#esgalduin

[aureentuluva70]

The Lay of Leithian Part 10: Beren and Luthien's First Confrontation

<;<<;<<Part 9 Part 11>>>

Art by Ted Nasmith

#leithianedit #silmarillion #tolkien #beren #luthien #daeron #the silmarillion #lay of leithian #leithian #doriath #neldoreth #esgalduin

[tenth-sentence]

At that time they were from home, riding with Caranthir east in Thargelion; but the people of Celegorm welcomed her and bade her stay among them with honour until their lord's return.

"The Silmarillion" - J.R.R. Tolkien

#book quote #the silmarillion #jrr tolkien #welcome #honor #honored guest #lord #aredhel #aredhel ar feiniel #horse riding #caranthir #thargelion #celegorm #curufin #esgalduin #aros #himlad

[outofangband]

Region, one of the forests making up the kingdom of Doriath, located east and South of the river Esgalduin. The halls of Menengroth were located in Region.

Note: Region is pronounced like the latter part of Eregion, not like the English word. It is the Sindarin word for holly trees which were common in the forest.

x x x  x x x  x x x 

Part of my forests of Beleriand boards! Others in the forest board tag! There's also more world building for Region in my Doriath tag though I want to do more if there's interest!!

#the silmarillion #the children of húrin #doriath #region #silmedit #silmedits #edits

[gwaedhannen]

[Excerpt from Sorrow Beyond Words: Collected Testimony of the War of Wrath, 4th Edition; ed. Elrond Peredhel. Archive of Cîw Annúminas, inaugural collection]

“Simply reaching Menegroth was a struggle. Doriath had become a twisting nightmare of overgrowth and rot and mists, as Morgoth’s power warred with the remains of the Girdle and our old songs. Ai, our home, our haven! I know the name of every holly in Region, before the exile. We found deadfalls surrounded by dozens of animals who’d lain down beside the trees and rotted before they died. Blind moose more antler than flesh staggered towards us even after a dozen arrows. Vines covered in dripping thorns reached for our eyes. The cherry trees were overladen with fruits that smelled like gangrene. Deildhod stumbled into a nest of maddened vipers, and only escaped because their tails were all tangled together into a festering mass and could hardly move. We never saw or heard a single bird. I’m amazed we lost no one in that whole push through Region. No, I speak a lie. I know how we passed through with nothing worse than scrapes. Elrond was with us, and the ghost of Melian’s love still recognized her kin.

“Esgalduin had nearly been dammed by one of Hírilorn’s fallen boles, but the bridge still held. We crossed and reached the ruined gates, wrought twice and broken twice. Within there was only darkness to be seen; we knew not what manner of horrors Morgoth had sent to infest the city, but Ingwion was unwilling to leave them at the rear of his forces as he moved north, if it could be helped. Celeborn stood at Elrond’s right and myself at his left. Far less an honor guard than the heir of Elu Thingol and Melian Besain deserved. Yet in those dark days it was all the honor we could muster. King Dior Eluchíl had known thirty-six summers when he was unrighteously slain. Queen Elwing Nimaew thirty-five when despair took her to the sea. Lord Elrond Peredhel beheld the city of Elu for the first and only time in his twenty-ninth summer.

“Elrond stood before his inheritance and Sang. He sang a lament, for the lost endless years of joy and peace, for deep halls lit by birdsong and echoing with wisdom, for the Forsaken People who awoke the forest and earth with many voices, for the works of beauty never to be seen again on this side of the sea. He sang a promise, that the glory of Menegroth will be remembered in the songs of Middle-Earth for as long as its children endure. He sang thanks, for the protection the halls granted us until it could shelter us no more. As his song at last ceased, I thought I heard nightingales answering him.

“Stars shone on his brow, and his hair glistened as the vault of night, and the memories of our once-eternal bliss in the woods of Thingol’s realm under Elbereth’s gifts arose in my mind. Let Oropher dream of a deep hall for his own; let Celeborn reign where he will at his wife’s side! I knew in my heart, as the echo of nightingale songs faded, that there was no lord or king I would ever stand beside save Elrond Elwingion.

“The living stone in which our kingdom once thrived knew his voice, and at long last laid down its burden and passed. The darkness over Menegroth was lifted, and we went forth into its corpse, and no beast or orc could stand before us. I do not sing of what we found and left behind when we cast down the bridge and gave leave for the river to flood the caves. It is not worth remembering.”

#silmarillion #the silmarillion #tolkien #silm fic #elrond #doriath #menegroth #war of wrath #my OCs #war of wrath: sorrow beyond words #stormwritten #the Second Kinslaying occurred on this day in FA 506 #you can observe the day of remembrance by burning a Son of Feanor in effigy #in remembrance I'm writing Sindarin Elrond because I've seen too much Feanorian Elrond recently #the narrator is a former senior Marchwarden who escaped the Kinslaying and brought refugees over the mountains to Celeborn and Galadriel #she'll never forgive herself for not being at Sirion for the Third Kinslaying #she becomes one of Elrond's chief counselors and one of the heads of Rivendell's forces along with Glorfindel #she and Glorfindel were definitely at each other's throats for years until Elrond yelled at them to chill #they may have hatefucked #sorry Erestor #she either dies when Celebrían is captured #or leads the search for Celebrían and sails west with her #in either case she'll never forgive herself for failing #“Nimaew” = “white/pale bird” I think #a name given to Elwing after her leap #she doesn't know about it yet

[ceescedasticity]

Meet the Rivers of Beleriand!

After some recuperation time following their ordeals, they've put on fána and come to Aman to meet old friends and seek new homes in the Blessed Realm! They're waiting on some decisions of the Valar at Mahanaxar, but after someone accidentally washed out a road after a slap-fight with Eönwë on the Sauron subject in the meantime they are staying at the Palace of Ingwë in Valmar! Why Ingwë agreed with the Valar that the flooding would be less of an issue there is a fascinating question Queen Ilwen would love an answer to.

Meet the Rivers! (Interviewer: Ingwion Ingsuilo Ingwion, Fourth Prince of the Vanyar)

[Part One: Adurant, Esgalduin, Nenning]

Adurant

Of the Seven Rivers of Ossiriand and Dor Firn-i-Guinar

Tributary of great Gelion

Likes: Trees, pereldar, music

Dislikes: Orcs, getting pulled into the Sea when the subcontinent collapses even though your spring in the mountains is actually still there

Who are you most hoping to meet in Aman? "Dior! And Denethor — of the Nandor — I'd like to see him again, but Dior was my baby. —The other Ingwion said he'd sent for him. I hope he gets here soon."

What are you looking for in your new location? "I'm not sure! Somewhere with Dior or my Laegrim would be nice, but! I think I am uniquely qualified to be somewhere around Mandos!"

Would you like to say anything about the fána you chose? "It's reminiscent of a few of my favorite people, but I'm not making a statement. But I do think I'm doing better than average at not dripping on your nice carpets!"

What else would you like people to know about you? "Um, I'm not sure how much else there is to say about me! I was pretty lucky, all told — well, all of us in Ossiriand were lucky, and I was luckiest. My people got a lot of raids later on but it didn't touch me. I really could have stayed in Middle-earth, but… obviously things didn't turn out that way."

Esgalduin

Of Doriath, born of the Shadowy Spring

Tributary of great Sirion

Likes: Beeches, Holly, Grey-elves, Melian

Dislikes: Naugrim, Kinslayers, Men Invaders, dragons, spiders

Who are you most hoping to meet in Aman? "Melian most of all. We were close friends, I've missed her a lot. Also Elu, young Dior and Nimloth — Elmo and Galadhon — I have many, many people here. But I meant to go see Melian in Lórien immediately, except there were reportedly concerns about the roads."

What are you looking for in your new location? "I would like to dwell with my Grey-Elves — ideally with Elu and Melian as their King and Queen. If Melian needs me more than the Grey-Elves and means to stay in Lórien that is also an option, but I would hope she can anticipate Elu's return."

Would you like to say anything about the fána you chose? "It's modeled on Melian's fána, yes, except for the hair."

What else would you like people to know about you? "I have a tributary you won't hear much about — they fall from the mountains directly into Nan Dungortheb, and it… went badly for them, from quite early on. Their proper name is Nenbrass, though I'm afraid my people often said Esgalfuin. They have… some resentments. I'm hoping people will be understanding."

Nenning

Of Eglarest in the Falas

Likes: the Sea, Falathrim, ships, Noldor

Dislikes: Orcs, erosion, poison

Who are you most hoping to meet in Aman? "Many of my people are here, of course. And Brithon and I are both very curious about these Western Lindar. Though if I meet any individuals who objected to sending aid we will have words."

What are you looking for in your new location? "East of the Pelóri and directly into the Sea, definitely, though that may end up with less length than I'd prefer. I understand my people here have a settlement of their own, and either Brithon or I will pass by there. The other of us might go by this Swanhaven."

Would you like to say anything about the fána you chose? "I don't think there's much to say."

What else would you like people to know about you? "We were overrun and used as roads to attack our people. It was… distressing. But after we had nothing left to protect, when things continued to worsen — both of us, eventually, consigned ourselves to the Sea, and after that it was over. That wasn't a route available to to tributaries, and Sirion… wouldn't. —Also I apologize for the water. It should be less brackish now."

#a tolkien tag #reckless application of spackle #real rivers of beleriand

[warrioreowynofrohan]

Silmarillion Daily - Of Menegroth

Today’s Silmarillion Daily contains two events - one is the building/carving of Menegroth and the other, happening around the same time in Valinor, is the births of Turgon and Finrod.

Here’s the part on Menegroth:

Now Melian had much foresight, after the manner of the Maiar; and when the second age of the captivity of Melkor had passed, she counselled Thingol that the Peace of Arda would not last forever. He took thought therefore how he should make for himself a kingly dwelling, and a place that should be strong, if evil were to awake again in Middle-earth; and he sought aid and counsel of the Dwarves of Belegost. They gave it willingly, for they were unwearied in those days and eager for new works; and though the Dwarves ever demanded a price for all that the did, whether with delight or with toil, at this time they held themselves paid. For Melian taught them much that they were eager to learn, and Thingol rewarded them with many fair pearls. These Círdan gave to him, for they were got in great number in the shallow waters about the Isle of Balar; but the Naugrim had not before seen their like, and they held them dear. One there was as great as a dove’s egg, and its sheen was as starlight on the foam of the sea; Nimphelos it is named, and the chieftain of the Dwarves of Belegost prized it above a mountain of wealth.

Therefore the Naugrim laboured long and gladly for Thingol, and devised for him mansions after the fashion of their people, delved deep in the earth. Where the Esgalduin flowed down, and parted Neldoreth from Region, there rose in the midst of the forest a rocky hill, and the river ran at its feet, There they made the gates of the hall of Thingol, and they built a bridge of stone over the river, by which alone the gates could be entered. Beyond the gates wide passages ran down to high halls and chambers far below that were hewn in the living stone, so many and so great that that dwelling was named Menegroth, the Thousand Caves.

But the Elves also had part in that labour, and Elves and Dwarves together, each with their own skill, there wrought out the visions of Melian, images of the wonder and beauty of Valinor beyond the Sea. The pillars of Menegroth were hewn in the lines of the beeches of Oromë, stock, bough, and leaf, and they were lit with lanterns of gold. The nightingales sang there as in the gardens of Lórien; and there were fountains of silver, and basins of marble, and floors of many-coloured stones. Carven figures of beasts and birds there ran upon the walls, or climbed upon the pillars, or peered among the branches entwined with many flowers. And as the years passed Melian and her maidens filled the halls with woven hangings wherein could be read the deeds of the Valar, and many things that had befallen in Arda since its beginning, and shadows of things that were yet to be. That was the fairest dwelling of any king that has ever been east of the Sea.

And when the building of Menegroth was achieved, and there was peace in the realm of Thingol and Melian, the Naugrim yet came ever and anon over the mountains and went in traffic about the lands; but they went seldom to the Falas, for they hated the sound of the sea and feared to look upon it. To Beleriand there came no other rumour or tidings of the world without.

There’s another tidbit about Menegroth in History of Middle-earth (The Peoples of Middle-earth, “The problem of Ros”):

…the great Hall of the Throne of Elwë in the midst of his stronghold of Menegroth…was called the Menelrond [heaven-dome], because by the arts and aid of Melian its high arched roof had been adorned with silver and gems set in the order and figures of the stars in the great Dome of Valmar in Aman, whence Melian came.

The section further states that Elwing named Elrond in memory of this place, and that this was held to be prophetic, as it foreshadowed Elrond choosing the kindred of the Eldar and “carrying on the lineage of King Elwë [Footnote: Also also that of Turgon; though he oreferred that of Elwë, who was not under the ban that was laid on the Exiles.]”, while Elros, named for water, crossed the seas and became King of Númenor.

I feel like Menegroth in the passage above comes about as close as anything else we see to Eru’s ideal for the Ainur and the Eruhíni: dwarves and elves and a Maia all working together in Middle-earth to make something beautiful with their different skills and knowledge. The decision to do it in incited by the awareness of danger, but that leads not to hostility but to cooperation and beauty. It’s not in Valinor, but it recalls much of Valinor and of the Valar: the carvings of trees and woodland creatures recall the forests of Oromë, the nightingales the gardens of Lórien, the tapestries of history (and visions of the future) the halls of Vairë and Mandos. Different peoples get a glimpse of things they don’t fully understand, but are drawn to: the dwarves can’t stand the sea, but they nonetheless love Círdan’s pearls.

This is what makes the way Menegroth ends such an absolute tragedy, and it is what makes Legolas and Gimli in The Lord of the Rings the redress of that tragedy: their visits to Aglarond and Fangorn, each understanding what the other loves, is a kind of echo of the unity of these caverns carved with trees and forest-creatures. They’re putting things right. (As, in a different way, Galadriel is putting Fëanor’s story right, and Elrond is putting Thingol’s specifically right.) Not putting things back exactly as they were, but healing them.

#i feel like this passage gets so overlooked #because “of the sindar” is a big flashback dropped in the middle of the return of the noldor #i like being able to see these sections in their chronological place #silmarillion daily #the silmarillion #tolkien #the lord of the rings #thingol #melian #dwarves #legolas #gimli #doriath

[meadowlarkx]

elvenkings

Fic for @sindarweek day 2: Locations | AO3

Afterwards, they went back. No tale contains this part: no one set it down. Few set out: Oropher, his tall, gangly son, and a handful of others. A small cluster of green shoots. Spring was returning to the forest, and it smelled sweet, like unfurling leaves and old rot melting. They were very careful. They moved and slept in the trees, wishing their foliage fuller and missing Melian’s temperate cradle. But at the rushing Esgalduin, before Menegroth’s bashed-in mouth, there were no boughs to make the going safer.

“Finrod’s brother,” one said, weeping, “wished his mortal’s beauty to live on unmarred in his memory.”

Oropher looked searchingly at his son. Should we not have come back? the look asked. Should I not have brought you back?

Thranduil shook his head. He was serious-faced, with an edge of temper and a merry wit that darted free at times like a bird startled from a branch. No humor glinted in his gaze now. He was named for the spring, but perhaps it had been this kind of spring. “We had to,” he said simply. “Pass me a lantern:” and he crossed the stone bridge and went inside.

Ringing silence, orchestral silence, the tremor of the air from breath and speech shimmering up the vaulted halls roofed by gleaming roots, through the wide proud galleries with their pillars fashioned like beech-trees. No robbers or kinslayers had made lair of this place. Still they trod softly, reverently, until in the garden with its fountain gone quiet—not the throne room—Medlithor sang out clarion a love-song of Daeron’s, and briefly illuminated the dark like lightning.

Three of Nimloth’s gowns for the little princess. Torn tapestries—gleaming silver. A great book of heraldry, and another of sketches, plans for uncarved statuary. Daeron’s prized notes nowhere to be found. A chest of Oropher’s things, still fastened shut, guiltily perfect. A zither broken and unsinging. The dark space where the bodies had been heaped and burnt atop the frozen ground by their enemies. White bones of a few they had missed. The tree-roots embracing them, the new moss blanketing them. Circles ever widening outward, months late seeking children who would never be found.

Somber return, days in the making. Thranduil sat on a pier and watched the silt swirl and mingle with the clear salt of the ocean. Something tugged in his young breast: he could not name it. It was not sea-longing.

“It was very fine. The floor was fashioned like a vast ocean, sweeping out—oh!—with bright fishes, and strange sea-weeds like purple flowers, and amongst them, stars.” Evranin’s hands fluttered like birds, even when she was not at her stitching. “You used to hop from one spotted ray to the next.”

Elwing nodded dubiously.

“You remember it, don’t you, my girl? I know you do.”

“I think so,” Elwing said.

“Your great-grandfather planned it. He was the first to make the journey across the Sea, and he returned with a beautiful light in his eyes: they glowed in the endless dusk under the starlight.”

Elwing flinched.

“Not thus, sweet,” Evranin said, “like auntie Idril’s. ‘Twas a shine like the dawn, though of course, we knew no dawn then.”

Elwing looked confused, then squinted her eyes like two clenched fists, as though trying to work out a time before sunlight. Evranin thought this very Bëorian of her. At last, satisfied, she gave a little nod of approval.

“He loved the Sea: your great-grandfather. He and his brother meant to cross and live by the shore on the other side—where the fish leapt in the colorful shallows, and the stars’ reflection could yet be seen.”

“But he did not,” Elwing interrupted, frowning. She knew this part, and meant not to be appeased.

“He loved your great-grandmother more, and the woods’ green smell underfoot in the summer. But his brother—your great-great-uncle—did cross over, and he built a fair city for our people by the water. When you look west, my dear, think of all your family waiting to meet you. We live on the shore now, just as they do.”

“I don’t remember the floor of that gallery,” Elwing said quietly. “But I remember the music of the fountains through the room, and Naneth dancing with Ada. There were nightingales in his hair.”

If you looked carefully, as Bilbo was wont to do, you could see the places where the tapestry in Elrond’s library had been repaired. It nearly covered one complete wall of the hexagonal room, confidently draping languid and liquid across space where more books and scrolls could have been squirreled away. Its colors seemed to shift, unearthly, and the weave was finer than any Bilbo had seen—which made the repairs, neat as they were, quite obvious. The image was one of a shadow-crowded forest of brambles and feathery boughs, and in the foreground dark, shimmering water. Shapes were awakening beneath the stars in the twilight by the water’s edge, stretching up glistening bodies and dancing and drawing one another in to embrace. At one corner the winding border had been singed and the damage had not been mended. Still, it was very beautiful. Nearby, upon a varnished wooden stand, a book sat partly open, with thin, cracked pages of birch-paper. It was full of sigils, but Bilbo, despite making a study of Elf-lore, recognized none of them.

“Nor do I know most of them,” Elrond said, when asked. “It is far older than I, and a gift from Oropher from long ago, ere he left eastwards. See, though. Here is Beleg’s seal, and Mablung’s: the marchwardens from Túrin’s unhappy tale.” Bilbo exclaimed over these a while, and then asked: “What about the tapestry?”

“Melian the Maia wove it in the Elder Days.” He did not need to add: I thought it should be admired.

They had argued bitterly on the day the gift was made. It was vanishingly rare to see Elrond angry, but Oropher had managed it.

“Name me not king. I have chosen my king, and I am his herald. Leave it, I have begged of you. I won't ask again."

“And in what world am I to be named lord, while Elwing’s son bears no title? While our prince—”

“You might stay!” Elrond said rather wildly.

“And you might come with us—to oak and elm, the deep forest, people of our own ways—”

“I have made my choice.”

Silence fell between them, a silence of set jaws and brittle gazes. It was from an excess of care that they crossed wills.

“You are so like Lúthien,” Oropher said at last. Pride was soft in his voice. “Nay, your mother in her lordship. You are so like all of them.”

Elrond did not know what he meant.

“Accept these at least. They are your own inheritance. How I wish we had been able to offer you more.” Oropher said nothing else, but Elrond heard in his inmost heart all he meant, and opening his own heart he offered him forgiveness for the harsh words freshly spoken and for the old aches, the beaded necklace of orphans upon orphans, the bruise-tender childhood, the sunken continent, the houseless shades of the dead that crowded like moths: all the wounds still bleeding, and in which Oropher was faultless.

When Amon Lanc grew too dangerous, Thranduil knew what had to be done. Harried and unmerry was the Wood-elves’ journey northwards through the forest’s tree-paths. They took from the hill only what they could carry. Those of Thranduil’s people whom he met on the way—for many lived simply in the trees throughout Greenwood with their companions and children, and had joined themselves to no great settlement—spoke with him in troubled voices, though on the nights his following gathered around their small talans wine flowed and songs were sung.

“We need to make fast a stronghold,” he said. “Underground: a place of stone.”

“Better to go through the trees quickly! to travel lightly!”

“And if there is nowhere left that the Shadow has not touched?”

These Elves shook their heads and he read their thinking: we have always dwelt in this forest. But Thranduil’s heart misgave him, insisting the direst hour was still to come, and that he ready all his scattered people a sanctuary in advance of that hour.

Kingship did not rest easily on this son of Oropher. He had not been born to it, and he had meant never to find it. He preferred swimming the forest’s rivers and downing the sweet nectar of more summery lands to difficult counsels and deference, however warmly they were offered him. Very often since his father’s death, the way did not seem clear.

It was clear in this moment. He felt Elu Thingol’s hand cool upon his shoulder, as surely as if the king sojourned with him in the dappled wood and spoke as he had at the height of his wisdom. He saw in his mind’s eye the bridge that would cross the running water, the enchanted door, the roots that would be sung into high ceilings, the beech-carved pillars, the golden lamplight.

__________

From The Silmarillion: "But the Elves also had part in that labour, and Elves and Dwarves together, each with their own skill, there wrought out the visions of Melian, images of the wonder and beauty of Valinor beyond the Sea. The pillars of Menegroth were hewn in the likeness of the beeches of Oromë, stock, bough, and leaf, and they were lit with lanterns of gold. The nightingales sang there as in the gardens of Lórien; and there were fountains of silver, and basins of marble, and floors of many-colored stones. Carven figures of beasts and birds there ran upon the walls, or climbed upon the pillars, or peered among the branches entwined with many flowers. And as the years passed Melian and her maidens filled the halls with woven hangings wherein could be read the deeds of the Valar, and many things that had befallen in Arda since its beginning, and shadows of things that were yet to be. That was the fairest dwelling of any king that has ever been east of the Sea."

#wanted to post this one in as tumblr friendly a format as possible since it's not long ! #thank you so much for running this event!!! 💕💕 #thranduil #elrond #elwing #oropher #evranin #silm #silmarillion fic #silmarillion #etc. #lotr #the hobbit #thingol #menegroth #sindarweek #sindarweek2 #my fic

[nothinghereisworking]

My Favorite Things

Melian’s singing and tree branches swaying, Luthien dancing to Daeron’s fair playing, Menegroth’s caverns, Esgalduin’s springs, These are a few of my favorite things.

Meeting new kin on diplomacy missions, Setting impossible marriage conditions, Keeping the gem he surprisingly brings, These are a few of my favorite things.

Was too reckless With the necklace, Now the Dwarves are mad; I just like acquiring favorite things, How did this turn out so bad?

#thingol #melian #menegroth #menelrond #seasons greetings #filk #tolkien fanart #bad paint art #artist: cuarthol

[maironsbigboobs]

@sindarweek day 2: Locations

Its [Doriath's] northern and lesser part, the Forest of Neldoreth, was bounded east and south by the dark river Esgalduin, which bent westward in the midst of the land; and between Aros and Esgalduin lay the denser and greater woods of Region. Upon the southern bank of Esgalduin, where it turned westward towards Sirion, were the Caves of Menegroth; and all Doriath lay east of Sirion save for a narrow region of woodland between the meeting of Teiglin and Sirion and the Meres of Twilight. By the people of Doriath this wood was called Nivrim, the West March; great oak-trees grew there... - The Silmarillion By the afternoon they had reached the eaves of Mirkwood, and were resting almost beneath the great overhanging boughs of its outer trees. Their trunks were huge and gnarled, their branches twisted, their leaves were dark and long. Ivy grew on them and trailed along the ground. “Well, here is Mirkwood!” said Gandalf. “The greatest of the forests of the Northern world. I hope you like the look of it."- The Hobbit

#sindarweek #doriath #mirkwood #mine #oropher making the greenwood but its just the can i copy your homework meme

[seattlesolace]

water // jay (ENHYPEN)

pairing: prince!jay x mermaid!fem!reader

summary: your father sends you to inspect a ship, and by doing so you found yourself a new acquaintance.

content: sfw

word count: ~1k

for tropetember – 18/09 fairytale au // tropetember masterlist

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You were huffing and puffing as soon as you emerged from the water. Your jet black luscious hair lay flat on your head, and you fixed the shells that covered your chest as you made your way to the nearest bed of rocks. Your father instructed you to observe the ship that arrived on the island last night, and although he could have asked his other sons or daughters, he just chose to send you.

It was early in the morning, and you couldn’t see any signs of life coming from the boat. Except for one voice. You squinted your eyes and saw a man, a human, with the sharpest jawline you had ever seen in your life. Based on what he was wearing, he seemed to be a prince, or someone of royalty. You decided to swim closer to the ship, getting a better view and a better taste of his voice.

He was belting notes to a song that you did not know, and it made you knit your eyebrows and hold in your laughter when he started singing way too enthusiastically and exaggerating the adlibs. The man then leaned to the side of the ship where he could see you floating in water, but his eyes were set somewhere else.

“You sound awful.”

The man lost his balance and tripped backwards as soon as he heard your voice. Standing up with wobbly legs, he brushed his hair back and looked left and right, searching for the source.

“Down here, Sir,” you called for him. You waved at him when his eyes landed on you.

You could see him gulp and hear him clear his throat before he spoke. “You’re… a mermaid…”

It seemed like he was awestruck by the way his eyes were looking at you and the way his mouth stayed agape.

“What’s the matter, you’ve never seen one before?” You asked, purposefully bringing your tail to the surface of the water. He saw the purple scales you had matched the shells that covered your top. If he decided to come closer, he’d see that your eyes were purple, too.

“I’ve always thought you were a myth,” the man leaned forward, desperate to get a better look. “Where did you come from?”

“Uh, under the sea,” you answered matter-of-factly. “What about you?”

“Esgalduin,” the man said, pulling on the collar of his outfit. “I’m sorry, talking like this seems very uncomfortable. Is there any way I can get closer to you?”

You frowned before nodding. “Yeah,” you smiled. “Jump in the water.”

The man scoffed and backed away. He disappeared and you really thought that you had offended him. However, as you turned your tail around to swim away, you heard the sound of a huge splash behind you. You swiveled in the water and was instantly met with the same man with the chiseled jawline. He was wiping the water out of his eyes, smiling at you.

“You can call me Jay,” he bent his head slightly to greet you formally. “My father is the King of Esgalduin.”

“Wait,” you blinked twice. “So you’re a prince?”

“His only son, yes,” the man pulled on the strings that held his white top together. “And you are?”

“My father is the King of Themyscira, the kingdom…”

“Underwater, yes,” the man finished your sentence. “That’s what we’re here for. We’ve been told that your kingdom is in this area. So you’re a princess?”

“One of many,” you shrugged, pulling your hair to the front. “My father sent me here to inspect your ship.”

“Oh?” Prince Jay brushed his wet hair back and took a quick glance at his own ship. “Is there some sort of requirement for us to visit your kingdom?”

You chuckled. “No, I guess he wanted to make sure you all are friends and not foe.”

“Well, judging from this friendly interaction we’re having, I hope you don’t see us as the latter,” Prince Jay swam closer to you and reached out his hand to take yours. “Princess…?”

“Y/N,” you replied, your voice sounding way softer than the first time you opened your mouth.

Prince Jay planted a chaste kiss on the back of your hand. “A pleasure to meet you, Your Royal Highness.”

You snorted, and Prince Jay looked at you weird. You pulled your hand away and started swimming around him. “My father has been waiting for your King’s visit.”

“That’s great,” Prince Jay rotated in his place to follow your movements. “How are we going to get there then?”

“I pull you down and hopefully you can hold your breath for an hour,” you said, eyes wide anticipating for Prince Jay’s reaction.

He stared at you in horror and you could no longer hold back your laughter. “I’m kidding. We will come to your ship. After I report back, of course. There will be a feast and a party.”

“Now when you say party, will there be entertainment?”

“There should be?” You answered with an uncertain tone. “Why?”

“Earlier you said I sounded awful,” Prince Jay swam closer to you again. “So I’m dying to find out what your standard for singing is. I’ve heard mermaids have beautiful voices.”

You chuckled, splashing your hand from underneath the water to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “My apologies, Your Highness, although I am certain I can sing better. Than you, at least.”

Prince Jay let out a soft laugh that showed his fake disappointment towards your comment. You then gently swam backwards, keeping your distance from him.

“I shall go back to my kingdom,” you declared, ready to leave.

“I look forward to seeing you again soon,” Prince Jay bowed again, this time in a bigger gesture to the point that his nose touched the water. You responded with a smile before turning your back to him, playfully flapping your tail so it would make a big splash against his face.

-END-

© seattlesolace 2022, all rights reserved

tropetember authors: @vivvys @aira-mai @nyanggk

for more tropetember, click on the hashtag below

the masterlist for my tropetember entries will be updated regularly

#writtenbynana #tropetember #fic: water #enhypen #jay #enhypen jay #jay enhypen #jay fluff #enhypen jay fluff #enhypen fluff #enhypen imagines #jay park #park jay #jongseong #park jongseong #jongseong park

[aureentuluva70]

The Lay of Leithian Part 19: Luthien's Escape from Hirilorn

<<&lt;Part 18. Part 20>>>

(Credits to Ted Nasmith, Robert Cornelius, and Elena Kukanova for the artwork)

#lay of leithian #leithian #luthien #tinuviel #daeron #silmarillion #tolkien #leithianedit #silmedit #tolkienedit #ok but the guards should have seen it coming the MOMENT she asked for something as specific as 'water from esgalduin at midnight #brought in a silver bowl in complete silence' like cmon you guys are useless #luthien literally tells daeron to his face that she was making a magic cloak and he's just like 'thats a little sus but sure whatever' #either they didnt think that luthien would actually try to escape(let alone succeed) or they just really were that stupid

[tenth-sentence]

At the foot of the falls Carcharoth drank to ease his consuming thirst, and he howled, and thus they were aware of him.

"The Silmarillion" - J.R.R. Tolkien

#book quote #the silmarillion #jrr tolkien #waterfall #wolf #werewolf #carcharoth #esgalduin

[outofangband]

drafting for some Doriath fics so I wanted to make a board as inspiration/motivtion! These are mostly on the outskirts of the girdle, boh east and west, but some are along Esgalduin

x x x x x x

#the silmarillion #doriath #silmedit #silmedits #edits

[polutrope]

For the silm phrase prompt list- Galadriel, "wandering free in the woodlands".

Thank you for the prompt! Here I have adopted the LotR version of Galadriel who came over the mountains before the fall of Nargothrond.

Celeborn/Galadriel, G, 550 words. On AO3.

The creek ripples over Galadriel’s feet. The water cools the ache of many leagues cutting their own path over the rough, uneven ground of these ancient woodlands. She curls her toes, kneads the muddy bottom. Across from her, Celeborn splashes the water in his cupped hands over his face. His tongue darts out to taste a drop, and he smiles when he catches her watching.

“It is clean,” he says. “It seems the Enemy's poisons have not reached this place.” He sighs and scans the dense black canopy. Galadriel watches the droplets of water trickle over his bared skin and remembers the first time she saw him this way, bathing beneath a fall of water that leapt over slick shining stone into a pool of the Esgalduin. 

“It is strange to trace the steps of my people back over the mountains,” Celeborn says. "My grandsire must have passed through these woods, seeking the light in the west; and now we return, fleeing the darkness we found there.”

Galadriel hums but offers no answer. The first time she fled a home in the west, she followed the thrum of longing in her heart. That thrum had been her constant companion from the earliest years of her youth, before even the rumour of another land across the sea had entered her child’s fantasies. Rebellion had kindled her longing, so that she blazed bold and bright as if drunk on the very starlight that illumined the cold bitter paths to Middle-earth. A longing to rule turned to a longing for vengeance turned to a longing for wisdom; but ever did her spirit burn with purpose. 

Until Finrod’s light went out in the pits of Tol-in-Gaurhoth, the last of her brothers, and the light within her was extinguished also. She might have mouldered beneath the damp stony vaults of Menegroth had not Celeborn woken her from her hollow grief and bid her journey east beside him, leading a small company back over the mountains.

Yet no purpose scorching the soles of her feet has driven her onwards on this, her second flight from darkness. 

“My love?” Celeborn’s voice, soft as morning mist, clears the murk of her thoughts. “You are troubled.”

Galadriel hums again and looks up from the dark gleam of the river into the dark gleam of his eyes. “And for what have we fled?” she asks him. “To what purpose do we wander in these woodlands, having left our kin behind?”

Celeborn comes to sit beside her and clasps her hands in his. “Is it not purpose enough to endure? To be free, so that the traditions and ambitions of our people might live on with us?”

“What ambitions?” Galadriel asks. “What is there here but unchanging stillness and silence? Have we come all this way only to wander, singing the memory of our people to the unhearing trees?”

Celeborn smiles and tucks a lock of hair behind her ear, but for a long time says nothing. At last he answers, “Yes,” and kisses her brow. “For now, that is all we have to do.” 

Not for no purpose, Galadriel thinks, and captures Celeborn’s lips in hers as he lowers them from her brow. Despair and darkness drove her from Beleriand, but it was love and hope that carried her feet over the mountains.

#galadriel #celeborn #celeborn x galadriel #prompts #silm phrase prompts #my fic #first Galadriel-centric thing I've ever written!

[ceescedasticity]

Outlandish theory of the day: After some recovery time from… everything, the river spirits of Beleriand relocate to Aman (which previously had a dramatic deficit of rivers) and establish themselves anew.

All the rivers have preferences about size, location, outlet, tributaries, elves they want to be near, biomes, etc.

(More than a few elves are quite interested in living near one river or another.)

The Valar have their own opinions on how much relandscaping of Valinor is necessary/desirable/allowable.

For added hilarity the river spirits are in humanoid fána for the discussions on location etc. They aren't accustomed to this and tend to be very expressive and emotional and physically demonstrative.

Highlights include:

Sirion wants to start inside the Calacirya and have another Gates of Sirion going under the mountains and then down to the Great Sea. Is informed putting a tunnel under the Calacirya would defeat the point. Is kind of huffy about it.

Gelion is affronted that all the sons of Fëanor are still in Mandos.

Esgalduin has trouble deciding between trying to follow Melian in the Gardens of Lórien or setting up… wherever the Iathrim survivors/returnees are setting up. Where is that?

Narog has an emotional reunion with Finrod.

Ascor (the river of Ossiriand closest to Belegost and Nogrod) is trying to lobby to be wherever it is dead dwarves are stashed.

Rivers agree: Valmar definitely needs a river.

Who can be small enough to fit comfortably on Tol Eressëa?

etc

#a tolkien tag #reckless application of spackle

[zealouswerewolfcollector]

Where the Shadows Are

I just wanted to write a cracky Gil-galad origin story, but it turned into angst and drama.

M, 8158 words, Maedhros/Fingon

Warnings: Character death (obvious from the first line), referenced character death, very complicated relationships, PTSD

On Ao3

Ereinion Gil-galad burns.

His limbs wither, his bones crackle, his skin smokes.

Ash twirls in the air.

---

They left their companions on the bank of the Esgalduin, not too far from the derelict Iant Iaur. There were only three of them – Fingon's closest and most trustworthy friends. Maedhros had come alone.

The horses refused to go farther than the bridge, so they dismounted and continued on foot into Nan Dungortheb.

Maedhros had chosen to wear full armor and had armored his mind too against any intrusion. Fingon could discern only his eyes, which kept darting from side to side, and his long braid, which fell heavily from under his helmet. But he didn't need to see Maedhros's face or to share his mind to know what he was thinking. He had made himself clear enough.

Still, Fingon's hand itched with the childish urge to tug at Maedhros's braid just so he would say something, would look at Fingon at the very least instead of walking in solemn silence as one resigned to his doom.

Fingon had opted for agility when choosing armor, which had earned him Maedhros's acerbic reprimand. Fingon had ignored it. He knew what they were doing was right, and he was convinced no ill would befall them until it was done.

They kept near the edge of Neldoreth – the northern border of Doriath – careful not to step too close to the forest lest they be ensnared and lost forever. It would be easy to stray from the path and wander into the ever-shifting mists if not for the strong feeling that they were unwelcome. The beeches stood tall, guarding the Hidden Kingdom, towering over the travelers menacingly. The air crackled with power that did not feel evil but rather all-encompassing, too great to be concerned if two Eldar passing by lived or died.

Yet, it was infinitely preferable to the northern scenery. Fingon exercised all his strength of will to keep himself from turning away from the gnarled, whispering trees, from the barren land where few things grew, from the shapeless shadows that kept stretching towards them with their dark claws, filling Fingon's heart with unspeakable dread and despair. He couldn't imagine how Maedhros felt in this crossroad of power of a mighty Ainu, servants of Morgoth and otherworldly evils. Once again, Fingon's insides twisted with guilt, but he didn't let it deter him from his path. He would do what he had come here to do, and Maedhros would understand.

Ahead, the road curled slightly, leading them deeper into the shadowland. Fingon's right hand tightened around the hilt of his sword, and the left felt the arrows in his quiver. They walked for a few more hours, aware how their footsteps, even their breath, echoed in the silence, tensing at every strange whisper and rustle, yet stubbornly pressing forward.

"Here," Maedhros said, stopping abruptly.

It was the first word he had spoken since they had left their companions, the first word he had spoken to Fingon since Himlad.

He took off his helmet, and for a moment, Fingon was overcome with a longing to reach out and touch his beautiful face. But he knew his touch would not be welcome at the moment. The guilt rose again, but soon enough, the excitement over what was going to happen made him forget about everything else. With his heart hammering in his chest, he waited for Maedhros's instructions.

"No," he said the second time.

---

"No," Maedhros said the first time Fingon asked him.

"No," he said the third time and many times after that.

Fingon never argued, never got angry, never despaired. He only kept asking and asking.

No matter how mighty the mountain, the steady trickle will wear it down. They both knew it. It was only a matter of time.

"It is all right, lie down."

---

Círdan's face was the first thing that came into Ereinion's view. He blinked slowly, and when he opened his eyes again, the sun had moved close to the horizon, and Círdan had disappeared. Suddenly panicking, he tried to rise, to find him, but he was unable to move.

Círdan's hand on his forearm was as gentle as it could be, but it still hurt. Nevertheless, Ereinion was comforted by his presence.

"What happened?" he asked.

It came out weak and hoarse.

"There was a storm," Círdan said.

He sounded calm, but by now, Ereinion knew him well enough to notice the undercurrent of tension in his voice. He waited for Círdan to continue.

"Something must have truly enraged Ossë. I have no recollection of such mighty storms on Balar. We found you on the shore this morning."

Disconnected bits of memory started returning to Ereinion. He remembered the horror in front of the giant wave that rose before him, remembered how the sky had darkened, remembered the voices yelling at him to run.

"There were others," he said. "On the shore."

Círdan cast his gaze down. "You should rest," he said.

Ereinion's eyelids burned. He was thankful Círdan didn't mention the tears that slipped down the corners of his eyes.

"How did I survive?" he whispered.

"That is a question that I wished to ask you," Círdan said.

Ereinion had no idea how to respond, how to explain to Círdan what had happened when he didn't understand it himself. He could not explain how he felt like he had grown into the ground – firm and strong, how when the wave had come, he had bent backward at an angle that should have broken his back, how he had not felt the need to breathe underwater.

"I was lucky," he said.

There was finally a smile on Círdan's face.

"I am glad you were."

Ereinion fell asleep, and when he woke up again, Círdan was still there, holding his hand.

One particularly cold winter –  especially freezing in Himring – Ereinion sat shivering in Maedhros's hall. His father and their host, the only two people remaining in the hall except for Ereinion, were speaking in low voices with no intention to retire for the night.

---

Ereinion grew up thinking the Lord of Himring loathed him. Even as a young child, he could feel that Lord Maedhros avoided him at every turn, answered him curtly and rarely even looked at him. Ereinion would be happy to stay away from Maedhros whenever he appeared in Hithlum and never visit the frosty Himring Hill again, but his father seemed determined to make them get along.

Ereinion pulled his woolen cloak closer around him and walked to the fire roaring in the fireplace. His fingertips felt like icicles were hanging from them. He stretched his hands to the fire.

"Get back!"

He didn't even have time to think about obeying the raspy order when a hand fell on his shoulder and yanked him away from the fireplace. He found himself inches away from Maedhros's furious face.

"Never get close to fire," Maedhros said.

His voice was nothing but a snarl. The light in his eyes was blinding. His teeth were bared and seemed sharp in the shadows of the hall. His grip on Ereinion's shoulder was getting more painful every moment. It was the first time Ereinion remembered Maedhros touching him.

"Do you understand?" Maedhros snarled again, shaking him.

At that moment, he was more terrifying than any creature of Angband could ever be. To his utter shame, Ereinion's eyes filled with tears, but before he would completely embarrass himself by starting to weep, he was snatched into the safe embrace of his father.

"What are you doing?" his father spat out.

He was speaking in that low tone that meant he was truly livid. Ereinion whimpered.

"No need for tears, yonya, Lord Maedhros is sorry for frightening you, isn't he," his father said ominously.

Maedhros ignored him, still looking into Ereinion's eyes.

"Do you understand?" he repeated.

Ereinion nodded quickly. Satisfied, Maedhros straightened up.

"I apologize if I scared you," he said, his features once again schooled into the usual mix of distaste and indifference he must have reserved solely for Ereinion.

With one last glance at him and his father, Maedhros left the hall.

It took centuries for Ereinion to realize that the look in Maedhros's eyes whenever his gaze fell upon Ereinion wasn't hatred.

It was fear.

He felt dispirited not only because they had been on the way to the Falas for nearly a month, or because they had fought off Orcs more times than he could count, or because his father had sent him away when he was planning a great battle, or because he did not know yet but felt that he would never see his father again. In addition to all of it, he was also worried about how Lord Círdan and the Falathrim would receive him.

---

The day Ereinion approached the high walls of Eglarest was a bright, sunny one. He expected it to be dreary in accordance with his mood, but it seemed like spoiling the weather was not one of his curses.

He was worried not only because he didn't know Lord Círdan, or because he was going to be a lonely Noldo among the Falathrim, or because his father had slain Círdan's kin on the faraway shores of Valinor. Ereinion was under no illusion that he was an ordinary Elda despite his father's best efforts to convince him otherwise. Lord Maedhros wasn't the only one who kept his distance from him. Others did too, even his father's closest friends, though it took Ereinion a while to understand. Their dislike wasn't as noticeable as Maedhros's, who would not or could not hide his. Surely, Círdan, who was wise and older than Ereinion's grandfather, would immediately see that Ereinion was cursed.

Ereinion had met Lord Círdan only once a few years ago when the troops of the Falas had come to the aid of his father during Morgoth's attack on Hithlum. However, the meeting was brief, and Ereinion was young and still unaware of his curse. Most likely, Lord Círdan had not had time to notice the strangeness of the King's son.

Círdan welcomed Ereinion and his companions warmly. There was a feast, games, songs and renowned Falathrim wave dances. But the entire time there was only one thing in Ereinion's mind. He knows what I am. What exactly he was, Ereinion himself had no idea. He doubted many knew. His father did, of course. Lord Maedhros certainly did and hated him for it. Others perhaps didn't know the details but knew or suspected that there was something wrong with him.

A week later, when Ereinion's companions departed for Hithlum, Lord Círdan summoned him. On his way, Ereinion tried to appear bold and self-assured like his father, but it was hard when all he could think about was if Círdan would exile him from Eglarest. Of course, if he was going to do it, he could have just sent him back with his companions, but perhaps he found Ereinion dangerous enough to cast him out into the wilderness all alone. Sometimes Ereinion suspected that if not for his father, it would have been his fate. He wondered if he could find his way back to Hithlum or if he would be better off trying to reach Nargothrond.

Círdan's kindly smile did nothing to reassure him. Most people smiled to his face. But unlike them, Círdan didn't avoid his look.

"How do you find Eglarest?" he asked after offering Ereinion a seat and pouring him tea. "Have you settled in?"

"I have, thank you," Ereinion said.

He meant to sound polite instead of wary, but he wasn't successful. Fortunately, Círdan didn't seem to take offense.

"If you need anything, do not hesitate to tell me," Círdan said.

Ereinion nodded slowly. The conversation wasn't going in the direction he had expected.

"Have you ever gone fishing?" Círdan asked.

It took Ereinion a moment to comprehend the question.

"A few times with my grandfather," he said, "when I was very young."

"Have you ever fished in the sea?"

"I have not," Ereinion answered seriously.

Círdan seemed amused by his answers. Ereinion fidgeted in his seat, unsure what it meant.

"Have you ever sailed?" Círdan asked.

"No, Lord Círdan."

"Well, that is unacceptable," Círdan said. "I invite you to go fishing with me the day after tomorrow. Do you accept?"

Confused, Ereinion nodded.

"Very well. Now how about a game of checkers? Unless you had something else to do."

"I could play checkers," Ereinion said. "But I am not very good at it."

"I will tell you a secret," Círdan whispered, leaning over him. "Neither am I."

Half-asleep, Maedhros thought he had misheard him.

---

"We should have a child," Fingon said.

"Hmm?" he said, snuggling closer to Fingon and pressing his lips to his bare shoulder.

Fingon turned in his arms and looked into his eyes.

"I want us to have a child," he said.

Maedhros snorted. "And I want a jar of Vanyarin strawberry preserves."

He frowned when Fingon's expression didn't change.

"I would give you a child if I could," he said, fully awake now. "But none of us is equipped to bear one, as I am sure you know."

Fingon was still staring intently at something, his eyes narrowed as if he was doing complicated mental calculations. Maedhros's heart tumbled unpleasantly in his chest.

"Perhaps you wish…" He swallowed the sudden lump in his throat. "Do you wish to be with someone who could give you children? If so, I will not stand in—"

"What? No!" Fingon laughed, finally roused from his thoughts. "I want to have a child with you."

It didn't comfort Maedhros, which he was sure was plainly visible on his face. Fingon rolled his eyes and put little kisses on Maedhros's mouth until he got a smile.

"Never worry," he said. "I want no one else but you."

Maedhros thought that was it. It was not.

"Artanáro is looking forward to riding out with us tomorrow," Fingon said, oblivious to the tension or determined to ignore it.

---

The dinner with just the three of them was supposed to be intimate, but instead, it was tense. Ereinion's father was the only one talking. Lord Maedhros answered only in grunts or monosyllables. Ereinion felt too awkward even to eat, but no one noticed it.

Both Ereinion and Maedhros grimaced. It seemed like disliking Ereinion's Quenya name was the only thing they had in common.

"No," Maedhros said.

It didn't surprise Ereinion. It didn't disappoint him either. Contrary to what his father had said, he was not looking forward to riding alongside Maedhros. But the blunt refusal still hurt his pride.

"I have promised him," Fingon said in an urgent whisper.

Maedhros shrugged with one shoulder. "I have not."

Fingon put his cup down with a clang. "I would like to speak with you alone," he said and stood.

Maedhros followed him to the adjacent room. Before entering, Fingon turned to Ereinion.

"Finish your dinner and call the nurse to take you to your room, yonya," he said.

Ereinion nodded, but as soon as the lock clicked, he slipped out of his seat and tiptoed to the door, pressing his ear to the wood.

"Would it kill you to be nice to him for once?" he heard his father's exasperated voice. "He is a child!"

"A child you keep shoving to my face despite knowing what I think of it!" Maedhros spat back.

They were talking in Quenya. Ereinion spoke it well enough, but he still had to strain to understand them, especially Maedhros.

"If you only gave him a chance," Fingon said, "you would see—"

"No, Findekáno!"

The anger in his voice alarmed Ereinion. He had never heard Lord Maedhros speak to his father that way. He had not heard anyone speak to his father that way.

"No," Maedhros continued. "You broke your promise. My only condition was that I would have nothing to do with him. You promised me that! And it was not the only promise you broke."

"What are you talking about?" Fingon asked quietly.

"Do not pretend you cannot understand. You know what I mean. When you brought me back from there, and I was not in my right mind yet, you promised me that I would never be forced to do the things I had done again. You swore it over and over until I believed you. And then you forced me to do it yourself! I trusted you with my darkest secrets, and you broke my trust."

"How can you accuse me of such a heinous thing?" Fingon cried. "You agreed to it!"

"I agreed because you would not stop asking!"

"Exactly! I was asking. I never forced you!"

"You knew well what you were doing. You knew if you kept pressuring me, I would eventually give in. You knew I felt indebted to you. You knew I would do anything to repay you. You knew I loved you more than anything. You exploited it. You got what you wanted. The least you could do was to keep your word. But then you name the boy Artanáro and you force me to relive everything every time you push him to me."

"I never knew you felt that way."

Ereinion almost kicked open the door and ran inside because his father sounded so crestfallen, so defeated. What right did Lord Maedhros have to make him so unhappy?

"You knew," Maedhros said. "You just chose to believe it wasn't true."

There was a moment of silence, then Ereinion's father continued in the same desolate voice.

"Even so, whatever real or imagined slights you believe I am guilty of, it is not his fault. I am to blame for all of it. He is only a young child, and he has something of you in him, in his fëa. It burns so brightly."

"He has nothing of me!" Maedhros shouted. "I did everything I could to make sure of it, and if you know what is good for you and for him, you will pray that I succeeded!" In a lower voice, he added: "I am not even sure that he has a fëa."

Ereinion had to close his mouth with his palm, so they wouldn't hear his muffled sobs. He didn't know why he would have anything from Maedhros, and he wanted nothing from him, but the entire conversation was unsettling, and his claim that Ereinion might not have a fëa was too much. He could not stop the tears. How could it be possible? All Quendi had fëar, and despite his title, he was a simple Elda, born from a mother.

His father must have been as shocked as he was because it took him a while to answer.

"Never say that again," he said, deceptively calm. "Never. He has a fëa. I know it. I feel it. And you would too if you gave him a chance!"

"Have you heard a word I said, Findekáno? No. I wish no part in raising him! I am not his father! You are! Though it is beyond me why you would want a child at a time of war."

"Because I am alone!" Fingon cried. "I am alone! You have all of your siblings. I have no idea where mine are, if they are still alive! And now, with Father gone and Lalwendë and our cousins too, I would be more alone than ever if not for my son. I wanted a family, Russandol. Why is it so hard to understand?"

"You have me," Maedhros said.

"Do I? The moment I come between you and your oath, you will not hesitate to slay me."

"Why would you ever come between us and our father's oath?"

"You cannot even bother denying it," Fingon said bitterly.

"It is such a foolish idea that denying it has no meaning," Maedhros answered. "I would never hurt you."

"Can you not see that you are hurting me right now?" Fingon asked. "Please, Russandol. I want us to be a family. If only you knew him. He is such a sweet child and so clever! You would love him if—"

"Stop it!" Maedhros spat. "Enough! It will never happen! He is not a child. He is born of darkness. He is nothing but a—"

Ereinion didn't understand the Quenya word that Maedhros called him, but he knew it was nothing good from his tone and from the way his father's voice sounded when he roared: "Don't you dare call my son that!"

Ereinion heard a loud thud, and the door he was leaning against shook with the force of Maedhros's back hitting it.

"Do you hear me? If you ever call him—"

Fingon suddenly fell silent, and when he spoke again, there was no trace of anger left in his voice.

"Russandol, can you hear me?" he whispered. "Are you with me?"

Ereinion frowned. What a strange question! Where else would Lord Maedhros be? He hadn't left the room unless he had jumped out of the window, which was unlikely. But when Maedhros spoke, Ereinion understood what his father meant. There was no other word to describe Maedhros's voice but absent.

"Let go of me."

"Yes. Sorry. I did not mean to. I only…"

Ereinion heard Maedhros slump down on the floor. His father sat down too.

"May I touch you?" he asked quietly after a while.

"Don't."

"Yes. Of course. I am sorry."

The door was shaking on its hinges. Ereinion heard nothing but the strange, harsh way Maedhros was breathing. Ereinion himself did not dare breathe for fear of being discovered. He wanted nothing more than to run away, hide under his covers and pretend this was all a dream, but he was afraid to move.

"Hold my hand," Maedhros said after a while.

Ereinion heard his father shuffle closer to Maedhros. Gradually, the door stopped moving, and the terrible sounds quieted down. Ereinion let out a breath.

"Let's forget everything we said and did today," Maedhros said in a muffled voice. "Let's never speak of it again."

Ereinion could feel his father's hesitation in the way he sighed.

"Are you sure it is a good idea? I believe we should discuss—"

"Please."

"All right."

They began talking in quiet murmurs, too low for Ereinion to hear. He felt like an intruder. Carefully, he crawled away from the door and slipped out of the chamber as fast as possible.

They did not go riding the next day.

He heard the familiar warm laughter and peeked out from under the covers.

---

"No, stay," Ereinion mumbled when he felt his father sit up on the bed.

"What is it, yonya?" his father asked, smiling and laying back down. "I thought you were already fast asleep."

Ereinion shook his head. "Tell me more stories," he asked, then added after a pause: "Tell me about my mother."

The smile disappeared from his father's face. "I have told you about her," he said.

"Tell me again. Please."

He was tucked safely under his father's chin. Ereinion loved his nighttime stories. When he talked, it seemed like everything was all right, there was no war outside their window, his grandfather wasn't gone, and they weren't in mortal danger.

"She was kind and smart and beautiful," his father started. "She loved you very, very much."

"What did she look like?" Ereinion asked.

"She had dark hair and grey eyes," his father answered.

"Do I look like her?"

"…A little, yes."

"I wish I had a portrait of her or a keepsake to remember her by."

"She saw little point in portraits. She was not a sentimental person. She was… a woman of action. She did not even make things for herself."

"She was a jewel-smith, right?"

Ereinion had heard bits and pieces from his mother's life before, but it was always so difficult to get his father to open up.

"Oh. Right, yes. From a family of smiths."

"I wish they had left Valinor with you. I would love to have a big family."

"You can always make your own family, yonya," his father said.

"Did Mother do so?"

"She did."

"Did she have many friends?"

"Of course. So many. Everyone loved her."

"Even Lord Maedhros?"

His father cleared his throat. "Yes. They were great friends."

Ereinion didn't ask why Maedhros hated him if he loved his parents so much. He knew from experience the question upset his father.

"I would like to talk to her friends, Father. Can I?" he asked instead.

"Her closest friends died in that clash with Orcs that took her life too," his father said quickly.

"Oh." Ereinion wiped away a tear. "Father, when will I be allowed to visit her tomb?"

"You are still too young for it. She was buried in the place she fell to commemorate her valorous deeds. It is now too close to the territory claimed by the Enemy. Maybe when you grow up a little, and we take back our land, you can visit her. All right?"

Ereinion nodded, unable to speak. He buried his face in his father's chest, wrapping his arms around him as tightly as he could. He felt hollow and raw. He pressed closer to his father, trying to find comfort in his warmth.

"Oh, Ereinion," his father said, his voice breaking. "I am sorry. I am so sorry."

He stroked Ereinion's hair until his sobs died down.

"I am sorry," he repeated.

"Please stay with me until I fall asleep," Ereinion asked.

"Of course."

"Tell me a happy story. One from your childhood."

"Gladly."

Ereinion untangled himself from his father and got comfortable under the covers, letting the even voice of his father carry him to sleep.

Círdan sat next to him on the low cliff overlooking the Sea. He said nothing for a few moments, just watching with Ereinion how the waves crashed against the rocks.

---

If it were anyone else approaching, Ereinion would have hidden, but by now, he had learned to recognize Círdan's footsteps, and he wouldn't hide from him.

"We miss you," he said then.

"I apologize for my absence," Ereinion said.

"No one blames you. You may take all the time that you need."

"I cannot afford it anymore. Now that…"

"That you are king?" Círdan offered when Ereinion trailed off.

Ereinion scoffed. "What king am I? My people are scattered, slaughtered or enslaved. My lands are overrun with the Enemy's troops. My uncle is the High King now. He, at least, has a kingdom to rule." He turned away from Círdan. "I should have been on the battlefield."

"You could not have helped," Círdan said gently. "Your father sent you here to keep you safe. You are too young to fight. Incidentally, that is what I need to talk to you about."

Ereinion's shoulders tensed. Círdan had been nothing but kind to him, but lately, everything in his life had turned upside down, why not this?

"I am listening," he said.

"The Enemy's forces are advancing, Ereinion," Círdan said gravely. "Soon, they will reach our walls. The Falas will not stand. You are not safe here anymore. I believe you should leave Eglarest before too long."

Ereinion did not move. Was it as he had feared? Had Círdan gotten tired of housing someone like him? Now that his father was dead, Círdan had no obligation to keep him anymore.

"Where would I go?" he asked quietly.

"That is a hard question," Círdan said. "There are no safe places left in Beleriand anymore. Doriath would be the best option, but unfortunately, it is out of the question. I would send you to Nargothrond if I had any hope that it would stand. With Felagund gone, its fall is only a matter of time. I was thinking… We have received news that your Fëanorian cousins survived the battle."

"Of course they did."

"Himring is lost, but they have a fort farther south, on Amon Ereb. It might stand for longer against Morgoth. You will be safer there. Lord Maedhros was a dear friend of your father. I am sure he will welcome you with open arms."

Ereinion's laughter was hollow.

"Lord Maedhros would sooner personally hand me over to Morgoth."

"That cannot be true."

"I will not go to him, Círdan," Ereinion said. "I will set out to look for Gondolin. Perhaps the Lord of Eagles will take pity on me and send his eagles to carry me to my uncle's kingdom as he did with Húrin Thalion and his brother Huor."

"I cannot let you risk it," Círdan said.

Ereinion raised his head and tried to give Círdan a reassuring smile. He wanted to part with him on good terms no matter what.

"I know you promised my father to keep me safe," he said, "but he is dead, and I release you from your promise."

"I care not for my promise," Círdan said. "I care for you."

Ereinion was silent for a moment.

"Truly?" he whispered then.

"Yes, Ereinion," Círdan said with a smile. "You will always have my support."

"Then I would stay with you if I may," Ereinion said.

His voice broke on the last word. He slumped down and didn't resist when Círdan pulled him close.

"Of course," Círdan said, caressing Ereinion's shaking shoulders. "Wherever I go, you will be welcome."

It was so boring in Himring! Ereinion could not even explore it the way he wanted to. There were locked doors and guards at every corner. Ereinion wondered if it was how the fortress always ran or if Lord Maedhros had prepared for his visit.

---

Having successfully evaded all the guards and nurses that his father had left to keep him company, Ereinion turned another corner in the maze that was the fortress of Himring. His father had gone with Lord Maedhros to visit some waterfall or a cave or an old tree or something. Ereinion couldn't care less. What he cared about was that he was supposed to be with them. His father had promised him! But then the plan changed. Ereinion knew why. It was so unfair that he was ready to tolerate Lord Maedhros just to be with his father, but Maedhros would not do the same for him.

Bypassing the stables, which was the first place where his father's guards would look for him, Ereinion came across the dovecot. To his surprise, the door was unlocked, so he pushed it open with some difficulty, then closed it behind him.

He grinned, looking at the pigeons nesting around him and high above. He had always wanted to visit a dovecot but was not allowed to visit the one at home. He approached a pigeon and brought his hand to pet it, but the bird hissed and spread his wings, flying away. Ereinion frowned and approached another one. This one did the same and even took a few more pigeons with it. Ereinion rolled his eyes. Of course, Lord Maedhros's birds hated him. He decided to try for the third time and leave if he failed.

"Hello, birdie," he whispered, carefully raising his hand. "I only want to pet you. I will not hurt you, I promise. Will you let me?"

The bird didn't move, so Ereinion slowly lowered his hand and touched its soft feathers. The bird pressed its wings to its body at first and then hissed and suddenly bit Ereinion's hand.

Ereinion cried out and snatched his hand away. Blood trickled down his palm and stained his cuff. Tears sprang to his eyes. The wound was certainly painful, but the rejection hurt more. Rubbing his eyes with his uninjured hand, he stormed to the door and yanked at it. It did not open. Ereinion tried again and again, pulling it with all his might, but the door didn't budge.

Ereinion let out a scream of frustration and kicked at the door. The pigeons cooed and flew in distressed patterns above him.

"Is anyone there?" Ereinion cried, desperate. "I am locked here! Help me, please!"

He called and kicked and beat at the door until he was exhausted, but no one came. Defeated, he found a relatively clean spot and sat down. It was getting colder. The stories of his people's ordeal over the Grinding Ice came to his mind. He hoped he would be found before he froze to death. Trembling, he curled into a ball and waited.

He woke up to urgent whispers. He blinked blearily, and the concerned face of his father appeared above him.

"Ereinion!" his father cried. "Are you hurt? What happened?"

Ereinion's teeth were chattering too badly to speak. He raised his arms, and his father picked him up and wrapped his cloak around him. Ereinion sighed as the warmth surrounded him. He looked over his father's shoulder and only then noticed Lord Maedhros.

He looked stricken, his face pale and his eyes wide. In his hand, he was holding a dead pigeon. Ereinion looked around and gasped. The dovecot floor was covered in pigeon bodies. Every single bird was dead.

Ereinion knew then that he had done it. He didn't know how but he had. He knew that Lord Maedhros knew it too.

He averted his gaze and buried his face in his father's neck.

"Take me away from here," he whispered.

His father hugged him tighter and walked out of the dovecot, leaving Maedhros standing amid his fallen birds.

"I believe it might be the power of my foremother Melian that awakens in me when I am next to you," Elrond said.

---

Another successful battle and another night Ereinion and Elrond spent sitting before a fire, once again discussing the mystery that had puzzled them both since their meeting. Ereinion could find no explanation for the way Elrond's song became stronger or for the way power thrummed in his veins when they fought side by side. He didn't know why he could break armor and ribs with just a fist, didn't know why at the moment of the blow, it felt like his arm shot up from his shoulder, stretching longer than it was possible. He could not fathom how sometimes the enemies fell dead before he would touch them or why at times they hesitated to strike him even when they had the chance. He had always believed he was cursed, but recently his curse had turned into a gift.

The shadows dancing around him gave him an otherworldly appearance that made it easy to believe his claim.

"It does not explain the surge of power in me, however," Ereinion said.

"Perhaps you have a connection to Melian?" Elrond suggested. "Or another Maia? I have not heard of other unions similar to Melian and Thingol's, but I do not possess all the knowledge of Arda. Do you think you might have Maiarin blood?"

"Certainly not on my father's side," Ereinion said.

"What about your mother?"

For a moment, everything around Ereinion – Elrond, the fire, the woods – disappeared and was replaced by his chamber in Barad Eithel and his father's low, comforting voice telling him stories.

"I do not believe she existed," he said.

It was the first time he said it aloud, the first time he allowed himself to think about it, but the moment the words left his lips, he knew them to be true.

Elrond said nothing. He didn't even look shocked. Only his tilted head and his slightly furrowed brows betrayed his curiosity. Ereinion loved that about him – his patience and his compassion – was thankful that Elrond gave him time and space to think and to elaborate if he so chose.

"My father told me stories about her," Ereinion went on, "but he was the only one. As a child, I was angry that everyone seemed to have forgotten her, that there was nothing left of her, no proof that she had lived. Now I know why."

"I always wondered about it," Elrond said carefully. "I am not sure if you know, but your father and Maedhros—"

"It was hard to miss."

Ereinion grimaced at his harsh tone and sent an apologetic look to Elrond.

"My father kept pushing us together," he continued, suddenly compelled to spill out everything he had refused to think about. "Maedhros did not want it, did not want me, and did not hesitate to show it. Every time, he refused me, and every time, my father gave way and tried to appease him. Every time, my father chose him over me. And yet, he never stopped trying to involve him in my life. I think he believed Maedhros was my father too. Maedhros vehemently disagreed."

Elrond's frown deepened.

"Was your father someone who could bear children?" he asked.

"I do not believe so."

"Neither was Maedhros." Elrond tugged lightly at a braid, which meant he was deep in thought. "Perhaps they had the help of someone else."

"No," Ereinion said. His mind was reeling with childhood memories he had worked hard to suppress. "It was something that had occurred between them only. Whatever the secret of my birth is, it made Maedhros resent my father and hate me."

Ereinion was grateful Elrond didn't insist Maedhros had not hated him, even though he knew he wanted to. They rarely talked about the Fëanorions, but Ereinion knew his and Elrond's impressions of Maedhros differed somewhat. He could not imagine Maedhros being kind to a child, let alone to a child whose home he had destroyed. He had not even been kind to Fingon, and he had supposedly loved him. Ereinion hated the anger that rose in him when he thought that Maedhros had cared more for his hostage than for his closest friend's son.

But it was not what troubled him now. Neither was it the mystery of his conception.

"My father lied to me," he said. "My entire life."

"You cannot be sure of it."

"I am." The certainty he felt surprised even Ereinion himself. "I worshipped him," he said. "Despite everything, I thought he was the perfect father. How do I reconcile this image I have of him with the revelation that he was a liar?"

"I am sure your father loved you very much," Elrond said.

"Yet it did not stop him from making up a dead mother I mourned for."

He was startled when he felt Elrond's hand over his. When had he come so close? Still, its warmth comforted him.

"Sooner or later, we have to admit that no one is perfect," Elrond said. "Even First Age heroes, even our parents."

The smile he gave Ereinion would seem pitying had it come from anyone else. Coming from Elrond, it made Ereinion smile too.

"Says someone who is nothing short of perfect," he muttered.

"Well, I am neither a First Age hero, nor a parent," Elrond laughed.

Ereinion laughed with him. Anger released him from its grip. His father's lies were far behind him and mattered little now.

"I care not how I came to be," he decided, "or what it is that makes us work together so well. Let loremasters debate it. I only care that it does."

"I will not argue," Elrond said.

He shuffled even closer to Ereinion. They sat together until dawn.

"It will do," he declared then.

---

Fingon crouched down and watched Maedhros examine the yew sapling they had stopped by. Maedhros didn't touch it but looked at it for a long time in silence.

Fingon's breath picked up. "Are you sure?"

"It is young. Hopefully, it has not been completely corrupted yet. It is close enough to Melian's power, yet grows in the heart of the shadow. We will find nothing better in this land."

It wasn't quite reassuring, but Fingon decided to trust Maedhros.

"What now?" he asked, impatient.

Maedhros sat down slowly in his heavy armor. He unsheathed his dagger and took one of Fingon's braids between his fingers.

"Cut it off," he said.

Fingon complied.

"Now your hand," Maedhros said. "Not too shallow."

Fingon made a painful cut on his palm. The blood rained over the braid coiled before him. Maedhros brought his hand to him, palm up.

"Now mine," he said.

Fingon's hand twitched once when he brought the blade to Maedhros's skin, but he took a breath and made the cut. Maedhros's blood dripped from his closed fist and mixed with Fingon's own.

"Make a few cuts on the leaves and the stalk," Maedhros said. "But do not touch it."

Fingon nodded and quickly carried out his task. Maedhros squeezed his fist, and a few drops of blood fell over the cuts. Fingon did the same. Maedhros took the braid and wrapped it around the sapling.

"Focus on what you want," Maedhros said. "Imagine the child you wish for with as many details as possible."

Fingon closed his eyes and opened his mind. He could feel Maedhros's too, could feel his fëa. He showed Maedhros their son, showed him his smile, his tiny hands, the tuft of red hair—

"No," Maedhros said, pulling back immediately. "I will stop this, Findekáno. I promise I will stop this instant if you do not hold up your end."

His voice was trembling. Fingon shook his head and grasped at Maedhros's arm.

"No, please," he said. "I am sorry. Please, go on."

Maedhros took a deep breath and nodded. Fingon showed him a different picture this time. He gave their son his father's eyes, his mother's brows, his sister's smile, his brother's nose and his own dark hair. He wished for a bright, burning fëa for their son, wished for him to be strong, kind and just.

Maedhros started chanting in a harsh language that made Fingon's ears bleed. Hearing the unbearable agony in his voice, Fingon came the closest to putting a stop to it, forgetting everything and going home with Maedhros. But they had come too far. He could see their son and he loved him already.

A few strands of his fëa reached out to Maedhros, who retreated as far as he could. Fingon felt incorporeal, more fëa than hröa, but it did not disturb him. A part of him split from his fëa, but it did not make him less. That part soared, went where it was supposed to go, guided by Maedhros's fëa, and Fingon tried to clutch to him, to the traces he was allowed to keep.

And then an overwhelming power crashed against his naked fëa. Fingon cried out. It was so mighty that he thought it would tear his fëa apart and pulverize his body. Yet, it was not evil. Its purpose was to grow and protect. Fingon knew then that it was the magic of the Queen of Doriath that Maedhros stole and bound.

Evil came later. It came suddenly and painfully. It came from everywhere – from the ground, from the trees, from the air itself. Fingon could do nothing but curl in on himself and keen as waves of pain contorted his body.

But when it was over, he heard a child's cry.

Fingon opened his eyes and beheld a baby boy where the yew sapling had been. All the pain, doubts and guilt immediately vanished, replaced by pure, overpowering love. Fingon quickly blinked the tears away because he could not live even a moment without seeing his son's face. Carefully, he took the baby in his arms and brushed a finger over his brow. He could feel the warmth of his young fëa. <i>Artanáro</i>, he named him in his mind.

"He is beautiful," he whispered and only then remembered that he wasn't alone.

Maedhros had fallen in a heap under a dead tree, shaking violently and dry-heaving.

"Russandol?" Fingon called.

"I am fine," Maedhros rasped. "Tend to the child."

Fingon still made to run to him, but his son started wailing, and he hurried to soothe him. He swaddled the infant and fed him the flask of milk he had put close to his skin to keep it warm. Out of the corner of an eye, he watched how Maedhros turned on his back with effort, breathing heavily, then somehow crawled up and sat, leaning against the tree. There was blood all over his face. His gaze was unfocused, wandering. Fingon put Artanáro in a makeshift sling and approached Maedhros.

"Let me see your hand," he said.

Maedhros didn't move. Fingon sat by him, took his hand, cleaned the wound and bandaged it.

"You did something wonderful today," he whispered, gently wiping the blood from Maedhros's face with a damp cloth. "You created something wonderful."

Maedhros's lips moved soundlessly.

"What is it?" Fingon asked.

"A perversion," Maedhros said almost inaudibly. "He is a perversion made of darkness."

Fingon was overcome with a fury so intense, so blinding that he had to turn away quickly and take a few deep breaths to be able to get his anger under control. He is not in his right mind, he told himself, I should not take his words close to heart.

He turned to Maedhros with a forced smile.

"Rest a little, then we will leave," he said, trying not to betray his anger.

"I thought," Maedhros said faintly, "I thought you would chain me from a tree by my wrist and leave me here." He laughed at Fingon's horrified face. "It is only the natural conclusion of all you have done to reach this point."

"I have asked you not to make such jokes."

"You have, yes."

Fingon leaned his forehead against Maedhros's.

"I know how exhausted you are," he whispered. "I am grateful beyond measure for what you did for me. For what you did for us."

"Is my debt repaid?"

Fingon sat back with a sigh.

"You were never indebted to me, Russandol."

"If you say so."

Maedhros closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them. Fingon watched how clarity returned to them almost forcefully as if Maedhros caught the fragmented pieces of himself and pushed them back together.

"We should leave," Maedhros said. "It is not safe here."

Fingon nodded and glanced down. Artanáro was sleeping peacefully by his chest.

"Look at him," he whispered. "He is a miracle."

Maedhros made no answer. Fingon's heart sank. Maedhros had said he would not be a father to their son, and Fingon had promised he would not have to be. But secretly, he had hoped seeing the child would change his mind.

"Will you not hold him?" he asked.

Maedhros's face was stony.

"Your idea. Your decision. Your son."

He stood, leaning on his sword, and put his helmet on.

"Come," he said. "We must hurry."

They walked back the way they had arrived, but this time Fingon wasn't as calm. His neck was prickling. He felt eyes on him and kept an arm around his sleeping son, trying to move as quietly as possible.

He stopped when he heard ominous rustling close to them. Maedhros had also stopped, his sword half-drawn.

"Down!" he cried then.

Fingon ducked, curling around Artanáro. Something – a hideous shape of legs, eyes and teeth – jumped over him. Another one clashed against Maedhros, who staggered but did not fall.

Fingon drew his sword and plunged it into the creature that had dropped before him. Maedhros was in a violent battle against two of them. Fingon sent two arrows into what he hoped was the heart of one of the creatures. It collapsed, and Maedhros cut down the other one.

"Run!" He yelled. "Quick!"

Holding his bawling son tightly, Fingon did, but he was intercepted by another creature. It lunged for him, but before it could dig its claws into his flesh, Maedhros pounced on it and rolled with it down the slope. Fingon had no time to go after him. He was surrounded by three more. Never in his life had he drawn arrows so fast. He felled the last creature a moment before it would impale Artanáro and him on its sharp sting. The rest of the creatures scurried away.

"Russandol!" Fingon called after he had made sure his son was not harmed.

Maedhros suddenly appeared before him and cupped his face with a shaking hand.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

Fingon nodded.

"The boy! Is he hurt?"

"No," Fingon said. "Look."

Artanáro had stopped crying and was now sniffling softly. Maedhros inclined his head. Fingon could not see his face behind the helmet, but he heard his shuddering breath of relief. Fingon took his hand and brought it down to Artanáro's face. He didn't have to guide Maedhros as he brushed a finger against their son's cheek. Artanáro smiled, and Fingon clearly heard Maedhros's gasp of wonder.

He quickly pulled his hand back and walked away without another word, but now Fingon followed him with a lighter heart. No matter what Maedhros said, Fingon knew they could be a true family.

His roots wither, his branches crackle, his leaves smoke.

---

Ereinion Gil-galad burns.

Ash twirls in the air.

#silmarillion #gil-galad #fingon #maedhros #cirdan #russingon #elrond also gets a scene #silm fic #ask to tag #this was supposed to be a crack treated seriously story at most #but now it doesn't even warrant the tag #zwc fic