#fingon’s device

[tatyafinwe]

Fingon the Valiant

#fingon #silmarillion #tolkien #silm art #lotr #noldor #fanart #fingon’s device

[maellor]

This is why Gil-galad may NOT be Orodreth's son

If Gil-galad is Orodreth's son, then why does he follow the Nolofinwean color scheme?

Gil's armorial device is the same blue as Fingolfin's and Earendil's, or very near it. Gil's device consists of 12 silver stars, four of them resembling the star at the center of Earendil's device and four resembling the little stars on Fingolfin's device. The remaining four seem to be original.

In the lay of Leithian, a stanza describes Fingolfin before the gates of Angband:

"In that vast shadow once of yore

Fingolfin stood: his shield he bore

with field of heaven's blue and star

of crystal shining pale afar"

- Lay of Leithian, Canto XII

The above verse implies that Fingolfin's shield actually looks more like Gil's or Earendil's device rather than his own: a blue backround with a star of pale crystal, which could be color coded as silver.

"Shining pale afar" even as Gil's helm does:

"His sword was long, his lance was keen.

His shining helm afar was seen;

the countless stars of heaven's field

were mirrored in his silver shield."

- The Fall of Gil-galad

To conclude with, Gil-galad seems to be using the blues and silvers of the Nolofinwean side of the family, instead of the whites and golds of the Arafinweans. Why would he do this, if he was Orodreth's child? I do realise that Tolkien's last word was that he was the son of Orodreth, son of Angrod, but... nothing else indicates this, from what i have read.

#more in tags #Even though i am a Russingon fan i can see Gil only as Fingon's son #Also because Gil was valiant and heroic like Fingon and Fingolfin #while Orodreth closed himself in Nargothrond #and could't even manage his Feanorian cousins #They imprisoned Luthien in Nargothrond and Orodreth didn't even realise?? #He was too scared to even join the Union of Maedhros and went to war only after Turin showed up #If a king is he who can hold his own like Nelyo said then surely Orodreth made for a very poor king #Gil on the other hand ruled the Eldar for longer than any other High King #Well except Finwe #So HOW could he possibly be Orodreth's kid? #I have not read all of HoME yet so i may have missed evidence #Yes i know that in NoME he is said to have blond hair #but that could have come from Indis in any case #Questioning Gil-galad's parentage #Finwean armorial devices #Tolkien's symbols analysis #The Fall of Gil-galad #Lay of Leithian #Gil-galad #Fingolfin

[ardafanonarch]

Is there any basis in canon for Fëanor and his followers wearing red? I know he and his sons have "tall helms with plumes of red", but that's the only mention of the colour in any sort of symbolic connection to them that I can think of.

Fëanorian Red

Jumping the Inbox queue for you because this is a fairly easy one to answer.*

You're right! The idea of Fëanor and his followers wearing red is fanon. I would speculate it comes from two sources:

1. The passage you identified

And Fëanor made a secret forge, of which not even Melkor was aware; and there he tempered fell swords for himself and for his sons, and made tall helms with plumes of red. The Silmarillion, "Of the Silmarils and the Unrest of the Noldor"

2. The fact that we do know Fingolfin's colours were blue and silver

But as the host of Fingolfin marched into Mithrim the Sun rose flaming in the West; and Fingolfin unfurled his blue and silver banners... The Silmarillion, "Of the Return of the Noldor"

The "blue and silver" banners are again referred to when Fingon is killed in the Nirnaeth, and in Fingolfin's duel with Morgoth his shield is described as blue.

So it makes sense to me that the fandom would set Fëanor's House up in contrast to Fingolfin's by making his colours red -- supported, perhaps, by the mention of their red-plumed helms.

Red is also, of course, a colour historically and culturally associated with passion, violence, and war -- all things that rather suit the House of Fëanor. (Red, it bears mentioning, is a very common colour for helmet plumes -- either contributing to or because of red's association with war.)

Tolkien's design for Fëanor's heraldic device does contain some red, but its most striking element is perhaps the rainbow centre in a blue circle, and the most dominant colour is yellow.

*Opening the floor, as always, to any other evidence of the Fëanorian colour being red that might be buried deep in the lore where I have not found it.

Thanks to this Reddit post for doing a lot of the research for me.

#feanor #fingolfin #feanorians #heraldic devices #tolkien's art #nerdy-catfish

[echo-bleu]

Since you voted Gil-galad as your favourite ace elf headcanon, here's ace Gil-galad for Ace Week!

I have been putting off on actually settling for a design for him because there's no good way to reconcile my headcanons and still keep his parentage open to interpretation. This design lands him quite squarely in the "son of Fingon" case, though I have not done a proper design for either Orodreth or Finduilas (only a sketch) so I could adapt...

The four and six pointed stars are inspired by Tolkien's design of his heraldic device, though it's on purple here instead of blue in honour of the ace flag.

Queer Tolkien characters series

#gil-galad #ereinion gil galad #ace week #asexuality awareness week #ace pride #ace character #queer tolkien characters #silmarillion #silm #silm art #tolkien #echo's drawings #beautiful art #echo's october 2023

[i-did-not-mean-to]

Rituals/Tradition

With art for this from @the-red-butterfly 💖💖💖 (Please show her some love!!!)

In the tradition of Cursed Cards, have some more photograph shenanigans...

Characters: Maedhros x Fingon (yes, still half-cousins!)

Words: 2 240

Warnings: pure fluff, no warnings

“Finno, are you coming?”

Fingon was about to let his phone drop to the low coffee table in his parents’ living room when the soft chime of a text message caught his attention.

Have fun skiing with your family! <3

Rereading the message while sweating profusely in the heavily padded costume, Fingon gripped the device a little harder when a second chime announced an addition to Russo’s parting communication.

The yearly family trip to the mountains was a well-established and cherished tradition, but Fingon would have gladly skipped it if his beloved had been amenable to staying home with him instead.

Alas, his lover—just as fond and faithful where family traditions were concerned—spent the winter holidays first on a boating trip, even though none of his six brothers was a particularly good seafarer, and then holed up in a remote cabin in a picturesque forest.

“You are very welcome to come to the cabin later in the week, if Tyelko’s shanties are not to your liking,” Russo had joked, and—afraid of intruding—Fingon had smiled warmly and declined.

A part of him regretted not having jumped at the opportunity from that very moment on, and—breaking with tradition little by little—he had purposefully dawdled when leaving for his own family holiday so he could take his own car to the ski resort.

He wondered whether his siblings had missed him on their rowdy, noisy, exasperating drive; Fingon truly felt sorry for not spending more time with them and for letting his mind drift away whenever he actually was by their side.

“Are you coming or not? No phone!” Turgon repeated, his stern, noble brow creased with impatience and annoyance.

“I don’t know how Elenwë—or anyone else, for that matter—bears your endless nagging,” Fingon grumbled, sensing that his whole plans were about to be derailed as his thumb slid across the screen towards the little envelope, decorated by that alluring red dot. “I won’t be a minute.”

He should go, he knew it, but he could not bear to leave a message from his lover unopened. What if he needed help? What if it was an emergency?

Clicking on it, he sealed his fate. A quiet gasp escaped him, and his cheeks darkened with delight.

“You’re not coming, are you?” Turgon snapped bitingly. Following his oldest brother’s darting eyes—the door to the bedrooms, the sprawling front window, back to the door—he instinctively divined his erratic thoughts. “I’ll pack your gear; get the necessities and go. I’ll tell the others when we meet at the foot of the mountain.”

Shooting a quick glance full of gratitude at his stolid, taciturn younger brother, Fingon all but jumped out of his elaborate suit and stumbled towards the door in a flimsy sweatshirt and his rattiest, thinnest sweatpants.

“Keys,” Turgon groaned, snatched them from the tangled mess in the beautiful ceramic bowl by the door, and tossed them over effortlessly. “Greet Maedhros from me.”

Stalking away with enviable dignity, he refused to add any other parting words.

“But look at the picture!” Fingon whispered and held his phone aloft, waving it slightly at Turgon’s retreating back. “Eh, your loss.”

The caption said something about Tyelko having spiked the punch, but that was of little importance to Fingon—he was too entranced by the photograph itself, showing his sweet redhead in an uncharacteristically deep blue sweater.

As he hurried towards his car, almost slipping thrice because he couldn’t pry his gaze off the wavering screen in his numb hand, Fingon grinned like a lunatic to mirror the wide, happy smile his sweetheart was sporting.

He loved all of his boyfriend’s smiles—the tiny quirks making the corners of his mouth dance as much as the polite, subdued curve his fine lips assumed at times—but the open-mouthed grin knocked the very breath out of his lungs with amazement so rare and marvellous did it seem to him.

Russo, he thought fondly, didn’t stomach liquor well, especially not if it was in a hot beverage, and the tell-tale flush as well as the brightness of his eyes told him all he needed to know.

Suddenly, the ever-gnawing yearning in the pit of his stomach became positively unbearable as he thought of the strong, seemingly endless arms of his partner, wrapped a little too tightly around his waist.

He wanted this; he longed to be there to run his fingers along the intricate pattern of exquisite knitwear in his own colours and watch Russo flush under the onslaught of messy, cinnamon-flavoured kisses and the soothing effect of mulled wine.

“Moryo made the sweater for me; isn’t it lovely?”

Fingon started the car, weighing the pros and cons of texting while driving and stopping almost instantly again.

“It’s beautiful. You’re gorgeous,” he typed quickly.

“I might be a little tipsy. I miss you. The twins said that I am to be the tree this year—father didn’t find one he liked. Everyone agrees that I am tall enough. Hence the decorations. Do you like them?”

Swiping his thumb blindly across the screen, Fingon pulled up the picture again.

He wasn’t sure whether it was acceptable to call while Maedhros was with his family, but he felt as if he would die in the white hell of swirling snow if he didn’t hear that warm, serious voice telling him that everything was all right.

His father, of course, had raised him better than this, but Fingon nevertheless fiddled with his phone until he heard the clangourous ringing sound cut through the unnerving static of the engine purring in the background.

“Hey,” Maedhros said. “Are you not on your way down a slope right now? Are you being safe? Is everything okay? Are you hurt?”

“Slow down, Red,” Fingon laughed, the weight on his chest dissolving into a puff of warm air, and turned the heating on. “I am indeed not skiing. Does your invitation still stand?”

A pensive hum resounded, mellow and satisfied, and then a sharp inhalation.

“Where are you, Fin?”

“I am in my car. Does your invitation stand, Russo?”

“Yes,” the other laughed. “I would warn you not to come—my brothers are in high spirits which is always a dangerous thing—but the idea of having you here is too alluring…”

“Tell me about your gifts,” Fingon pleaded softly as he raced out of the resort at twice the recommended speed. “I love the sweater. Is that a new prosthesis I’ve glimpsed?”

Gurgling with laughter, his swain confirmed. “Yeah, Curvo made it. It’s very good, very comfortable.”

“Can’t wait to feel it on my—wait, I am not on speakerphone, right?”

“No, of course not,” Maedhros exclaimed indignantly—his voice was so powerful and loud that he had single-handedly eliminated any need for such an accommodation anyway, but just hearing him sound so light-hearted was worth any and every indignity to Fingon.

“Maglor gave me a mug saying ‘Tall Ass Bitch’, which is funny because I got him a tiny blanket that said ‘Short King’. Isn’t that hilarious? He also made it himself—Mother was ecstatic.”

It was, as a matter of fact, hysterical, and Fingon had to focus hard not to drive off the road because he was shaking with laughter. “It sounds as if you’re having a marvellous time,” he wheezed. “I am glad. Turno is mad at me—I got your pic and just took off. Haven’t even said goodbye to the rest of the family.”

“You are disgusting,” Caranthir hollered from somewhere in the background. “I am moving my stuff into the movie room—no way I’ll sleep in the same room as you two.”

“Awww Moryo, don’t be like that,” Maedhros harrumphed. “Have another glass of glogg!”

“When I see what it’s done to you, no thank you,” came the reprobative answer, and then, there was silence once more.

“Please stay as you are,” Fingon beseeched his lover. “I want to be the one to pluck those pretty glass ornaments from your silken hair. Also, my fingers are itching to peel you out of this very nice sweater—not your usual colour palette, though, is it?”

“Moryo can say what he wants,” Maedhros replied smugly, “but he did choose your colours for my sweater, so he can’t object all that much, can he? He gets better every year, you must feel that thing—you couldn’t buy that kind of quality in just any regular shop.” The warm pride ringing in every word warmed Fingon’s heart as he pushed relentlessly through the rocky, snow-covered panorama of his holiday destination to reach the milder climates of the region surrounding the cute cabin his love’s family rented every year.

“Will he rat us out?” he then asked, slightly nervous. He liked Nerdanel, and he had taken his fair share of silly pictures of himself and his siblings to satisfy her addiction to cute but embarrassing photographs, but he did not want to crash her cosy getaway with her beloved children.

“OH,” Maedhros giggled. “They all know already—I might have pumped my fist and danced across the living room, almost trampling one of the twins who was looking for something under the couch, no matter…so yeah, my parents know that you’re coming. It’s all good. Better than good. You know what? I am going to put aside a bit of the punch for us—for later.”

The quality of his timbre had taken on a sultry, seductive note now, and Fingon shivered despite the hot air blasting through his car. Why were they so far apart?

“You do that, my love,” he said when he realised that he had not given any answer to that suggestion, so enthralled was he by the idea of his Russo—warm, pliable, and utterly contented—sprawling on a narrow bed for which he was much too tall. “I’d follow you anywhere, you know that, right? Over the endless ice and across the raging ocean—I’ll always come for you!”

“I hope so,” came the soft, mumbled reply. “And I’ll always be waiting, ever scanning the horizon feverishly for the deliverance of your friendship and love. Are you still very far?”

“Yes,” Fingon muttered, frustrated with how long and tedious his road would be, but just as determined to make it into those desperately wished-for arms as fast as possible. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

Bad weather conditions and adverse events delayed Fingon unduly but—just as the night grew pitch dark in the small, picturesque valley—he saw the majestic hill ahead. Nestled against its elegant slope stood a cottage—looking tiny from that distance—from which the brightly lit windows twinkled like golden stars.

“Soon, my darling,” Fingon hummed; he had not gotten an answer in at least twenty minutes, but the sound of his lover’s deep, regular breathing was nevertheless soothing and encouraging.

“Good evening, you must be tired. He…fell asleep. Do you want to go wake him, and I’ll make you a spot of dinner?” Nerdanel whispered as she opened the door, tutted at the glaring lack of sensible winterwear, and then pulled Fingon into a forceful, welcoming hug.

Nodding, Fingon kicked off his snow boots, and padded over to the couch on thick, woollen socks; he didn’t even mind the fact that several of Maedhros’s brothers were standing around, sniggering softly, as he bent over that curled-up form and breathed a tender kiss onto the chiselled jaw of his personal miracle.

“Good evening, sleepyhead,” he whispered, rubbing slow circles into the long, lean back of the peaceful sleeper. “Happy holidays, my love.”

When Maedhros blinked, dazed and confused, Fingon broke into a smile so deep and earnest, it made his eyes crinkle and his lips stretch taut over his flashing, slightly irregular teeth. “Hello, sweetheart.”

“Finno, I am so sorry. You—You are already here? I dreamed of you; it was such a good dream,” Maedhros mumbled, rubbing his eyes and extending his hand to his mug automatically to chase the stale, sticky taste in his mouth.

“Your mother is making dinner,” Fingon explained as he shuffled onto the couch beside the jumble of shapely limbs and slid his hand into Maedhros’s warm palm.

“I am so happy that you’re here,” the still rather dopey ginger sighed, leaning his head—Christmas tree decoration and knots—against Fingon’s strong, muscular shoulder. “Now, it is perfect.”

“I am afraid,” Fingon confessed in a conspiratorial whisper, “that I have forgotten your gift in my suitcase. You’ll get it after the holidays! I swear!”

“Hmmm, you’re all I need.” Humming happily, Maedhros slung his arms around Fingon’s waist and so they sat, lulled by the whispered conversations of the ever-present gaggle of brothers and seduced into hunger by the aromatic fumes of a late-night dinner about to be served.

“Sweetling?” Fingon prompted suddenly as his phone vibrated in his pocket. “Could you please send my mother the picture of you? I am sure she’ll understand why I fled so haphazardly once she sees it.”

“I highly doubt that,” Maedhros chortled, “but I will, of course, try. We should spend a day or two with them before we go back home, how about that? I shall suffer the mockery of your siblings with equanimity.” “My brave, slightly drunk, very beautiful, utterly bewitching hero,” Fingon laughed, wrapped his arm around Maedhros’s slender shoulder, and promptly dozed off himself.

Thank you so much for reading <3

-> Masterlist for November (by @cilil)

#og post #IDNMT writes #fanfiction #writing #tolkien writing #jrrt #November #Nanowrimo2023 #Russingon #Maedhros #Fingon #Maedhros x Fingon #Modern!AU #Card AU #with art #the-red-butterfly #Rituals #Traditions #fluff

[outofangband]

Badly summarized WIP game

Tagged by @eilinelsghost @gwaedhannen and @welcomingdisaster thank you 🫧 you’re both such talented writers im so honored to be tagged 🌾

Unfortunately I do not know how to properly summarize anything well let alone jokingly but here are some of my wips

Uh out of a long list

-Epistolary fic about Aerin’s legacy and her place in history and someone possibly well…

I have a post about this but I’m more excited about the fic

Thinking of doing this for Morwen and Húrin too especially in bolt versions

-Great Was the Company

Very long Aerin centric fic in four parts, beginning a week before her (unwilling) wedding ceremony. So far only that part has been published. Please appreciate how clever my bolt reference title is thank you

Also has Rhea one of my only OCs. She is a very sad and terrible person, an older slave tasked with caring for Aerin in a handmaid adjacent role but more importantly keeping her in line and sometimes telling on her. Thank you so so much to @maglors-anion-gap for appreciating her

-The Witch and the Carpenter

Morwen and Sador set traps for rabbits and it does not go well. Horrorish

-Fingon possessed by Glaurung AU, Húrin pov mostly

-Various dark fics of varying lengths

-With Slander for a Blade

Morwen and Aerin centric set starting about a year after the Nírnaeth

Rhea is also in this

-Such Cruel Devices (Maedhros in Angband)

-Set in slow torment (Húrin in Angband)

-Winged Maedhros au (eventually I’ll post the piece I did for a commission)

-winged Edain au

-LOTS more Narn ficlets and aus and fics

-All the fics I have about the Morwen he had seen once scene

-Shores of Esgalduin (Túrin in Doriath)

-Redacted verse

Another Morwen and Aerin centric thing that will probably never be published because it is too dark. I like to think that whatever you might be imagining, it’s probably wrong maybe

-lots of others I have way too many wips

#the silmarillion #the children of húrin #maedhros #morwen #Aerin #Húrin #others #Rhea

[searchingforserendipity25]

For @arofili from your @officialtolkiensecretsanta Secret Santa - some Russingon being cozy and delighting in each other. Hope you enjoy it, happy holidays! <3

Also on AO3.

Beta by the wonderful @mayfriend.

Content warning: Explicit content, mentions of past trauma.

"Liberty at last," said Maedhros grimly, leaning against the bedpost and holding a pillow for defence.

Fingon, with empty arms still stretched across the pillow to grasp him, snorted his laughter against the sheets.

The Fire of Life

In the Ice, they had learned to sleep in short shifts, with one always watching for danger and to wake those in danger of becoming too cold in stillness. It had stayed with Fingon, that rhythm, sank into his bones like the cold that returned, in times of fear or grief or, indeed, when he stood too still and idle for a time.

The only exception was when he laid down with Maedhros. With Maedhros, he never needed to fear the cold, nor did he hunger for it. This was quite excellent, considering how dearly they loved each other, but his husband was no more restful in body or spirit than him.

Maedhros had a habit of accusing Fingon of having an embrace like iron, and a fondness for such a number of blankets and furs as to be unnatural.

In his defence, Fingon could not be held responsible for whatever measures might be taken to keep Russandol from tampering with the closed shutters - not when he was naked, in bed, during wintertime, in the high and narrow chambers set aside for him atop the tower of Himring the Ever-Cold.

"Liberty at last," said Maedhros grimly, leaning against the bedpost and holding a pillow for defence.

Fingon, with empty arms still stretched across the pillow to grasp him, snorted his laughter against the sheets.

The canopy was drawn back only enough for the air to sound of the burning timber and the smell of smoke on warm stone. The ever-bright lamp by the bed cast gentling shadows on the hard lines of the bed, and the master of the fortress, and Maedhros leaned against the bedpost, arms crossed.

Fingon’s eyes lingered on the movement of his shoulders, the pooling of half-light over the inkings around the twin scars over his chest, flush high on his cheeks - the corner of his mouth, where it creased with a scar.

He shifted, and to mask it rose enough to rest his chin over his folded arms, and looked up at his beloved with as much matching seriousness as he could harness.

“Is my embrace so very unwelcome?”

The crease deepened. Maedhros' heart, never far from Fingon's since their marriage, and well before then, warmed and flickered, as Fingon had known he would. “Yours? Always welcome, dearest; but you seem comfortable enough with your bedmates already.”

Fingon’s knees ached - his toes, his nose, the still-damp ends of his ribbons weighing down his head and neck. The numbness was past, and the rush of blood that prickled the skin in coming back to life; he was warm and sleep-heavy now, drunk on warmth and unhurried passion, and it made him magnanimous enough for Fingon to nudge away the pillows, the furs, the wealth of blankets. In part because the room was quite warm enough, but mostly to watch Maedhros’ nose wrinkle as he sat himself down besides them.

Always he brought out the coverings and the tapestries whenever Fingon visited, the ones that smelled strongly of the cedarwood chests, but he had no patience for the excess of stifling textures himself, and would do with the plainest wickerr rugs and sweet-smelling rushes if left to his own devices, as if Himring was not so chill anyone half-sensible went around bundled in layers of furs and fleece and wool.

“No need of that; my beloved shall keep me warm, always.”

Maedhros looked so stolid and fey, as if set to suffer the great trial of being held in bed as a true concession to Fingon’s rank. It was all nonsense, of course; but for the modest dip of his head.

“My prince is most wise and cunning.”

“Yes, of course,” Fingon said. “Alas, for my long plot for revenge for the Ice! I wed you not for love, nor to unite our people in peace, but for your merits, which are only really very useful when turned against the Enemy, or occupying my blankets as a bedwarmer at the end of a dreadful journey.”

Maedhros lifted his brows in the most officious manner, as if to say Yes, of course, most naturally, and Fingon could not help it - he laughed.

To the space between their thoughts, a thought like the premonition of a shiver, passed nearer than a whisper, he told him, So what if I did? I intend to have joy enough from my reward, and skimmed his fingertips over Maedhros' cheeks until his mouth eased out of whatever emotion masked as the teasing pretence of disbelief. Only lightly, and only because he knew it would not pain him, and because he knew he would thaw at his touch as he often did.

How hungry he was for Fingon! And how unashamed of it. Fingon knew it; he was no less glad to see Maedhros always, and all the better like this, wry and easy in his skin, the feverish glint of his countenance the more bearable for being wasted in love.

And Fingon was no less fierce himself for him! For him, for the homecoming, the rare curve of Maedhros’ lips. The cup of tenderness, alive and rich between them - a task no less strange and dire and valuable than any feat of bravery he ever accomplished.

Aloud, half-severe, he said, “If that be my purpose, I wonder at your temerity in bringing such a matter to my attention! My business lies upon needs of state; I come to Himring in the persuit of diplomacy.”

The fey brightness was on him, that in certain lights and Fingon's company was a fierce thing near to joy, and little torment. It would have been horrible cheek, in someone ten times less formidable and even half as old. “Am I a not a matter of state, dear cousin? Does not my good prince concern himself with justice and friendship in all his dealings?”

“You certainly are in a state,” Fingon said dryly.

He knew well why Russandol went around his fortress of ice and stone bare-sleeved and bare-headed, his long spill of hair held up with wood sticks when an unprotected neck would be madness for anyone walking the walls of the city or the wilderness outside.

There were times, hours, entire days when Maedhros was over-warm with himself, stifling, the matter of his soul tempered into constant working flame constrained by the matter of his skin, and the flesh itself too tight. For this reason also orcs marched without furs or care for the inclement weather; for the fire of Angband was upon them still, a maddening head that blunted the body to all other feelings, and made a mockery of relief.

Not now. Not with Fingon.

Fingon had been waiting for this homecoming all the long while - all through the weary ride through the snowstorms, through the wasting of the dark hours clustered around the fire, and the fire forever dwindling and in need of Song to call it again to life. In those nights time passed slowly and strangely, a thing as voluminous and changeable as the howling of the wind, swelling the deerskin of the tents and shelters.

Fingon could withstand the cold; he knew it well, too well. He had not even been surprised, the first time he had gone riding with his father’s hunters to the groves of Lindon where their kin was welcoming and even the green leaves sang, rustling with the voice of the wind, and found himself seeking out the high, cold steppes instead, those places where the deer did not tread, that even the proud elk herds found too barren.

He knew, even, that he was not alone in it. Often when he visited Himring, many among his household volunteered to accompany him, as court or guards, for those that had crossed the Ice had a hard longing in them. Not for the Ice itself, or the dark horror of journey, but the testing of the self, the hröa's claim to itself and the fëa's strength in life.

And at the end, Maedhros: his hair in the snow like the wings of a cardinal, let loose and curling for Fingon, only for Fingon, his joy rising taller than the fortress towers, calling out across the waste the heights and the long, strong thread between them: best beloved! His limbs spread out on the pillows, his arms the very heart of the world, where all holy quiet resided.

Truly, Fingon had no complaints on the welcome of Himring; only that the lord of Himring was a restless sort of bedfellow, even when Fingon would rather rest from his journey and make the most of the satisfying prize it had won him, for a little time at least before making love again.

“Let the dues fit the duty,” Maedhros said piously; he had to bite his cheek not to betray himself. Fingon knew it, for he felt the taste of it in his own mouth, their spirits near enough that Maedhros shuddered with Fingon’s own shiver. “Himring seeks always the pleasure of the lord of Mithrim. How would my prince have his hospitality?"

Warm yourself if you dare, you coward, Maedhros thought, mouth curling into an open smile at last.

Fingon leaned back on the pillows and smiled slowly to himself. “I think I shall be able to think of something.”

He moved fast. Too fast, for anyone less attuned to the movement of his muscles; Maedhros ducked his grasp, rolled, clasped his wrist and sought to press it away.

Russo's breath hitched, warm and shocking against Fingon's jaw, and squirmed his wrist to freedom by tangling their legs and rolling them over again. They fell off the bed in a storm of linen, brocade, silk and laughter.

He did miss this! Feeling his fingers and calves and nose sting to life, the wondrous rush of blood that he could almost see when he lowered his lashes, a red warmth, the spirit joined no less closely than the flesh. He could feel Russo's heart singing, the force and speed of it, feel the ease of his muscles, the languid cunning of his thoughts.

Fingon tugged him closer, close enough to bite the flesh of his neck, and smother the sound that shuddered out of Maedhros with his mouth. They moved against each other with the aching urgencythat rose and swept them through, when only touch would suffice to ease the biting hunger of long hunger. He pressed inside Russo easily, for he was open and slick still. Russo, panting against his neck with abandon, clenched around him with delicious heat, drew him closer and held him tightly.

He did like to be bourne down and held, Russo; he liked the bed sport, and Fingon's hands like iron on him, the safest of bonds. He liked to please him. And Fingon liked being Maedhros’ lord-prince very well, in truth.

(He had wanted to be Maedhros’ prince, his champion and companion, since first his elder cousin gave him a ribbon from his braids to wear as his favour in the first competition Fingon presented himself as a grown Noldo, the first time he defended himself with a claim to recognition in his own right - a prince restless in the making of himself.

All the eyes in Tirion had been on him, Nolofinwë’s the heaviest, but Maitimo had given him his favour and his faith under the eyes of the world and the discouragement of his own lord-father, because he had known - he had known the courage Fingon had been marshalling, and how small it had seemed to him in the eyes of the world, enough to be brave in return.

Fingon had sworn in his heart to do him honour for the gift of that faith: he had worn the memory of it like sunlight in his hair ever since, and wept with joy when Russandol first unbraided it with trembling hands on their wedding night.)

How I burn for you, Russo said, or thought, their minds reaching out to each other with their bodies and minds so close it made no difference. Oh, Fingon, how I miss you, how I burn for you always. For an instant, he saw his arrival as his beloved had wished, and longed, and waited for: the glinting of the armoured guard and the rider charging recklessly ahead, and Russo's heart, which was entirely Fingon's own, leaping in his throat, his skin prickling alive and maddening even with the biting wind against him.

“There,” he whispered, and kissed his brow, brushing his hair and swallowing against the knot of emotion nestled against his throat. He pressed close, and then again.“I have you now, dearest.”

Maedhros laughed. It was a sound that made the steel in the grate sing, and the fire leap, and scurried the cool night out of the window, and banished the last of the cold fear, even as he moved against him. “Finno, you fool! One day more, and I would have ridden myself - could you not have waited till spring if you meant to make the journey -”

“No,” Fingon said, very honestly, because it was true and because he was mad, wild, dizzy with the way Meadhros moved when he laughed - he would have died for it, and happily. “Ai, Russo. My shining flame, my burning star, my sweet love. You keep me warm all my nights, even in your absence.”

The fire wasted itself through in the hearth, unattended, unnecessary. And afterwards, spent and comfortable, his husband sighing sweetly into his mouth, he curled up in Russo's arms and they dreamed the same dream till dawn.

#russingon #fingon #maedhros #fic #tolkien secret santa #the silmarillion #thesis: the burning white flame of maedhros' spirit is great for cuddling in the cold #fanfiction #tss2022 #gift fic

[doodle-pops]

hi hi hi, me again! Can I ask the reactions of elves in a situation where the elves save the reader from dangerous situations but they fall unconscious, then wake up in a room with the elf looking after them but also suspious of them. But instead of thanking our dear elf the reader thinks they are kidnapped and says:

“What’re you? A hired murderer?”

“I will call the police. You better get out of my house!”

“How much did they pay you?”

“I’ll pay you twice as much, I promise.” “Whatever they paid you, I’ll be more than willing to pay you twice the amount, if you let me go.”

“Now, tell me, how much did they pay you~..”

*realises this isn't their house*

Wow..” “You’re good at your job, “ “You kidnapped me,”

“I’ll triple the price. Just let me get back home and I’ll hand you the money, in cash, myself. I promise, you can even take me home?”

-Oceanly 🌊

Stops and stares around the room like 'Hey, I just saved your life, please calm down and let me talk' but no, you don't shut up at all and keep rambling off their heads. They stand there silent the entire time listening to you, unmoving with arched brows, and a grimace on their faces. Probably thinking about how they should have just left you at a healing hall if they knew they were going to go through all this for saving you. "If this is the thanks I get for saving your life then I shouldn't have...stop, stop throwing things at me. Hey! Be thankful. I'm considering taking that money now you know...I'm putting up with too much."

MAEDHROS, Maglor, Celebrimbor, Fingon, FINROD, Glorfindel, GALDOR, Egalmoth, Rog, Elrohir, ELLADAN

"No I didn't kidnap you, I saved your life. And no, I don't want your money so you can keep it. And yes, I'm going to ensure you get home safely...stop shouting and screaming please...will you let me speak?" Also annoyed by the way you are freaking out and trying their best to get you to calm down because you have wounds to clean. It's showing on their face a lot more than the rest and probably the first to lose their patience. They've sighed like a hundred times before getting you to stop rambling and you still hadn't. Did they walk out of the room to leave you to your own devices, yes? They thought that giving in to your requests would have been enough to get you to calm but it barely did much.

Maedhros, CELEGORM, CARANTHIR, CURUFIN, TURGON, ANGROD, Ecthelion, Maeglin,

#reactions #🌊 anon #maeglin x reader #celegorm x reader #angrod x reader #galdor x reader #maedhros x reader #celebrimbor x reader #finrod x reader #glorfindel x reader #fingon x reader #rog x reader #elladan x reader #egalmoth x reader #ecthelion x reader #caranthir x reader #curufin x reader #elrohir x reader #turgon x reader #silmarillion imagine #doodlepops responds

[welcomingdisaster]

Angry violent headcanon for Fingon or Turgon

-@outofangband

ooo @outofangband thank you for the ask! this is very fun!!

Fingon:

Jack of all trades with weapons! Of course there's his trademark bow and arrows, but I think he's relatively skilled with basically every weapon commonly used by first age elves. Solid 8/10 with swords, daggers, lances, etc.

To add on to the previous point: mostly self-taught through experience, rather than formal training (of the kind Feanor would have made sure his sons got, for instance). Applies hunting skills to combat.

MESSY fighter. Fights dirty, takes absolutely every advantage he might. If you fight Fingon and he can hit you in the balls, he's hitting you in the balls.

I think he's got a very expressive face in general and it's extra expressive in combat. He shoots an arrow and you can read the brief moment of "you better not miss, motherfucker" on his face very clearly.

The kind of person to taunt his enemies a lot in combat. I actually think he's pretty bad at coming up with insults off the cuff and spends some time workshopping them battle ("Turno what if I call the orcs yellow-bellied worms--" "Can you please be normal for two minutes instead")

Kept the dagger he used to cut off Maedhros's hand. After that whole incident it was a very dull dagger (blunted both by him trying to use it to sever the chain and by hitting bone). Had some vague notion that he would one day turn this dagger against the the dark lord and make him pay for that sorrow. Knew deep down he would never get the chance.

Generally tends to externalize his anger. Goes out and tries to find orcs/creatures of the dark lord to fight at every opportunity (part of the reason he's continually known as 'the Valiant' and well-liked). If you insult his dad in front of him he's punching you in the face. Generally not one of the classic Nolofinwean iciness. You can TELL when he's pissed.

Anger is red-hot but doesn't last very long. Once he's cleared the air he usually considers grudges long past. Quick to anger but equally quick to forgive.

Turgon:

Giant two handed sword boy! The kind of sword that, were it found by archeologists a few thousand years in the future, would be considered impractical for anyone to actually have wielded. This man was like 7'10 and his reach was enormous. In battle he mowed down orcs before they come close enough to try anything. Even in his final moments none could get near him; he died only when his tower fell.

Stone cold. You cannot read his mood at all. House motto repress, compartmentalize, ignore. When he's angry his voice does not tend to get louder; instead he gets very cold and quiet.

Holds grudges forever.

The one family member that is not very fond of hunting. He finds the sport kind of mean; elves easily track and kill most prey animals, and he pities them. This does not stop him from eating meat, but he takes little satisfaction besting an opponent so far below him, and prefers to leave hunting to other people. Left to his own devices (which he does not tend to be, being a prince and having most of his meals made for him) he is largely vegetarian.

#lena speaks #outofangband #i hope these were what you wanted i'm realizing i talked more about combat than anything else #fingon #turgon

[theworldsoftolkein]

Speed Now This Feathered Shaft - by Jenny Dolfen

“For suddenly above him far and faint his song was taken up, and a voice answering called to him. Maedhros it was that sang amid his torment. But Fingon climbed to the foot of the precipice where his kinsman hung; and then he could go no farther, and he wept when he saw the cruel device of Morgoth. Maedhros therefore, being in anguish without hope, begged Fingon to shoot him with his bow; and Fingon strung an arrow, and bent his bow. And seeing no better hope he cried to Manwe, saying: 'O King to whom birds are dear, speed now this feathered shaft, and recall some pity for the Noldor in their need!'....Now, even as Fingon bent his bow, there flew down from the high airs Thorondor, King of Eagles, mightiest of all birds that have ever been, whose outstretched wings spanned thirty fathoms; and staying Fingon's hand he took him up, and bore him to the face of the rock where Maethros hung.”

― J.R.R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion

J. R: R: Tolkien, The Silmarillion: Of the return of the Noldor

#tolkien legendarium #middle earth #jrr tolkien #the silmarillion #noldor #maedhros #fingon #manwe #throndor

[unabashednightmarepizza]

@thenovelcarnival asked whether Gil-Galad had silver hair or not and since there are different views, I wanted to answer from here!

There are different views. If you take him as the son of Finrod, there is a chance that he had silvery-blonde hair.( I'm not sure since I didn't read the book completely but according to Reddit, there is a slight unknown part about his parentage)

ೃ⁀➷ Apparently, he was originally Finrod's son but in mid 50s, Tolkien decided to make our Finrod childless therefore making Gil-Galad Orodreth's son.( And Finrod also had a wife in that version too, and it was also abandoned when Finrod was decided to be childless.)

But if you accept the published version, where he is the son of Fingon, then he's DEFINETLY dark-haired.

And yes, his name means " Star of Radiance" but it was because of the armor he wore.

"It is recorded that Ereinion was given the name Gil-galad 'Star of Radiance' 'because his helm and mail, and his shield overlaid with silver and set with a device of white stars, shone from afar like a star in sunlight or moonlight, and could be seen by Elvish eyes at a great distance if he stood upon a height'."

Unfinished Tales, Part Two: The Second Age, II Aldarion and Erendis, Note 24

So, in conclusion... Our Gil-Galad is definetly dark-haired. If there is any spelling mistakes blame the schooll + extra courses + me being awake for 17 hours with 4-5 hours of sleep😔😳

#answering anons #gil galad x oc #gil galad fanfic #gil galad x reader #gil galad #lotr the rings of power #rings of power #lotr imagine #lotr #lotr on prime #lotr x reader

[cycas]

The Fall of Morgoth Bauglir

From Ulmo, a messenger had come to the city, a tall Man, clad in the mail and carrying the shield that Turgon had left for him. 

Turgon would have known him anyway. He was taller than his father, and marked with travel and suffering. There was a strange wondering hurt about him that was a grief to look on, remembering Huor and Húrin in their joyful youth. 

But his mortal eyes were like Huor’s eyes. A terrible reminder of all they had lost. 

But when Tuor spoke before the King, his voice was laden with a majesty heavier than that of any elf or mortal man. 

 “Behold, O father of the City of Stone, I am bidden by him who makes deep music in the Abyss, and who knows the mind of Elves and Men, to say unto thee that the days of Release draw nigh. There have come to the ears of Ulmo, whispers of your dwelling and your hill of vigilance against the evil of Melkor, and he is glad: but his heart is wroth and the hearts of the Valar are angered, who sit in the mountains of Valinor and look upon the world from the peak of Taniquetil, seeing the sorrow of the thraldom of the Noldor and the wanderings of Men; for Melkor rings them in the Land of Shadows beyond hills of iron. Therefore have I been brought by a secret way to bid you number your hosts and prepare for battle. The time is ripe.”

Turgon looked at the young man before him, and remembered Tuor’s father Huor, fleeing the flames of Dagor Bragollach even as Turgon’s own father rode to his death at the gates of Angband.  

He remembered Húrin, Tuor’s uncle, who had been so full of joy, taken alive into the Hells of Iron as Fingon’s body was trodden into the mire. 

He shook his head. “No. Absolutely, definitely, no. Not again.”

Tuor frowned; a surprisingly daunting sight from one so young, but then, he wore the power of Ulmo as another man might a cloak. 

“If you will not now dare greatly, then the Orcs will endure for ever and possess in the end most of the mountains of the Earth, and they will cease not to trouble both Elves and Men. Even if by other means the Valar contrive hereafter to release the Noldor.  But if you trust now to the Valar, though terrible the encounter, then shall the Orcs fall, and Melkor’s power be diminished. For even in the years of bliss, Melkor ever feared Turgon, knowing that from you his final doom might come.”

Turgon shook his head and spoke as gently as he could manage, for none of this was Tuor’s fault. “I said no. I will not attack Angband again. I’ve been sending requests to the Valar for help for years .  If they want trust, they could try not drowning my messengers.”

Tuor sighed and his broad shoulders slumped in discouragement, though when he spoke, his voice still had that ring to it that spoke of power beyond the wont of man. 

“Then am I bidden to say that men of the Gondothlim should repair swiftly and secretly down the river Sirion to the sea, and there build them boats and go seek back to Valinor...” he began. 

Turgon took a deep breath and interrupted him.  “Tuor.” 

“Yes?” 

“Ulmo thinks we should send messages across the Sea?” 

“I... well, yes.  If you will not lead out your host against Angband.” 

“We tried attacking Angband. Several times.  We’ve tried sending messages to Valinor too. We have done all of this, and all that came of it was grief, for your family even more than mine.”

Tuor looked woebegone.  “Then...” 

“Yes?”

Tuor squared his shoulders again, and Turgon could see there the weight of doom and duty on a young man who had already borne too much.  “Then am I bid to say to you: “Love not too well the work of thy hands and the devices of thy heart; and remember that the true hope of the Noldor lieth in the West and cometh from the Sea.”

“I see.  So. Ulmo’s final counsel is... that we should abandon Gondolin.” 

#fic #writing #Turgon #Tuor #Morgoth #Maeglin #Everybody lives AU #Fall of Gondolin #ridiculous ending #just for fun

[tolkien-feels]

There Was Only One Videogame

An extremely non-comprehensive list of Tolkien siblings and how they cope with the dreaded Only One Person Can Play This Game At A Time Actually situation. Feel free to substitute computer game for videogame if you'd rather. Maybe LOTRO if you wanna get meta?

Finweans: Feanor and Fingolfin each have a console. Finarfin is supposed to share with Fingolfin but he just never plays

Feanorians: Left to their own devices, Maedhros would come up with a schedule and enforce it so that everybody gets their turn fair and square. But Feanor just buys every kind of consoles. 7 of each in fact. Probably codes some games specifically tailored for each kid.

Nolofinweans: Turgon watches Fingon play. Aredhel wants to play, Fingon says she's too young, she hits him, everybody gets grounded including Turgon. Rinse and repeat.

Arafinweans: Finrod lovingly watches Angrod and Aegnor take turns playing. Galadriel will glare at you if you suggest she plays

Sons of Galdor: Fighting over who gets to play is more fun than the actual game. Neither of them takes the fight seriously, it's just fun to bicker

Children of Hurin: Turin watches Lalaith, and since this is an au I'm gonna say he watches Nienor too. The girls take turns. Turin is willing to play if the girls need help beating a boss or something but he isn't really interested otherwise. Hurin thinks Turin is doing childhood Completely Wrong™️ and lowkey wishes all three of them would fight more? He'll praise them for how sweet they are, but he's privately worried he's doing something wrong and his children aren't having fun

The sons of Earendil: Never see a videogame until they're adults, and never really get into it

The children of Elrond: Arwen inherited her father's disinterest. The twins take turns growing up. Estel isn't a huge fan of games tbh but he'll play to bond with the twins as they give him advice

The children of Eomund: Everybody finds it mystifying that Eowyn would want to play. When Eomer lets her he offers so much unsolicited advice that Eowyn takes to playing only when he isn't around. Nevertheless Eowyn routinely beats her own records and should probably be playing professionally

The sons of Denethor: Boromir is begging Faramir to please play. Why doesn't he play. He'll teach him play. Please stop reading and play Faramir it'll be fun please

[dalliansss]

All my Fingon headcanons for @skaelds and @antares0606

Third shortest in the House of Finwë

Smol but Terrible. And fast. His combat style he specifically adapted to suit his small stature. He is among the fastest combatants there is in the family. Think Rogue class on steroids. (Which also means he isn’t much of a Tank like Maedhros or Celegorm or Turgon.)

Eats in a slow, turtle-like pace when he’s in comfortable, safe and peaceful settings. He especially uses this as a torture device when he becomes High King, because the meal courses cannot advance without the King finishing his current plate. So if he doesn’t like you, he will starve you.

Looks so generic a Noldo he can vanish into a crowd without enchantments by simply removing the gold cloth he braids in his hair.

Has jet black, wavy hair. Thick individual strands. His luxurious mane he inherited from Anairë.

Grew up under Fëanor’s Formenos Summers™️ system. Knows how to keep himself alive; knows how to do all household chores, can cook the meanest dumplings and fried rice in Arda. Likes to do the dishes and finds it therapeutic. Don’t depend on him with laundry, tho. He hates doing laundry.

Kill count in Alqualondë: 42

Can play: lute, harp, flute

Has pale blue eyes (made even brighter by Treelight)

Most soft-spoken among the Eldests

Not as adventurous as Finrod or Maedhros, who will flout and/or cross certain lines of morality and decorum. He thinks first on what a certain action entails, especially for himself and others around him.

He’ll keep your secret until his death and even in Mandos

Likes hanging about Ents and sleeping on their branches, if they allow

Has the friendship of all the Ents and Entwives of Hithlum

Has 11 Loremastery titles

Had one of the most extensive gossip information network in Tirion

Isn’t actually close with Nolofinwë or Anairë. He is closer to his Uncle Fëanor and Aunt Nerdanel; they practically raised him.

Youthful best friends with Maedhros. Then as he grew up, he also became best of friends with Angrod and Aegnor

Weapons of choice: sword, spear, bow and arrows, dual elven daggers

Enjoys spelunking and hiking

Enjoys jumping off waterfall cliffs and/or seaside cliffs

Enjoys painting

Closest to Ìrissë among all of his siblings.

Took Turgon and Aredhel’s sudden departure from Nevrast badly. They never informed him or Nolofinwë where they were going, and he resented them for this. 

Envies Finrod and Maedhros, who seem to be better loved and better trusted by their siblings.��

Notorious for his enforcement of stricter tax measures. In retaliation, Caranthir and Finrod had to devise a clever way of increasing their deductions so they can keep profits for Nargothrond and Eastern Beleriand

Also in close friendship with the Noldo Vorosanya, his chamberlain since he was a child in Tirion.

Favorite colors: navy blue, radiant silver, crimson

Favorite food: apple pie, olives, grapes

In-family nickname: Apple. Nolofinwë and Anairë call their children by fruit nicknames.

Kick-started the banking system in Beleriand by calling in all debts owed to him, so he can buy groceries from Caranthir and Finrod

Had the longest crush on Maitimo, but never acted on it.

Was Indis’s first victim with her Matchmaking Mission, but he dodged all set-ups and arrangements so successfully no match was ever announced for him.

#silm #fingon #my hcs #my writing #goldenribbon #finno for the winno #my silm hcs

[arofili]

@tolkienweek 2022 | favorite relationship | maedhros x fingon

Thus Fingon found what he sought. For suddenly above him far and faint his song was taken up, and a voice answering called to him. Maedhros it was that sang amid his torment. But Fingon climbed to the foot of the precipice where his kinsman hung, and then could go no further; and he wept when he saw the cruel device of Morgoth. Maedhros therefore, being in anguish without hope, begged Fingon to shoot him with his bow; and Fingon strung an arrow, and bent his bow. And seeing no better hope he cried to Manwë, saying: 'O King to whom all birds are dear, speed now this feathered shaft, and recall some pity for the Noldor in their need!'

—The Silmarillion, “Of the Return of the Noldor”

#tolkienweek #tolkienedit #oneringnet #mepoc #silm #silmarillion #silmedit #maedhros #fingon #russingon #maedhros x fingon #my edit #tefain nin

[spiritofwhitefire]

“For suddenly above him far and faint his song was taken up, and a voice answering called to him. Maedhros it was that sang amid his torment. But Fingon climbed to the foot of the precipice where his kinsman hung; and then he could go no farther, and he wept when he saw the cruel device of Morgoth. Maedhros therefore, being in anguish without hope, begged Fingon to shoot him with his bow; and Fingon strung an arrow, and bent his bow. And seeing no better hope he cried to Manwe, saying: 'O King to whom birds are dear, speed now this feathered shaft, and recall some pity for the Noldor in their need!'....Now, even as Fingon bent his bow, there flew down from the high airs Thorondor, King of Eagles, mightiest of all birds that have ever been, whose outstretched wings spanned thirty fathoms; and staying Fingon's hand he took him up, and bore him to the face of the rock where Maethros hung.” 

― J.R.R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion

#quotes #books #jrr tolkien #the silmarillion #maedhros #fingon