would have gone out the window—

“My Lady/Lord Y/N, Lord Maedhros has returned.” The servants were barely able to get all their words out before he flew out of your chair and down the staircases to be greeted by the sight of him dismounting his trusty steed. You didn’t grant him a chance to acknowledge your figure with a smile before barrelling into his body.

The coldness and sturdiness of his armour embraced you first before you felt his entire body wrapping around your frame. You didn’t know who was shedding tears from all the sniffling and sobbing, but you were glad to have him home after months of being away.

“Don’t ever leave me again! I don’t care about the wars you have to fight—let’s go somewhere far away from here and spend eternity,” you wept into his chest plate.

In return, Maedhros tenderly smiled into your hair. “Whatever you desire, my love. So long as I can be with you forever.”

˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖ Maglor

You would be sitting by the window, listening for the familiar sound of the return of Elrond’s footsteps, when you heard the sound of multiple approaching. This time, among Elrond’s, there was a dragging sound against the earth along with weary muttering. Pulling the curtain to catch a proper view of the guest Elrond brought, your eyes captured the unmistakable sight of a familiar mop of inky hair.

Contemplating whether to jump out the window, you rushed out of the house and greeted Elrond, stopping them in their path to stare at the stranger. The eye contact that brought realisation, joy, uncertainty and timidness was a moment you’d never wish to forget.

“Welcome home, my sweet minstrel,” you whispered, your heart swelling with joy at his return with tears in your eyes as he rushed to his other side to hold him up and assist Elrond with guiding him into the house. “I’ve missed you more than any song.”

He would resist the urge to react to your warm welcome, yet the feeling of being loved and appreciated after all those years of being missing, invoked the tears to cascade. His sobs would confiscate his apologetic mumblings of missing and leaving you; regretting the moment he disappeared.

˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖ Celegorm

You would be waiting by the hearth, as you had been doing for the past few weeks, awaiting his return from his year-long hunt with Oromë and his trusty companion, Huan. Picking at your nails and neatening them since there wasn’t anything else in the house to tidy, you slumped into the blankets and found yourself drifting off to wonderland with the sound of rain in the background.

Having fallen asleep for some time, the aroma of fresh herbs and meat waffled through your nose and aroused you out of your slumber. There, squatting by the hearth and turning the pot of stew was your beloved. His hair slick back into an intricate braid and a few beads at the ends and dressed in a clean suit of clothes. The earthy scent radiating off him mixed with the herbs left you yearning to bury your nose in him, and deeply inhale.

“I see you have finally awoken, sleepy beauty,” he grinned while turning his head to meet your affectionate ones. “I took the liberty of making you one of your favourites to celebrate my return. Would you like a bowl?”

Shaking your head, you instead, opened your blankets to invite him into your personal space, which he did not hesitate to accept. With a quick drop of the spoon, he walked over and found himself curled up at your side, enjoying the touch and warmth he missed during his hunt. “I think I’ll have to start shortening my hunts from now on. I miss your warmth far too much.”

˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖ Caranthir

You would be waiting for Caranthir’s return, impatiently, after he departed with his brothers to raid Doriath for what was rightful their family’s own. Day and night you sat before the window facing the entrance of the castle, asking the guards for any news of the situation. No response would be given to ease your worry, causing you to continue your day and night watch from the window.

Though it wouldn’t be until one night when you fell asleep in your chair you saw him return. He came riding in his full armour and flanked by his first officers holding torches as they entered the castle grounds. Everyone cheered their return and praised their efforts on their quest, yet you found yourself unable to move from your seat out of the fear of the bloodshed they committed. You saw the blood covering his armour while he moved through the crowd to ascend and greet you.

“I have returned home, arimelda,” he greeted with sorrow on his face and stood a foot away from you.

Finding the strength to rise out your chair, you approached him with cautious yet with the underlying emotion of joy. “Moryo, is that you? Have you truly returned to me? I have missed you!”

However, the moment you stepped forward to embrace him, you awoke to the gentle nudging of Moryo hovering over you. The sight of him cladded in clean robes and a bloodstain free appearance left you appalled from the dream you had, nonetheless, you launched yourself into his arms, crying.

“You’re back! Please, please, please, please don’t ever leave me again! I thought you weren’t coming back to me! Don’t leave me again!”

Stunned at the suddenness of your gesture, he softly smiled and nuzzled your hair, whispering words of reassurance. “I promise to never leave you, my love. I’ll stay for as long as you desire.”

˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖ Curufin

Curufin’s return was one of peace as he entered through the doorway during the crack of dawn. Sauntering through the quiet household, he placed down all his gadgets and trunks of gifts he returned home with for you and your little one, and marched into the kitchen, wanting to surprise you both with a treat. Quietly that morning, the atmosphere was filled with the aroma of herbs, sausages, eggs and baked goodies as he busied himself with a look of concentration.

Caught up in the rapture of making you all a hearty breakfast, he jolted with a curt yelp the moment your arms encircled his waist, and you leaned in to hug his back. “I didn’t know you were an excellent cook, Curvo? Who taught you how to make all these delicious treats?”

Snickering at your comment, he turned around in your arms and made a quick observation over your shoulder before leaning in for a savoury kiss. Your body melted the moment upon contact, as did he, from the sweetness that dripped from his gesture. It was true that absence made the heart grow fonder, and you were pleased to witness it with Curufin.

“There are many things that you still do not know about me,” he hummed as he broke the kiss to plop a piece of strawberry in your mouth. “That is why I chose to surprise you like this. Do you like it?”

“I do,” you grinned and leaned in for another kiss. “But I prefer the real meal in my arms this morning. We missed you every day; you were gone for too long.”

Frowning slightly, he pondered on the right words to reply, to satisfy your needs. Then with great thought, he responded, “Well, you will have me home for an even longer period. Father is working on other things, so he gave me time off to spend with my family. So, tell me, what would you have me do?”

“Hold me a little longer…before the little gremlin steals all your time.”

“Very well then.”

˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖ Amrod

As the sun began to dip below the horizon, casting a golden glow across the rolling hills, you stood at the edge of their homestead, eyes scanning the distant path for any sign of your beloved. You had spent countless days waiting, each one blending into the next, filled with a mixture of hope and worry. But tonight, something felt different.

When a familiar silhouette appeared on the horizon, your heart leapt in your chest. It was Amrod, his red hair catching the last rays of the setting sun, making him look almost ethereal. Tears sprang to your eyes as you broke into a run, your feet carrying you as fast as they could across the fields.

“Amrod!” you called out, your voice catching in your throat as you drew closer.

Amrod turned at the sound of your voice, a weary but radiant smile spreading across his face. He opened his arms wide, and you collided with him, burying your face in his chest. The scent of him—earthy and familiar—was a balm to your frayed nerves.

“You’re home,” you whispered, your voice muffled against his tunic. “You’re really home.”

He held you tightly, his own eyes shining with unshed tears. “I promised I would return to you,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “And here I am.”

They stood there for a long time, wrapped in each other’s arms, the world around them fading away. You could feel the tension in his muscles, the weight of his experiences still clinging to him.

“Come inside,” you said finally, pulling back just enough to look up into his eyes. “You must be exhausted. Let me take care of you.”

Amrod nodded, a grateful smile on his lips. “As you wish, my love.”

˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖ Amras

The first light of dawn broke over the horizon as you stood on the front steps of your cottage, your heart heavy with anticipation. Amras had been gone for what felt like an eternity, and each day without him had been a struggle. You had tried to keep herself busy, tending to their home and the land, but the ache of his absence was always there, a constant reminder of how much you missed him.

When you finally saw a lone rider approaching in the distance, you held your breath, your eyes straining to make out the familiar figure. As he drew closer, the sight of his copper hair and the way he sat in the saddle told her everything she needed to know. It was Amras, your Amras, returning at last.

“Amras!” you called out, your voice breaking with emotion as you ran towards him.

Amras dismounted swiftly, his own expression a mixture of relief and longing. He caught you in his arms, lifting you off your feet as he held you close. The feel of his strong arms around you, the warmth of his body, was like coming home after a long and arduous journey.

“I missed you so much,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “Every single day.”

He buried his face in your hair, inhaling deeply. “And I missed you,” he replied, his voice thick with emotion. “I thought of you every moment we were apart.”

You pulled back slightly, just enough to look into his eyes, hands cupping his face. “Are you alright?” you asked, her gaze searching his for any signs of injury or pain.

Amras nodded, his eyes softening as he looked at you. “I am now that I’m with you,” he said. “The journey was long and hard but knowing I had you to come back to kept me going.”

With tears streaming down your cheeks, you kissed him gently, lips brushing against his in a tender, reassuring gesture. “Come inside,” you said softly. “You need to rest, and I have so much to tell you.”

He smiled a genuine, unguarded smile that lit up his entire face. “Lead the way, my love.”

˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖ Celebrimbor

Upon Celebrimbor’s return home after war or a long journey, you would be overcome with a whirlwind of emotions, ranging from relief and joy to a subtle undercurrent of apprehension. As you stood at the threshold of your home, waiting with bated breath for his arrival, every passing moment felt like an eternity, each heartbeat echoing the rhythm of your longing.

Finally, the sound of footsteps heralds Celebrimbor’s return, and you rush forward to greet him, your heart pounding with anticipation. When you catch sight of him, standing tall and proud, weariness etched into the lines of his face, your heart breaks and swells with love all at once.

Without a word, you would envelop him in a tight embrace, your arms wrapping around him with an almost desperate fervour. You would bury your face in the crook of his neck, inhaling the familiar scent of him, a blend of sweat and metal and something uniquely his own, a scent that fills them with a sense of homecoming.

“I missed you,” you would whisper against his ear, your voice trembling with emotion. “I missed you so much.”

Celebrimbor would return the embrace, holding you close as if afraid to let go, his touch a comforting anchor in the storm of emotions raging within him. “And I missed you, my love,” he would murmur in response, his voice rough with exhaustion and unspoken emotion. “More than words can express.”

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lendmyboyfriendahand · 5 months

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Crack fic where Maedhros and Maglor have no concept of half elven ages

"We can't take them back with us," Maedhros said.

"They're just children though, they won't survive on their own!"

"That's exactly the point!"

"What do you mean? I know children won't be much use in the fortress, but we can feed two spare mouths."

"They're far too young for us to be able to care for them."

"Come on, they look like they're at least twenty. I'm sure they know calculus and how to spin by now, even if they're not yet tall and strong enough for more."

"You haven't been keeping track of diplomatic news, or indeed of time at all. We sacked Doriath not three decades ago, and Elwing their mother was an infant then."

"Humans grow fast." Maglor shrugged. "She obviously grew enough to have children, and within a year or two."

"Gil-Galad mentioned that Elwing gave birth to twin boys in a letter only six years ago. And before you ask, I'm sure she didn't also have older children, these were very clearly the first heirs for the Iathrim."

"What? But - they're so tall!"

"Like you say, men grow fast. They grow unevenly though, without enough time to learn everything properly. Those boys may not even know their letters, or how to identify pewter from lead."

"At six years old, what do they even eat? Celebrimbor nursed until he was nearly eight!"

"They might be old enough to survive weaning, but I'm not sure, and we have no one breastfeeding in our camp at the moment, without anyone born since the Nirnaeth."

"I've heard of using cow's milk or sheep's milk to feed babies, rather than just making cheese. Do you think they'd tolerate it?"

"Maybe, but we can't be sure. It's better to leave them here with all the other people who's homes we destroyed; there were enough babies wailing during the battle someone can surely take in the princes."

"Perhaps, if anyone finds them in the next day. Most people fled the city, and I doubt they'll return before the fires die down."

"I'm not going to take in infants just to let them starve."

"Me neither! But I can ask them if they're weaned. They understand Sindarin, and talk, at least enough to call for their mother."

"A child that young will just say they eat nothing but honey and cake, if you let them choose their diet."

"If they know they like cake, that means they can eat solids, and I'll give them normal food."

"Fine. You can ask them, and if they're weaned they'll survive as well with us as any where else."

"And if they're not?"

"I send a couple scouts to follow the sounds of screaming children and deliver two more."

"Maedhros!"

"What? I can't bring their mother back, nor can my most imperious command make someone lactate."

"So you're giving up?"

"No, I already told you my plan." Maedhros sighed. "And I will send a few people to look for goats or ewes we can take with us. We already sacked the city; might as well loot it."

"You're convinced to make everything the most horrible possible."

"Excuse me for being pessimistic when our brothers just died for nothing."

"Fine, I'm going."

"Good."

#silm #silmarillion #my fic #kidnap fam #kidnap dads #maedhros #maglor #inspred by that post going around about babies in fantasy settings raised in caves

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swanhild · 9 months

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Lalwen is one of these mysterious Silm ladies I have an inexplicable fondness for and I'm sad we don't know more about her.

But I do like the fanon that she was the "cool aunt" to her more than a dozen nephews and nieces.

Generally cheerful and quick to laugh, she was always ready to goof around with the kids and would frequently sneak them candy and other treats. (And later, they all came to her when they wanted to discuss their problems and worries with an adult who was not a parent.)

Anyway, here she is with Fingon after she brought him back some cakes from a boring banquet she escaped from.

Not that she plays favourites, Lalwen loves all her nephews and nieces equally, but Fingon, being the firstborn son of her closest sibling might have a special place in her heart. (And I've already drawn Turgon and Finrod, as well as Maedhros and Maglor a little while ago, so Fingon seemed like the obvious choice when I needed an elfling for this one.)

For day 2 of @finweanladiesweek - Lalwen

#finweanladiesweek #silmarillion #silm art #lalwen #fingon #tolkien #the silmarillion #my art #tolkien art

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tar-maitime · 2 months

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bring myself to hold you

Rating: G Characters: Maedhros | Maitimo, Maglor | Makalaure, Elrond, Elros Relationships: Maedhros & Maglor, Maedhros & Elrond & Elros Additional: post-Sirion, questionable adoption, slowly becoming a family WC: 1k

“What’s the Quenya word for ‘mother’?” Elrond asks.

The question is a little out of nowhere, but ever since Maglor started with his insistence on teaching the twins Quenya, one or another of them will pipe up with a random vocabulary question at odd times. Maedhros shrugs, and tries to not let the mental image of Elwing falling with the Silmaril clutched to her heart take over.

“There are several,” she says, not looking up from the maintenance she’s doing on a pair of daggers. “Ontaril is perhaps the most technical of them - it only means ‘she who begets’. The most commonly used is amil, although there are several variations on that, as well as a couple of...warmer diminutives - ammë and amya.”

Elrond nods, looking serious, thanks her, and goes his way.

Maedhros doesn’t really think about it afterward. Even if it’s been pretty much assumed that they’re keeping the twins indefinitely ever since the new star rose, she doesn’t like to let them occupy too much of her thoughts. She helps Maglor with them as needed - probably everyone who’s left has at some time or another - but she won’t play along with his fantasies of parenthood, won’t get too comfortable. If Maglor can fool himself into thinking he’s unmonstrous enough to raise children, good for him, but she can’t.

“Really, Nelyë? I know you weren’t like this with Gil-galad,” he’d said to her once, early on.

She’d stiffened at the mention of her no-longer-son. “That was entirely different,” she’d said shortly. “I was not responsible for his first home’s destruction. And even he wants nothing to do with me now.”

And there is, after all, plenty to concern herself with besides the idle questions of children, if they want to keep on surviving here in this poorly-manned fortress in the midst of the wild, so she’s almost entirely forgotten the conversation a few days later, when Elrond says casually over supper, “Ammë, would you pass the bread?”

At first, Maedhros ignores him entirely - it’s been decades since ammë meant her. When he nudges her and repeats, “Ammë?”, it finally dawns on her who he’s talking to.

She continues to not look directly at him. “I don’t know who you mean,” she says evenly. “No one’s mother is here. Yours is...in the West.”

“Naneth is in the West,” Elrond agrees. “You’re here, though. Do...do you not want us to call you that?”

“I told you she wouldn’t,” Elros mutters from the other side of the table.

“It was worth a try!” Elrond retorts, with a brief glance at Maglor, whom Maedhros has been trying not to notice gaining the title of Atya occasionally from the twins. Maglor, for his part, is a study in neutrality, although she knows him well enough to see the hope seeping through the cracks.

“If you insist on giving me some kind of familial title,” she manages, “I would have thought you would try atarnésa.” ‘Aunt’ is still not something she thinks anyone ought to call a kinslaying kidnapper, but it would make more sense if they insisted on calling Maglor a father.

Elros shrugs. “We’ve never had an aunt, so we don’t know what it’s like,” he says. “And you - you’re like Naneth.”

Aside from them both being female, Maedhros cannot think of anyone else she would be less likely to be compared to.

Elrond seems to sense his brother’s floundering and picks up the thread. “You’re busy a lot, and you’re always working to make sure everyone stays safe and has enough. You don’t like to stop and rest in case somebody thinks you’re broken, but you will if it’s to spend time with us. That’s how it was with Naneth, too.”

Maedhros is unable to speak for a moment, and when the ability returns, she rasps, “I drove your mother off a cliff. I was part of the reason she was hurt like she was.” She doesn’t usually lay it out that baldly for them, but there doesn’t seem to be anything else for it.

“We know,” Elros says, not casually, but calmly. He shouldn’t know how to sound like that at his age. Just one more thing she’s broken. “It’s...marred. So is everything. But we’re all here now, and it would only make things worse to hate each other, so we might as well try the other thing.”

“We don’t have to call you Ammë if you don’t want it,” Elrond says quietly. “I just thought it might be nice to try.”

Maedhros is silent for a few long seconds. She’s not sure how to explain that Ammë isn’t supposed to mean her, Ammë is supposed to mean strong, gentle, chisel-callused hands and a warm smile and the smell of clay and dust and someone who can comfort and fix things. The name had only barely started to sit right with her when she had to send Gil-galad away, and now it chafes against the sticky new blood on her hands.

But the twins seem to think it would make them happy, to call her this, and doesn’t she owe them that, after everything? She took away their real mother; she can deal with them using her as a substitute, wrong as it is, if they consider it some kind of restitution.

“It’s all right,” she finally says. “You can call me that if you want to. Whatever you like.”

The children’s eyes go wide with delight, and a hopeful smile slips onto Maglor’s face.

#silmarillion #maedhros #maglor #elrond #elros #kidnap fam #feat. quenya education #soft despite maedhros' best efforts #roots compliant

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animatorweirdo · 5 months

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Why Elves Should Not Drink Coffee

(Not gonna explain myself. This was just an idea that popped into my head. I hope you enjoy it. )

Warnings: Coffee Madness.

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*You and Elrond spending some time together*

Elrond: (Name), what are you drinking? I do not think I have seen that kind of drink before.

You: Oh, It’s just coffee. It helps keep me awake in the morning.

Elrond: It helps you keep awake. That sounds like something that could help many improve workflow and avoid falling asleep during important times.

You: Yeah… hold back on that statement.

Elrond: ???

You: You see… it was me and my friend who first introduced coffee, and it proved to be more trouble than good because of its potent effect on elves.

Elrond: What do you mean?

You: Coffee is pretty harmless to humans since it only causes anxiety, tiredness, addiction, and something in between. To elves… it causes them to be extremely hyperactive.

You: During the first three days, there were already four incidents.

1 Incident

You: *Groans* I hate Mondays!

Camilla: Oh, stop whining.

Faye: Hey, you two. What are you drinking?

You: Coffee because I hate my life. Wants some?

Faye: Sure.

Faye: *Drinks a whole cup*

Faye: *Smacks her lips* An interesting taste. Well, I need to get back to work. I see you two later.

You: *Watches her leave* Camilla, coffee is safe for elves, right?

Camilla: Should be. Why?

You: I don’t know. I just feel like we made a grave mistake.

You: *Shrugging your shoulders* Oh, whatever.

*Later that day*

*You and Camilla arrive at the healer’s wing*

You: And then he was like: I’m not a little boy. I’m an alpha male, and I will — Oh my god! What happened here?!

*You two witness the main infirmary in a mess. Sheets on the floors. Patients aggressively tied with bandages, and everyone staring at Faye with pure terror*

You: Faye…Everything alright buddy?

Faye: *Visibly shaking like she was on overdrive, smiling and speaking fast* I’m fine! I never felt better! I’m quite active today! We should get to work! There are patients and medicines to be sorted. Oh, what a wonderful day! Sun emoji, smiling face, and a rose.

Faye: *Walks off*

You: Did she just mention a sun emoji?

Camilla: I think that’s our cue not to give her coffee in the future.

2 Incident

Maglor: I heard about the incident in the healer’s wing. I hope your friend is okay.

You: Yeah, Faye is alright. It was a pain in the ass to wait for her to tire herself, but we managed to get her down and rest.

You: To think coffee had such a strong effect on her.

Maglor: Well, accidents happen.

You: *Remember something* Wait! I remember serving you once coffee. Did you end up giving your brother some by chance?

Maglor: You did, but I did not feel any different. I gave some coffee to Maedhros since he seemed to have trouble focusing on his work, but now that you mention it. I haven’t seen him in a while.

You: How long has this ‘while’ been?

Maglor: Around… three weeks?

*You two stare at each other in silence*

You & Maglor: Oh Shit!

*You two quickly arrive at the study where Maglor last saw Maedhros*

Maglor: *Opening the door* Maedhros! We’re coming in!

*You two find him in a messed up study. Thousands of papers were stacked, and the red-haired elf was still sitting on the table, his hair messed up and dark circles under his eyes, and his left hand black with ink.*

Maedhros: *Falling front and back on the chair* What do you two want? Can’t you see I’m busy?

You: Doing what? You’re just scribbling on the desk at this point.

Maglor: Brother?! Have you not moved an inch since the last I saw you?!

Maedhros: What are you talking about?

Maglor: It’s been three weeks!

Maedhros: *stops in thought* Three weeks?

Maedhros: It doesn’t matter. I have work to do.

Maglor: *Grabs the back of his chair and pulls him away from the desk* Oh no, you don’t! You’re going to sleep!

Maedhros: *Starting hissing at him*

You: I need to tell Camilla to avoid sharing her coffee recipe.

3 Incident

*After getting Maedhros to rest*

You: Okay. That was awful. I can’t believe this brown juice could make your brother last that long without sleep and food.

Maglor: It seems coffee is more potent toward us than we imagined.

Curufin: *Appears out of nowhere* What is more potent toward us?

You: My friend’s coffee recipe. It’s only supposed to serve as a morning drink, but turns out, you elves turn ten times more active if you drink this.

Curufin: *Stares at the cup of coffee, thinking* Hmm…?

Curufin: *Grabs it and takes a drink*

You & Maglor: No!

Curufin: *Stares at you two confused*

Maglor: Brother— how are you feeling?

Curufin: I— feel fine?

You: You sure? No sudden urges to do something or test your limits to unimaginable expectations?

Curufin: I think you both are overreacting. I do say that this is a fine-tasting drink. My compliments to your friend.

Curufin: *Leaves*

You: Someone who compliments Camilla’s coffee must have a soul just as dark as hers or none at all. By the way, did you notice any changes in him?

Maglor: I— can’t actually say. Let’s keep an eye on him, just in case. Who knows what might happen if he turns out like Faye or Maedhros?

You: I’m already scared just thinking about it.

*Later*

Curufin: *Standing on the table, messed up hair, and yelling invention plans* Don’t you see?! This is our chance to defeat Morgoth! We just build this here and there! Then we just—!

Celegorm: *Visibly scared* Holy shit! Calm down! What has gotten into you?!

*You, Maglor, and all the nearby elves hiding in the vicinity*

You: Oh my god! Can your brother be more insufferable than this?!

Maglor: This feels like typical Curufin, but ten times more confident his plan will work in the end and if he was ten times angrier than Caranthir.

You: Well, no shit. He’s literally yelling at us like a German soldier in the Second World War and even Celegorm out of all people is scared!

Curufin: TOD ALLEN ORKS!!!

Celegorm: *Crying at this point* What are you even saying?!

Present day

You: After that incident, Curufin was banned from even getting near coffee, and what’s even more ironic was that when he finally cleared his head from the caffeine rush. He blamed me and Maglor for embarrassing himself even if it was he who drank the coffee and ignored our warnings.

You: After that, Camilla and I made sure that coffee was banned for the greater good.

Elrond: Sounds reasonable. But those were only three incidents. You told me there were four.

You: Oh yeah! Actually, that happened way after. I’m not sure if you remember, but you and your brother had a part in this one.

4 Incident

*You, Maglor, and the twins having breakfast*

Elrond: *Points at the pot of coffee* Ada, can I have a taste of that?

Maglor: *Slightly sleep-deprived and not fully comprehending the question* sure.

Maglor: *About to pour him a cup of coffee*

You: *You slap his hand away in panic* Don’t give him that! You know what coffee does to you! They’re gonna be jumping off the walls!

Maglor: Calm down. I’m sure it doesn’t have that strong effect on children.

You: You sure about that? A sugar rush is something, but do you really want to know what a coffee-filled elven child can do?

*You two then see Elros having a taste and Elrond drinking from the pot*

You: Boys!

*The twins look at you without an expression.*

You: How… are you feeling?

*Later*

Elrond & Elros: *Laughing maniacally, running and jumping on the walls*

You & Maglor: *Chasing after them*

You: I bloody told you so!

Present day

Elrond: Oh dear! I do not wonder why I can’t remember much of that day.

You: Well, you and your brother were knocked out on the bed after a full day of running and hiding. Let's just say. Maedhros did not enjoy having to avoid jumping children on caffeine energy drinks.

Elrond: *Chuckles as you two arrive in the kitchen*

You: You know, now that I think about it. The coffee was made from my friend’s recipe at that time. She always liked to drink it strong, so maybe if I tone it down a bit. It could be less potent toward elves.

You: *Stops* Oh no!

Elrond: What’s wrong?

You & Elrond: * See your coffee pot empty*

You: Where did all of my coffee go?

*You both hear a crash in the distance and someone screaming*

#silmarillion x reader #silmarillion #tolkien #silmarillion imagines #middle earth imagines #silm fic #middle earth x reader #crack fic #maglor x reader

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thelordofgifs · 1 year

Text

the fairest stars

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fingon is rather sick of Fëanorian melodrama.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Damn.

Meanwhile

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He did not do it expecting a reward.

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

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

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

Curufin, fuming outside the Girdle, would not agree.

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

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

Also his burned hand is still hurting.

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

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

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

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

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

But Curufin remembers: how disabling love can be.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thingol is now questioning all his life choices.

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

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

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

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

Maglor faints.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maedhros arrives at the gate at a run.

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

How can it be borne?

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

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

(to be continued)

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

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aeondelirium · 5 months

Text

Here is my gift for the White Oliphaunt event! Have a lovely, healthy, happy new year. ❤️

Frodo had been intrigued by the elf since he first saw a glimpse of his injury; a thin sliver of greyish flesh spotted between the the cuff of a sleeve and the trimming of a glove. Illness was rare among the elves, and it had begun to make a small loneliness in Frodo’s heart that grew as Bilbo went from old to ancient and he himself was getting on in years. Master Elrond was a healer of great skill, nor was he the only one eager to see to the comfort and health of the hobbits; still he could not halt the march of time. Frodo felt that it pained the elves to witness the slow failing of their mortal bodies. More than once he had seen their neighbours flinch or quickly avert their eyes when Bilbo struggled to rise from the bench outside his home, or when an indrawn breath gave away a sudden pain in his joints. Frodo felt reminded of an old yellow tomcat who had liked to sleep on the warm cobblestones by the well outside Bag End, and the way he had flinched to see him limp away in the evening as his days drew near their end.

The elf with the injured hand drew similar looks of mingled pity and distaste, though Frodo had been made to understand that he had earned the latter. He found it difficult to picture soft-spoken, withdrawn Maglor either as a joyful minstrel or a ruthless warrior; rather he felt as though an invisible hand had plucked kin strings in their souls, and loneliness sung in both of them.

One afternoon, Master Daeron’s beautiful harp had been carried out to the shore by no fewer than four strong elves, and the hobbits had spent a delightful time listening and singing until Bilbo’s rhymes reduced most of the audience to tears of laughter. Frodo’s smile had grown somewhat fixed when he found he was no longer certain that the merriment stemmed from his uncle’s cleverness, rather than the jolly nonsense of his wandering mind. Frodo’s gaze lingered on Maglor, who had not laughed along with the others.

“Does it hurt still?” he found himself asking. Maglor did not turn his eyes on him, but his burned hand twitched inside its glove.

“The hurt is less a thing of the body and more an ache of the soul” he said softly.

Frodo nodded. “I’ve some of those hurts myself.”

“I miss my harp” Maglor confided, his eyes still fixed straight ahead as though he were speaking to himself. “That is perhaps the greatest hurt of all.” There was a silence. Frodo knew no comfort to give the elf.

“Pimpinella Bracegirdle”, said Bilbo beside him, stirring from a brief rest against his shoulder, “loved to dance.” He fixed his watery old eyes on Maglor with an intensity that finally forced the elf to turn his head and acknowledge him. Bilbo manoeuvred himself upright with a huff and a puff and wet his lips, ready to spin yet another yarn.

“Now the trouble was”, he continued, “her dear Hugo was lame in one leg whenever the weather was about to change, an old injury from when he was a lad … I seem to recall he’d stepped on a bee and rolled down the hill up near Sandson’s farm …”

Frodo felt a slow flush creeping up his neck and put a gentle hand on his uncle’s arm, hoping to dissuade him from his tale. Bilbo, however, was undeterred. Maglor simply looked at the old hobbit, his face betraying neither amusement nor disdain. He listened with the careful attention of a minstrel.

“Now, a little further down Bagshot Row lived a hobbit who didn’t care much for dancing, despite having two good feet at the end of two good legs. We called him Daddy Twofeet, if you can believe it, for he’d more sense in his toes than that foolish head of his, heh. So on every other feast day, if the weather was about to change, and Pimpinella wanted to dance, Hugo would limp over to Daddy’s hole, and borrow his good right leg, on the condition of course he’d have it back by morning. And then he and Pimpinella would dance the night away, and they didn’t care who knew about it.” The old hobbit finished with a snort and a shake of his grey head.

“Oh Bilbo”, Frodo sighed.

His uncle bristled. “Don’t you take that tone with me, young hobbit! Hugo and Daddy were my neighbours for many years, and every word is true.”

“Bilbo-”, Frodo began, but the old hobbit shook his hand from his arm.

“Why, I ought to send you to bed without your supper!” he sputtered, now truly querulous in a way only the elderly can muster.

“To bed, yes”, Frodo agreed wearily, and made to rise. “Perhaps it is time for bed.”

“Perhaps you ought to listen to your uncle, Master Baggins.”

All three of them stopped and looked up to where Daeron was watching them, a twinkle of merriment in his bright eyes.

“I think there is some wisdom in his tale”, he went on, and raised a graceful hand in beckoning. Beside the hobbits, Maglor stiffened where he sat, not unlike a rabbit hoping to elude the hunter’s searching gaze.

“Come, Maglor. Sit with me.” Daeron’s voice was gentle, yet brooked no argument. Maglor rose, but doing so cast a sideways glance at Frodo, who could not help but feel he had done the elf a bad turn.

“Show me”, Daeron said as Maglor settled himself on the smooth rock next to him. He opened his hand in invitation, and received Maglor’s own in return. None around them spoke or even shifted as Daeron gently peeled the glove away, a shadow of pain passing over his features at the sight of the marred flesh.

“The skin has hardened”, Maglor said in a voice barely above a whisper, forcing the words out quickly as though they hurt him. “The fingers are too stiff to play.”

Daeron hummed a soft note of agreement, turning the hand over and gently extending the scarred digits. “Yes”, he said at last, “that hand is hardly fit to pluck my harp.”

His finger’s tightened around Maglor’s wrist to prevent him from drawing away. Daeron removed from his shoulders his own lovely blue scarf, and, resting Maglor’s hand in his lap, gently pulled the soft fabric over it.

“Between the two of us we have three good hands to play.”

The tune was halting and strange at first. Taking half of two famed minstrels did not, Frodo thought to himself, make a whole one of outstanding skill. Yet there was not a face in the audience that did not smile, or shed a tear, or both.

Beside him, Bilbo rested his wizened head back on his shoulder. An elf maiden draped a soft woollen blanket around him against the evening chill. And when the old hobbit begun to hum along in his faltering voice, the music was sweeter than any that had been heard on that shore in a long time.

#wo2023 #had to double-check white elephant rules weren't strictly enforced #because lord knows i don't know how to do funny #i hope you enjoy! i haven't written anything that wasn't a comic in forever #silmarillion #maglor #not gonna tag daeron bc i think that's also a house of the dragon character now?

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imakemywings · 8 months

Note

do you have any good female fics to rec?

DO I. LOL. Putting this immediately under a cut because there are a lot! There are so many talented writers in this fandom who do ENORMOUS justice to female characters, both original and book-based. Couple of blog recs at the bottom too!

(I'm assuming this is asking for Tolkien fanfic since that's mostly what I'm on about these days, but if you'd rather see Mass Effect or Dragon Age I can do that too.)

I'm glad you asked! φ(*￣0￣)

I'm going to keep all of these to 1 rec per author just so we don't get totally out of control here.

Forging Gold by @swanmaids ft. Curufin's wife, Dwarf OCs. Heather is an amazing source of female character fic in this fandom; she has well-developed OCs for all of Feanor's daughters-in-law and treats canon female characters with such care and love. Absolutely recommend checking out the rest of her stuff!

Prick a Finger, Cut Your Hand by @welcomingdisaster ft. Indis, Miriel. A really great look at the dynamic between these two. Lena has lots of other good takes on female Tolkien characters too!

Friendship and Stern Demand by @polutrope ft. Elwing. Fantastic exploration of what the communications between Elwing and Maedhros might have looked like!

Untitled by @outofangband ft. Aerin, Morwen. Nelyo focuses a lot on the human characters so if you want to read more about what the mortal women went through in the First Age, definitely browse through their blog!

Abide, Abound by Elleth ft. Arwen, Tauriel. Elleth also has lots of works centering on female Tolkien characters.

And by their blazing signify that a great princess falls, but doth not die by TheLionInMyBed ft. Elwing. One of my favorite takes on Elwing's suicide.

Keeper of Kings by batshape ft. Lalwen. What did Lalwen get up to in Middle-earth? Seeing a lot of people die, for one thing.

Into the Heart of a Fey Thing by @amethysttribble ft. Aredhel, Galadriel, Luthien. Fun "behind-the-scenes" look at some adventures with these three!

A Fish Hook, an Open Eye by simaetha ft. Elwing, f!Maglor. Fascinating AU take on a meeting between Elwing and Maglor prior to the Third Kinslaying.

The Sleep of Flowers by Innin ft. Galadriel, Melian. Very beautiful scene, and plenty of other female-centric works by Innin!

Light Words About Nothing by Margo_Kim ft. Dis, Belladonna. I ship it.

Elwing's Strategy by lifeisyetfair ft. Elwing. Another great take on Elwing at the Third Kinslaying.

Out of Dreams, Into the Sun by solanaceae ft. Miriel, Indis.

Games and Fantasy by Genesis_Grey ft. Arwen, Eowyn. Ohh it captures that chivalric WLW so well.

Over the Unclear Eyes of Memory by Loriand_Lost ft. Anaire, Aredhel. Addresses Anaire's complicated feelings about Fingolfin's return to Valinor. This author also has a number of other great female-centric fics, highly recommend!

The Carriage Held but Just Ourselves by @starspray ft. Luthien, Elwing, Arwen. Amazing look at the line of Thingol's relationship with death. This author also has a whole series on Lalwen and an OFC!

Before the Breath of Storm by tinnurin ft. Dis, Dwarf OC. "Behind-the-scenes" look at the Dwarves before the battle of Azanulbizar.

This Now, This Us by crownlessliestheking ft. Indis, Miriel. Indis and Miriel talk after Miriel's return to Valinor.

The Tapestry by Zdenka ft. Thedowyn, Miriel. The ghost of Miriel Serinde offers some aid. This author also has a lot of female-centric works!

Not Undevoted by SatiricalDraperies ft. Galadriel, Melian.

Winter Sea by Tallulah ft. Finduilas, OFC. Finduilas had a girlfriend in the Falas. Another author with a great selection of female-centric works.

The Hunt by @cuarthol ft. Amarie. Amarie is trans and closeted in Valinor, but Finrod understands.

Come Home to Chaos (Get a Crush on a Queen) by ncfan ft. Arwen, Firiel. When Firiel of Gondor takes refuge in Rivendell, Arwen takes an interest.

Do I Hurt to Hold? by Anonymous ft. Galadriel, Melian. A darker look at their relationship.

That Time Elanor Gardner Had A Crush On Her Employer by Anonymous ft. Arwen, Elanor.

All My Shadows Fade by amyfortuna ft. Arwen, OFC. Unsent letter from a female friend of Arwen's as her wedding to Aragorn approaches. This author is also a good one to look at for more female-centric fic!

Orlaya by yeaka ft. Arwen, Tauriel. Cute!

Of All the Stars, the Fairest by whatiwouldnotgive ft. Arwen, Eowyn.

Or They Would Go On Aching Still by Farasha ft. Arwen, Tauriel. Oh, the grief!

Berrypicking Time by swamp_diamonds ft. Finduilas, Nienor.

Things They Don't Talk About by eris_of_imladris ft. Findis. Findis and Feanor have a complicated relationship.

Easily Sever What Never was One by vauquelin ft. Haleth. If you like Halenthir at all as a ship, you'll like this.

The One With All The Birds by clothono ft. Elwing, Nerdanel. I've said it before I'll say it again--my favorite Elwing fic.

Greensleeves by bravelittlscrib ft. Nerdanel. Little scenes of Nerdanel's life and her relationships.

Emerie by the_artifice_of_eternity ft. Erendis, Ancalime. Ancalime's last visit with her mother before taking the throne.

In the Family by arriviste ft. Celebrian, Galadriel.

At the Water's Edge by crackinthecup ft. Elwing, Idril.

And that's what I've got for you right now, I hope that helps! I would also advise checking out the blogs @tolkien-heroines and @sapphictolkien both of which focus on female characters in Tolkien's work. Happy reading, anon! ♪(^∇^*)

#asks #anonymous #mine

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thescrapwitch · 20 days

Text

Many Lines Monday

Thank you @eilinelsghost for tagging me to share a snippet of a WIP. My brain has been very sluggish these past few days, but here's a bit for the next chapter in Those That Remain:

“Excuse me?”

Daeron looked up, startled. He couldn’t remember the last time a mortal had been able to approach him so quietly. Maglor seemed just as surprised. “Can we help you?” asked Daeron.

“I hope so,” said the man. Dark haired and gray eyed, with a thin face and glasses. An American - New England? - accent decorated his words. Daeron leaned back in his chair, ready to tell the man to leave them alone and then -

And then his thoughts blurred together. Became muddled. Disorganized. What had he been about to say?

Something had been wrong, hadn’t it? He couldn't remember what. Daeron stared at the man, his eyes drawn to a strange piece of jewelry he wore around his neck. A pendant made of black iron, an abstract shape of circles and curls. Almost like three eyes, staring back at Daeron. Watching him.

“It's wonderful to meet you both,” said the man. “I’ve read so much about you. May I sit here?”

“Of course,” said Maglor. He sounded as dazed as Daeron felt. A problem. That was a problem, wasn’t it?

We should be telling him to go away, thought Daeron. But he looked so friendly. So easygoing. So harmless. The pendant on the man’s neck continued to hold Daeron’s attention. No, let him sit. We should let him sit, because…because… His brain struggled to think of an answer. His brain struggled to think anything at all, only that the man was nice and shouldn’t be scared away.

“Thank you.” The man sat between them, taking Lindir’s chair. “Maglor and Daeron, correct?”

“Yes,” said Maglor. “You…know our names?”

“Of course I do,” said the man, smiling.

“Of course you do,” said Daeron. His eldritch eye had gone numb, the vision in it becoming so cloudy he could barely see. Shouldn’t I be worried about that? No, worried about what? I’m not…this is…everything is fine. Of course my eye doesn’t work. Of course he knows our names. There’s nothing to worry about. Everything is fine.

“You took me longer than I thought to track down,” continued the man. “But I am so glad I was successful. So glad! I’ve been looking forward to this meeting for years, you know. Both of you have been very inspirational to my work. It's an honor to meet you in person, and I look forward to using - ”

“Excuse me.” Lindir, three drinks precariously balanced in his hands, chose that moment to join them. He glared down at the man. “You’re not bothering my friends, are you?”

“Not at all,” said the man. He gave Lindir the same warm, harmless smile he’d given Daeron and Maglor. “You are…?”

“Lindir.” The smile and soft words did not work. Lindir’s suspicion remained strong. He didn’t even glance at the strange pendant. “I’m Lindir and they’re my friends and you’re sitting in my chair, so if you could please move that would be greatly appreciated. Who are you, anyway?”

“My apologies,” said the man. He stood up, letting Lindir reclaim the chair. “How stupid of me to forget something so vital. My name is Robert Harrison Blake.” He waited a moment, sighed when none of them showed any signs of recognition. “You all must not do much reading. I am an author of speculative science. A very well-known author, and a pioneer in my field. The Hunter of the Dark, The Stars Beneath the Crypt, The Devouring Fear; all of them are my work.”

“Never heard of them before,” said Lindir. “Did you come here to sell us books? Because this village already has a bookstore, and unless you’ve written something about music we’re not interested.”

“No, no. Not that. My true intentions are far more noble.” Robert smiled, turning his attention back to Maglor and Daeron. “I have a business proposition for the two of you.”

Tagging: @chthonion @dreamingthroughthenoise @lordgrimwing @arofili @aroace-moron @tilion-writes and @awwyeah107 and anyone else who wants to join in. No pressure, of course!

#thank you again for the tag!#my writing #eldritch!maglor #daeron #maglor #lindir #a plot has entered the story!

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doodle-pops · 3 months

Text

Seconds Chances Are Worth Living For

Maglor x human!reader

Request: Hi can I request an fic (or onehsot) where a human finds Maglor wondering the beach where he threw the silmaril and they help him? - anon

Warnings: human!reader, light angst with happy ending/comfort, depressed and gloomy Maglor

Words: 1.3k

Synopsis: Nobody ever said second chances in life were easy, nor were changes necessary to bring them.

“Will you not come with me?”

His heart twisted painfully; your words lingered in the air like an unwelcome odour he desperately wished to dispel. Too often had these haunting words surfaced in his mind during the agonizing days of solitude. Too many times, he found himself yearning for them to materialize into reality, yet he remained resolute in his pride, steadfast against the prospect of accepting forgiveness. Deep within, he longed for the warmth of a fireplace, enclosed by walls of solace and finality—enough respite from the harshness of the ocean waves and the mournful cries of seagulls.

His posture, detached upon the rugged rocks, nearly melding into the static structure, remained unmoved. On the contrary, you stood unwavering before him, your gaze fixed upon his threadbare form draped in the remnants of shame and despair. It was a clash between an immovable object and an unstoppable force, and you were determined not to be the one to yield. Whether it was destiny or the cosmic alignment that led you to his desolate presence on the shores of Forlindon, you were resolved not to depart without pulling him away.

Defiance surged through your veins as you continued to face his statuesque figure, yet you restrained yourself from encroaching upon his personal space.

“If you stay another hour, you may succumb to fatal illness,” you pleaded, voice above a whisper. A strong gust of wind roamed the shores, prompting you to curl your cloak around your shoulders tightly to your body. There was a faint chattering of your teeth as you gathered the courage to speak up again. “Please, there is a cabin not too far away from these shores. The least you can do is come with me for something warm to eat and drink, perhaps a warmer change of apparel?”

Maglor’s gaze stretched into the distance, fixed upon the horizon, while his fingers gracefully danced through the air, as if caressing an unseen harp. Murmuring unfamiliar words, too delicate for mortal ears to grasp, his lament echoed the sorrows of a bygone era when the world was in its infancy. This was the poignant scene that unfolded before you: Maglor, singing with a voice textured like sandpaper, tears encrusting his eyelids, lips weathered and parted, fingers weaving through the invisible threads of melody, and eyes reflecting a profound abyss of desolation.

In a single glance, your heart welled with empathy, and tears threatened to spill from your lashes. In a burst of compassion, you implored and beseeched him to find solace within the confines of your cabin, offering a glimmer of hope to bring an end to his eternal torment.

“Please,” –you stepped closer, dwarfed by his largeness despite his malnourished physique– “I’m not asking you to stay forever if that is what you believe I seek. I only wish to help you—”

“Why?” He spoke or rather, croaked!

“Well…” you fumbled, stunned at his ability to communicate after minutes of attempting to capture his attention. “Because it is the right thing to do.”

“Why?”

Flapping your lips like a fish and furrowing your brows to mimic confusion, you stammered, “W-Well, I mean—You shouldn’t be alone out here in the element…suffering. You deserve a warm bed and comfort.”

“Why?” You never imagined that reaching out to aid a person would become so difficult. Indeed he was proving to be an unmovable object, but you were willing to be that unstoppable force who spoke wisdom into him.

For a fleeting moment, your gaze descended from his lean countenance to the weathered rock upon which he perched, his nimble fingers still weaving through the breeze in search of a haunting melody. A serene ambiance enveloped both of you, juxtaposed against the impending unease hanging in the air. The turbulent seas clashed vehemently against the headlands and platforms, while the sky hinted at an impending tempest, prompting you to ponder earnestly on what he sought from you amid the impending cataclysm.

Rubbing your cheek to battle against the frost nipping at your skin, you pinched your lips, then scratched your head as though an oncoming headache was surfacing. “Because I want to help you and I believe you are in need of help. My mortal compass would not rest well knowing that I left someone out in the element to suffer when I could relieve some of it.”

“And…what if you are…” He never finished his words for his throat seized up on him, but they lingered in the air ringing obviousness to what he was conveying.

“Wrong? Then I will learn a life lesson to not trust strangers who are on the brink of death.” Releasing a chuckle as you crinkled your nose, you looked at him once more. “I rather spend my time helping someone in need of it instead of having restless days and nights knowing I left you to suffer. If I am wrong…—everyone suffers differently, the good, the bad and the indifferent. What matters is that I helped; what you choose to do after is your choice and path.”

For the first time since your encounter, his lacklustre gaze fixed upon your earthly form, shrouded in ebony. His eyes meticulously studied every nuance of your being, from the strands of your hair down to the contour of your chin, even discerning the intricacies of your skin that radiated vitality. It was a quality of his that had languished in purgatory for countless eons. Compelling his lips to part, his pallid complexion yielded, producing droplets of moisture that emerged, imparting a semblance of colour to his wistful countenance. “But…am stran…ger.”

Resisting the urge to physically shake him by his shoulder before being beyond complex, you huffed and widened your eyes, tears threatening to spill as your emotions swallowed you. “Yes, yes! I know you are a stranger! You could be a sea creature too for all I know, who crawled out the depths of the ocean to lament his sufferings to the surface world! But none of that matters because I know a suffering person when I see one because I too… Please, let me help you. Don’t…give up without trying. Let me help...”

Maglor drew in a slow, measured breath before exhaling. It felt as though some divine intervention, dispatched by the Valar to alleviate his torment, had arrived in the form of your unwavering determination. Perhaps the burden of his endless years wandering the shores had become too much for even the Valar to bear, prompting their counsel for his return. Alternatively, this could be yet another vivid dream, a product of years spent attempting to conjure solace. Regardless, it all seemed serendipitous.

Though he longed to inquire about his fate should he accept, the strength to articulate a single syllable eluded him. As his eyes locked onto yours in search of sincerity, he grappled with the duality of seeking both truth and deceit, yearning for the former.

Setting aside his infamous pride, swallowing it like a scalding-hot, white rod, a new chapter unfolded. The courage amassed since ancient days returned, instilling confidence in his actions. However, the lack of physical strength betrayed him, causing his legs to give way, sending him tumbling into the damp sand. In that moment, he felt an overwhelming desire to weep at the transformation he had undergone and the shame he carried. Your arms delicately extended, encircling his waist, as he clung to your figure. From a once-great prince to a desolate wanderer in need of mortal compassion, Maglor held onto you as you struggled to lift him onto his feet, leaning his weakened body against yours.

“All is fine, I have you. Just walk with me, small steps and we shall get there safely and securely,” you softly reassured as you carried him towards a new beginning.

Masterlist

Taglist: @lilmelily @ranhanabi777 @mysticmoomin @rain-on-my-umbrella @asianbutnotjapanese @batsyforyou @sakurayaxd @ladyenchanted @involuntaryspasms @stormchaser819 @aconstructofamind @addaigio @lamemaster @hermaeuswhora

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the-elusive-soleil · 6 months

Text

love from before still strong

For @tolkienfamilyweek Day 1 - Parent-child relationship

Maglor is shaking as he makes his way through the shadows. His hand is still in searing pain, even though the Silmaril is now at the bottom of the sea. He can see the horrified, startled face of the guard he killed, and the horrible blank emptiness on Maedhros’ face just before he pitched forward and--

He shudders, tries to put it out of his mind.

He needs to get to Elrond. There is no room for a plan or for thoughts of consequences, only for that singular goal.

There’s nothing else left, is the thing. Morgoth is defeated (no thanks to him), all his brothers are dead, the Silmarils are gone and it is probably for the best, and Elros is already gone with the Men from the Host, departed for their new Isle of Gift while Maglor was huddled in the woods trying to come to terms with still being alive.

There is, distantly, the lurking possibility in the back of his mind that that could change. He is trying very hard to not entertain that possibility. There is no good reason for him to be alive when all his brothers are dead, but the situation only becomes more senseless if he throws away the life that only he has been allowed to keep.

So here he is, slipping through the camp of the Host of the West that he fled from, sword dripping blood, only days ago.

Fortunately, he does have some idea where to go in search of Elrond, from when he was here before--not from anything he saw, but rather from where in the camp Gil-Galad was most eager to prevent him and Maedhros from passing. More than that, he knows his son, and it is no stretch of the imagination to suspect that he ought to check the healers’ tents first.

Sure enough, as he approaches the tent at the end of the row, he hears a familiar voice saying, “Is there anything else you need from me tonight, Annehtë?”

It’s Elrond, which is good, but he’s not alone, which could cause problems. Maglor draws close to the side of the tent, the better to listen for an opportunity, and to stay out of sight of anyone passing.

“No, you’ve done all you ought to and more,” says an elf-woman who is presumably Annehtë. Peering through a gap between tent panels, Maglor spots her, a blonde Vanyarin who is probably not that much younger than himself, but whose face bears less stress than any elf of Beleriand’s anymore and makes her look unwontedly young.

Elrond, in plain and serviceable healer’s robes, looking weary but otherwise no worse for wear, is moving towards the tent entrance. “Then I will bid you farewell till morning, for this day has me unusually weary.”

Before he can leave, though, Annehtë calls out, “If you will stay a moment, there is a matter I would speak with you on.”

Maglor stifles a curse, and Elrond looks no less irritated as he turns around--he’s hiding it well enough for dealing with a relative stranger, but Maglor recognizes that set of his shoulders from every time he was made to eat greens he did not want. “What is it?”

“Why don’t we sit down?” Annehtë says, not really making it a suggestion. Elrond complies, mouth pressed into a thin line. “I’ve been meaning to check in on you ever since...well, since the incident a few days ago.”

So that’s what this is about.

Elrond’s face remains a polite mask. “I don’t see how there’s anything to discuss. Unless you suspect me of aiding and abetting them, which King Gil-Galad and King Finarfin have already determined was not the case.”

“Oh, no, of course not.” Annehtë sounds shocked at the very thought. “It’s only that, well, they put you through so much before. You were only just starting to recover, and then to have them come so close again, so violently--you must have been afraid they would come after you and your brother, to take you again.”

“Why would they do that,” Elrond asks quietly and evenly, “when they were the ones who sent us here?”

“I can only guess at how such twisted minds may work,” Annehtë ventures, “but people like that don’t ever really let their victims go, you know. It’s part of the game they play, catch and release.”

“And what exactly would you know about it?” Elrond’s voice is terribly calm and cool. “Having lived all your life in Aman, where supposedly everything is perfect.”

“I have had opportunity to learn from my Sindarin colleagues since arriving here,” Annehtë retorts primly. She reaches out and takes Elrond’s hands in hers. “I understand that you must have felt such a need to be defensive of the Fëanorians when you first came here. You’d never known anything else, so of course you would want to cling to it. But they’re gone now, and it’s safe to let yourself admit that they were cruel to you. They destroyed your home and took you captive, and allowed you to know nothing but their own ways and their rules. They hurt you, and now you don’t have to pretend otherwise anymore just to get by.”

Maglor’s heart pounds in his chest. Not because he believes what the Vanyarin woman is saying in her falsely sweet voice--he knows he and Maedhros parented the twins to the best of their ability, knows that they gave them every scrap of love they had to offer, and is fairly confident that Elrond and Elros held some affection for them in return. But this is exactly what he had feared would happen when they sent their sons away: that the Sindar and Amanyar would teach them to hate the people who had raised them, and would in time so convince the twins that they had been abused that he and Maedhros would never be able to reunite with them again.

He supposes it is only surprising that it took this long for anyone to try.

That does not make it tear at thim any less when Elrond bows his head and admits, “I cannot deny that there is some truth in what you say.”

Maglor cannot stand to listen any further. He came too late and lost his chance, and now his son is slipping away from him. Intervention is impossible, so he does the only thing left to him and flees.

***

Elrond had already had more than enough of Annehtë before she tried to lure him into some kind of soul-baring exercise. The fact that she was delaying him when he could swear he felt the presence of one of his fathers just outside only compounded the irritation. He tried polite evasion, and when that seemed to be waxing ineffective, attempted to feign at least partial agreement in the hopes that she would let him alone.

Instead, his trouble only increased: no sooner had he forced out the words than he felt Maglor’s presence abruptly recede, as if in flight. No, no, this couldn’t happen, he couldn’t have the chance to finally keep hold of someone just slip through his fingers like that.

He itches to leap up and chase after Maglor right then and there, but Annehtë is still there, looking at him expectantly after his most recent statement. Right. He has to deal with this nonsense.

“It is true,” he continues, “that Maedhros and Maglor invaded and destroyed our home when we were children. But that is the only true thing you have said. They were kind to us from the beginning, although it would have been expedient to kill or abandon us. They loved us as their own sons; they only sent us away because they were sending everyone away that they could.”

Annehtë is spluttering. “But--but they were, are kinslayers! They cannot have had kindness in them, or how could they have done all that they did?”

“I do not know,” Elrond says, a little proud of how steady his voice is despite his rage. “I have wrestled with that myself. But there is no doubt in my mind that they loved us, that they gave us all the goodness they could scrape together in themselves, which was no small amount. So you will not say such things to me again--not only because they are false, but because my relationship with my fathers is none of your business.”

Then, finally, he has the opportunity to storm out in the wake of her stunned silence, and the moment he is out of the tent, he breaks into a sprint in the direction he felt Maglor’s presence receding towards.

Fortunately, his foster father does not have much of a head start, and it only takes a few minutes for Elrond to detect that flare of fëa and follow it into the woods. He quickly spots a figure curled in the shadows at the base of a large tree. A couple of paces closer, and he realizes that Maglor is weeping silently.

That does it. He flies across the short remaining distance, dropping to his knees and reaching out. “Atya? Atya! It’s all right, I’m here, I’m sorry...”

Maglor looks up at him, wide-eyed. “Elrond. Is it really you? I thought--”

“If you had stayed only a moment longer, you would have heard me go on to verbally eviscerate her,” Elrond declares. “I felt you outside the tent, I was trying anything I could to get away quickly, but it only led to me having to chase you down. What has happened to you? Where is Atar? Why did you not come to me, or to Elros or both of us, before?”

Maglor shivers. “Maedhros is dead,” he says hoarsely.

Elrond freezes. “What? He cannot be--they told us they had let you both go unharmed, they swore to me--”

“He cast himself into a chasm of fire,” Maglor continues, glorious voice flat and dull. “We took the Silmarils, and they burned us as they burn creatures of evil, and--he could not bear it. They physical wound, yes, but not--and so he ended.”

He looks up at Elrond, meeting his eyes for the first time. “He was gone, and Elros had already left for wherever his Isle of Gift will be, and there was no one else, so I thought to go to you. And then I heard--”

“--possibly the least important part of all that I had to say,” Elrond assures. He cradles Maglor’s hands in his, noting with an inward hiss of dismay the ugly burn upon the right palm. “I did not want to leave you and Atar before; I am certainly not going to let you slip away now.”

“You should,” Maglor says, making a brief abortive movement as if he would pull away but cannot bear to. “I have slain kin again, I am a thief and a murderer and kidnapper, my heels are dogged by a curse--”

“I care for none of that,” Elrond says quietly. “That is, I am not glad that you have killed again, but I don’t think you will do so any more, and I do not think there is any punishment anyone could inflict on you that would be worse than the rejection of the Silmarils and the loss of Atar.”

Maglor is silent, only bowing his head.

“I will not be staying with the Host for much longer,” Elrond forges on determinedly. “Finarfin has been trying to talk me into returning with the Amnyar, but I do not plan to. As soon as I can make that clear without burning any bridges, I will be leaving here--I want to travel, and study the different peoples of Middle-earth, and collect their knowledge. So much has been lost during the wars, but nowperhaps I can seek to preserve.”

A brief hesitation, and then, “If you will only wait here where I can find you until then, you are welcome to join me--no, more than welcome, I would earnestly desire it. We can travel together. First to Elros, I think--he will be glad to see you are alive, and will want to mourn Atar with us.”

There is a terribly long silence before Maglor lifts his head again. “I should not agree. I do not deserve it,” he says. “But I fear I am too weak now to fight against what I want so badly.”

Elrond lets out the breath he didn’t realize he was holding. “Good,” he says, a little unsteadily. He can work with that. Slowly, he drops the rest of the way to the ground and pulls Maglor into a tight, fierce embrace. “That’s good. That’ll be all right.”

#tolkienfamilyweek #silmarillion #maglor #elrond #kidnap fam #post war of wrath #maybe this belonged under the found family day?#but kidnap fam was my silm gateway drug and it's what I think of first when I see “tolkien” and “parents”#archaeologist-anthropologist elrond makes another appearance #so does my favorite genre of “outsider sees kidnap fam and assumes the worst”#soleil writes things #refracted (fanfiction)

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isilwhore · 3 months

Text

Maedhros & Maglor Week - Day 3

Two drabbles for @maedhrosmaglorweek :

Maedhros struggles with the half-written message beneath his fist. Maglor watches, yet hesitates to offer help. His brother will ask if needed. He rarely does.

“You are very persuasive, Nelyo. Do not fret over each and every word!”

“How do you do it? How do you create beautiful verses that leap from page to one’s heart and mind?”

“I write what I feel,” he answers. “Then out it flows, like the mightiest of rivers.”

Maedhros flinches, his eyes turn dark. “Some feelings have no language and thus can never be spoken,” and he crumples the paper with his one hand.

****

And, because things often get way too depressing for them, a little bit of happiness during more peaceful times:

“I am honored you have invited me to this feast,” Maglor whispers, a smile betraying his latent joy.

“Well Káno, you will not cause any embarrassment. Or start arguments. And your talents are appreciated at such gatherings.”

“Ah yes, I am merely here to sing,” he exhales an exaggerated, playful sigh and Maedhros laughs. That is the best music, he realizes; his brother finally laughing again, the clink of glasses raising hopeful toasts, the strum of his harp.

If only the rest of our brothers were tame enough to join, he thinks. Then everyone would surely be entertained. Or offended.

#maedhrosmaglorweek #it’s been so long since I wrote anything #I hope it’s coherent 😆#maedhros #Maglor #the silmarillion #silm fanfic #my drabbles

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echo-bleu · 6 months

Note

For the WIP ask game: Elrond v. the Valar?

Thank you!

I haven't touched that one in a while but it's essentially the fic I write when I get irrationally angry at the Valar and struggle to write them in my other WIPs.

Elrond sails to Valinor at the end of the Third Age, exhausted and half-fading from holding out so long against Sauron with his ring. Maglor, with whom he was just reunited, is tried and sentenced to imprisonment for his deeds, and Elrond finds that none of those he hoped to see again have been re-embodied, nor are they (the Fëanorians especially) likely to ever be. Celebrían isn't doing well, Galadriel is shunned, Elwing and Eärendil aren't permitted to spend time with Elrond. Aman has tried to forget the Exile ever happened and Endóreans are pressured to leave their former life behind and pretend everything is fine.

When Legolas brings the news that neither Elrohir nor Elladan is ever going to sail, Elrond sees that he has little left to lose, and he decides to make a last bid at changing things before he fades. He has seven millenia of grievances against the Valar and Eru that he's been swallowing and putting away for later... He's going to make them understand if it kills him.

Most of the writing I have is just dialogue without tags, but here's a snippet:

“You know, from the start, Elros knew. He led his people to Númenor because they asked him to, because you asked him to, but I remember one of his letters toward the end of his life. I’m worried about the future of the island, he wrote. The problem with the gifts of the Valar, is that they can take them back any time. Men have short lives and short memories, and they will get even shorter as my elven blood fades from my line. How long before one of my descendant angers the Valar irreparably?” “Did he foresee it?” “No. He didn’t need to. And however much I still miss him every single day, I am very glad that he was not forced to watch his people drown.”

From this WIP ask game.

#elrond #silmarillion #silm fic #echo's fanfiction #tolkien #ask game #elrond vs the valar

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animatorweirdo · 1 year

Text

Imagine trying to enjoy alone time in a tavern, but then ending up as the local therapist for an elf and his relatives.

Imagine trying to simply enjoy some alone time in a tavern, drinking some beverage, and minding your own business till you meet this one elf and became regular chat buddies. Now, the relatives of this elf keep coming to the tavern to talk about their problems with you.

Warnings: reader’s sanity gets tested.

---------------------------------------------------------

Day 1

Maedhros: *Walks into the tavern, takes a seat, orders a drink, and slams his head against the table*

You: Now that sounds like someone is done with everyday life.

Maedhros: You have no idea.

You: Which one for you, work or unbearable relatives?

Maedhros: Hmm?

You: Work or unbearable relatives? Sometimes it's the work that tires you out, but sometimes it’s the relatives– who do things that make you tick beyond measure.

Maedhros: Hmm… both. Why would you like to know?

You: Just filling out boredom. Wanna have a drink? I can pay for you because you look like you need it.

Maedhros: Well – that is nice of you. I am Maedhros.

You: (Name)

After a week of meeting with Maedhros to shit talk about family, drink, and send each other off– not to be seen for another week.

Maedhros: And yet again, I have to clean up after my brothers.

You: Man, that sucks.

Maedhros: Indeed. I have to go. It was nice talking to you.

You: Bye.

Maedhros: Farewell.

Maedhros: *Walks out of the tavern after paying the bartender*

You: *Sits in silence, drinking*

Maglor: *Walks in and notices you*

Maglor: Excuse me? Are you (Name)?

You: Uuh – yeah?

Maglor: I heard about you from my brother, Maedhros. He apparently likes to come here to talk and drink with you.

You: And you are?

Maglor: I am Maglor.

You: Ah, the one that sings in the morning and never shuts up.

Maglor: What?

You: Nothing! What do you want?

Maglor: I will be honest. I need to relieve something out of my chest. And since Maedhros likes talking with you. I have been ha — *talks about his problems with his family*

You: *Staring at him, confused.*

You: Wha –?

Week 2

You: *Trying to enjoy peace after having talk sessions with both Maedhros and Maglor for a week.

Caranthir: You!

You: Wah! What!

Caranthir: Are you (Name)?

You: uhm – yes? I’m sorry. Did I do something to piss you off?

Caranthir: No. Why would you think that?

You: You look angry.

Caranthir: Well, I’m not. I am Caranthir. I heard about you from two of my brothers, Maedhros and Maglor.

You: Oh, the grumpy one and the one that hoards all the gold?

Caranthir: What?

You: Nothing! What can I do for you?

Caranthir: I heard talking with you helps relieve stress and resolve problems. So, let me start –

You: And what if I don’t-

Caranthir: I will only talk about this once, so listen carefully. I am so done with my –*talks about his problems with his brothers and relatives and problems managing the money*

You: What?

Week 4

You: *Groaning while lying your head against the table*

Celegorm: You (Name)?!

You: What? Who — who are you two?!

Celegorm & Curufin: *sits on each side of you that you sat between them*

Celegorm: We belong to the same family as the rest of our dear brothers, who seem to like turning their backs on us in our time of need.

You: That – doesn’t tell me anything.

Curufin: His name is Celegorm and I am Curufin.

You: Oh, The unhinged forest goblin and the cheap copy of dad?

Celegorm & Curufin: What?

You: Nothing! I assume you wanna talk and let something out of your chest too?

Celegorm: Excellent! Then there is no need for an explanation. Let me tell you what kind of a rough week we had.

Celegorm: I was planning good things for our people, but they kicked us out because apparently we were evil, and I tried to force myself upon Doriath’s princess. I was only trying to show I would be a better option than that mortal man. She even stole my dog!

Celegorm: Can you believe that? And all people claim we’re the most problematic people in Beleriand.

You: Didn’t you try to kill them, though?

Curufin: And my son doesn’t want to be my son anymore? Apparently, I disgusted him so much that he decided to disown himself.

You: —what?

Week 6

You: *Groaning even harder after exhausting weeks of listening to the feanorians’ problems*

Fingon: Excuse me, are you by any chance (Name)?

You: Please, don’t tell me you’re one of Maedhros’s brothers!

Fingon: Oh no, I’m not.

You: – really?

Fingon: I’m his half-cousin!

You: dammit!

Week 8

Fingolfin: You must be (Name)

You: Huh?

Fingolfin: Okay, let me talk about my kids and those problematic nephews of mine.

You: Sir? Do I know you?

Fingolfin: My kids don’t listen to me, and my half-brother’s kids just do anything they like, causing problems and being a bunch of ruffians.

You: Sir? Sir? SIR?!

Week 14

Maedhros: Hey, (Name). Sorry, I have not been visiting for a while. I have been busy with work.

Maedhros: (Name)?

You: *You sit up, shadows and bags in your eyes, exhausted and looking like you were going to break down at any moment*

Maedhros: (Name)! What happened? You look awful!

You: You – and the rest of your family need to find professional help.

#maedhros x reader #maglor x reader #caranthir x reader #celegorm #curufin #fingon #fingolfin #silmarillion x reader #silmarillion #tolkien #middle earth x reader #middle earth #elf therapy #feanorians x reader #silmarillion imagine #middle earth imagines

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