#oh this is an excellent tyelko

[annoyinglandmagazine]

One aspect of the House of Feanor I’d like to talk about is the idea that they all really love children. Like Feanor has seven sons more than any other elf we’ve ever heard mentioned. You’re telling me this guy doesn’t really love kids? So I like to believe that all the Feanorians are all inherently great with kids and just melt every time they see a child.

Feanor hates his half brothers for the whole Indis thing but he’s the only one who gets away with hating them. Anyone else tries it and they are hit with the full force of an angry Feanor. Yes he hates them but he will also be tutoring them because how else will he make sure it’s done right and they won’t disgrace Atar? And no he was not just bouncing Arafinwe on his lap what are you talking about?

Curufin is an excellent father which he inherited from his own father. Tyelpe also has six uncles who never tire of spending hours playing with him. They all fight for the title of best uncle and Tyelko very firmly believes it is him.

At family gatherings it is understood that no matter your reservations about Feanor’s side of the family if there is an upset child a Feanorian will know how to deal with it. Feanor himself will rarely object to being handed a crying baby regardless of it’s parentage. Maedhros has been the assigned babysitter for what feels like an eternity and his abilities are regarded as near magic.

This does not go away once they get to Middle Earth. The Feanorians all go to great lengths to provide adequate parental leave in their armies and frequently stop round to check in with any new parents to meet the child. They know all the names of most of their followers children and ask about them regularly.

One of the first things that endeared Caranthir to Haleth was how kind he was with some of her younger relatives. The children of the Haladin all love him because he plays with them sometimes and brings them little sweets. His good with children instincts are activated with any child regardless of race and it helps him build relations with other races more easily.

When Maglor brings Elrond and Elros back Maedhros is a lost cause within a month. He knows this s unhealthy on so many levels but children. They’re so innocent and tiny and he’s going to protect them. They are both referring to them as their children within a week.

Elrond inherits this. Erestor and Glorfindel see his adoption problem and immediately think oh shit our lord is definitely a Feanorian.

#silmarillion #tolkien #feanorians #Maglor #maedhros #Caranthir #Celebrimbor #curufin #celegorm #feanor #elrond #kidnap fam #glorfindel #erestor

[i-did-not-mean-to]

Cursed Cards - Part I

So, on this blessed day (birthday of my beloved husband and wedding of an author I SO admire), I offer you a little gift.

Here's a commission by @sauroff for my very favourite boys!!! At the end of the small ficlet I've written for it, you'll find the extra Fingon-reaction-panel and the mini-comic I got (I am still screaming) on which I've based the last part of the story!!!

Cursed cards

Words: 1,21 k

Warnings: Russingon (which is a half-cousin-incest ship)

Context: This might be read as a snippet out of my many Modern!AU stories. Either way, Maedhros and Fingon did not know each other well when they were younger because of their fathers' strife.

“Ai Russo,” Fingon called from the door. “You won’t believe what just arrived.”

As he re-entered the room, he was brandishing a small rectangular piece of cardboard triumphantly; from his perch on the sofa, all Maedhros could make out was a cramped block of handwritten text followed by an eerily familiar, sprawling collection of signatures though.

“What do you have there?” he asked cautiously, craning his long, slender neck to get a better look at what he now clearly identified as a postcard of sorts. 

“Your mother has sent me a Christmas card!” Fingon whooped and threw himself on the sofa, the newly-obtained treasure protectively clasped against his broad chest. “And it is the best card anyone has ever received.”

At first, Maedhros was so elated to see his beloved brimming and gleaming with happiness at receiving a missive from Nerdanel that he almost forgot how mischievous his mother could be.

After a few seconds of Fingon cradling his precious card without making any move to share its excellence with him though, Maedhros was overcome by doubt and a terrible suspicion.

“What kind of card is it, darling?” he asked calmly, battling the frown that wanted to crease his smooth, pale brow.

“It’s a family picture,” Fingon said, his voice strained with the effort to suppress a merry guffaw. His eyes were glinting with boundless glee as if he was pondering an excellent joke his lover was not yet privy to.

Instantly, the smile on Maedhros’ face froze into a grimace of pure dread. She wouldn’t do that; his mother knew how much Fingon meant to him. She would never have risked exposing her oldest son to ridicule by digging out the worst holiday picture any family had ever taken.

“Show me!” he demanded shakily and gave a small cry when his worst fears came true. “Oh, no!”

As he tried to snatch the card away, Fingon threw himself around, shielding it with his very body and all but baring his teeth in a territorial frenzy. “No,” he grumbled, “you shall not have it.”

Just by the look on Maedhros’ face, he could tell that he’d destroy the missive if he could.

“Oh, how could she?” Maedhros exclaimed and curled up on himself. “We thought, we really believed, that we had destroyed every last copy of that accursed picture!”

“Why?” Fingon asked cautiously, still keeping his prized possession out of the reach of those terribly nimble and strong hands he so loved to feel on his skin. “It’s an adorable photograph…and you look glorious in it!”

“I…what?” Maedhros combed his fingers through his hair nervously; he was mortified at the mere thought of his dishevelled hair and the awful sweaters his parents had made them wear, so he didn’t so much as glance in the direction of the picture Fingon stared at as if it held every truth of the universe. 

“The twins were in the process of strangling me and scalping Káno,” he informed reproachfully. “Moreover, we had to take Moryo to the hospital. It was an awful night!”

Immediately, Fingon’s huge eyes turned compassionate, and Maedhros’ discontent was mellowed by the earnest empathy he read in them. “How come?”

“Moryo tried to wrench himself free and Tyelko toppled backwards over Curvo…” Maedhros rubbed his forehead with a long-fingered hand; in hindsight, he could appreciate how ludicrous this sounded and cringed. “Either way, Moryo then refused to let us see his hand, Tyelko had hit his head against the edge of a table, Curvo was no longer cackling but wailing. Even the twins stilled in their mayhem upon witnessing the chain reaction of disaster.”

When Fingon merely blinked, Maedhros sighed deeply. “They all still have the scars and, apparently, my parents do not think that reason enough to annihilate the incriminating evidence!”

Fingon had started caressing the picture with a tender fingertip, tracing those noble, gorgeous features he saw every time he closed his eyes; he was, of course, sorry that Fëanor’s children had paid this work of art with blood and tears, but he could not bring himself to truly regret their sacrifice.

“It’s fascinating,” he whispered reverentially, “to see that you’ve all made good on the promises of your childhood days.”

“I guess,” Maedhros agreed grumpily, “I am still awkward, Moryo is still ill-tempered, Tyelko is a savage still, and Curvo never stopped being a sneering pest.”

“I was thinking more along the lines of the prodigious beauty, valour, and strength of your line, but suit yourself,” Fingon laughed and nudged his head against the other’s sharp, bony shoulder. “I wish we had known each other back then!”

“I am glad we didn’t.” Maedhros grimaced in deepfelt embarrassment; he was convinced that his unusual complexion had not done him any favours back in the day. 

Nevertheless, his face softened as he finally looked upon the round, chubby faces of the brothers he thought of constantly – with equal measures of love and exasperation – and found that the memories of their younger days made him smile wistfully.

“I love it,” Fingon swore perfervidly, “and I love you!”

What else could Maedhros do but sling his arm around Fingon and press a kiss against that temple behind which his beloved would keep the memory of that darned picture forevermore, even if he managed to wrench the card from him and throw it into the fire?

“Don’t let Maglor see it though,” he mumbled insistently, “or Moryo. They hate it with a passion!”

All too soon, Maedhros understood that he might as well have saved his breath though as Fingon proceeded to carry the card on his person all the time.

More than once, Maedhros was fooled into believing that his lover had found some rare new treasure upon finding him gaping at something – evidently immensely precious by the look on his face – clasped in his hands, only to discover that it was the vexatious Christmas picture all over again.

Unfortunately, all his earnest endeavours to take it from Fingon ended in bitter defeats though.

“No way,” Fingon grinned as they companionably stood in Maglor’s living room, “I’m sending this to Ingoldo!”

With his impeccable sense of comedic – or tragic, depending on whom you asked – timing, Maglor suddenly appeared at their side to see Fingon gauchely trying to snap a picture of a postcard while swatting away Maedhros’ hand. 

“Nelyo,” Maglor squawked in a melodramatic voice, “please tell me it’s not that photo again!”

He recognised the colour scheme and the chaotic composition even without getting a good look at the object Fingon so ferociously defended from Maedhros’ half-hearted attempts at theft.

“The very same,” Maedhros huffed, “and – if we cannot dissuade him – Finno will make sure everyone with eyes to see will be made aware of our shame!”

Maglor pondered this for a second and then shrugged. “I look somewhat cute in it,” he declared in a regal act of grace, “and it’s – oh, so much – worse for the others, so…I shall condone the propagation of the monstrosity.”

Astounded, Maedhros merely blinked at this utterance; he had just lost a valuable ally.

“Also,” Maglor continued, his eyes glinting sharply, “I shall have my revenge. Charming a middle-aged lady into handing over pictures of her beloved children should be child’s play!”

Here are the promised extra artworks:

I hope you've all liked this, please give @sauroff a big round of applause for being delightful, generous, and absolutely lovely to work with.

As always, lots of love from my little person!

A hooray to love, to friendship, and to happiness. May December be good to you all!!!

-> Part 2

#writing #fanfiction #the silm #the silmarillion #russingon #maedhros #fingon #maedhros x fingon #maglor #the fëanorians #Modern!AU #Tyelko trying to eat Moryo #Curvo is laughing maniacally #sauroff #commissions #so much fun #stay tuned for part II

[jane-ways]

Of Things Made to be Destroyed, Ch 3

Read it on AO3 & SWG!

Morning dawned cold and misty. To Caranthir it seemed the damp earth itself was shivering under the wan early light. But there was light, and for that he was grateful. He had slept little, but there were many who had slept even less: those tasked with setting up camp, organizing the hospital, tending to the wounded, and burying the fallen. (It struck him, how both his people and Haleth’s buried their dead in the earth: for the Noldor, it was a tradition forged in Beleriand, a way of connecting them to this land; for the nomadic Haladin, it symbolically marked their journey and the places where, for however long, they made their home.) A long rest and a lazy morning was perhaps warranted, he thought. It was almost certainly desired by all, yet it seemed that sleep escaped more than Caranthir: even by the time he dressed and left his tent, the large camp was wide awake with the sounds of talking and the pungent smell of woodsmoke.

Damn, he thought, all the wood’s soaked through and smoking something fierce. I’ll be lucky if any of my meals for the next day taste like anything more than soot. Caranthir detested a smoky fire. Supplies of food, medicine, cloth, and dry wood were on their way from his castle, but the supply caravan would take a day or more to reach them. As he approached his head cook for the cavalry, he was already making a mental inventory of food that either would not be strongly affected by the presence of smoke or that might actually be by improved by it. And then, as he passed one of the women of Haleth’s guard, an idea struck him.

*

“Hail the victorious dead!” Haleth’s voice rang out strong and clear across the field.

“Hail!” answered Caranthir, raising his goblet in toast.

“Hail!” came the chorus of replies from the gathered combatants and survivors. They had set their feast at many long tables arranged in a sort of central “square” in their tent city, a large area at the head of camp left intentionally clear. Caranthir was pleased to see a certain amount of mingling between the two peoples, if not much conversation (which he hoped was simply the result of limited Sindarin on the Haladin’s part).

Having instructed his head cook to consult with the Haladin concerning their supplies and dietary preferences, he had approached Haleth with his plan. “It will be a symbolic celebration,” he had explained. “It is a tradition among the Noldor. With the sun still in the morning sky, almost at the peak of noon, we celebrate both our past successes and the promise of good health to come.”

“Have you a name for it?” Her question had thrown him.

“Have—what? A name for a victory celebration?”

“You said it was a tradition amongst your people.”

“Oh, well, yes, a meal taken late in the morning. Not necessarily a victory meal, although such an occasion would not be excluded—”

“What do you call it?”

“We call it ‘brunch.’”

*

Leaning back in his camp chair to let his food settle, Caranthir turned to look at Haleth. She was still eating intently. He noted the soft roundness of her ears—still such a novelty to him—and the beginnings of lines around her eyes, tiny folds in the delicate skin. Mannish age was a matter of some confusion for Caranthir. Dwarves, with whom he had more familiarity, he had learned to judge fairly accurately, and like Dwarves, Men did age and die, but how the two peoples’ lifespans and signs of aging compared he did not know. Haleth could have been still a young woman or one well into her middle age. Whatever her age, she carried weight and wisdom beyond her years, though. That much he could tell.

“What, pray tell, are you looking at?” Haleth’s voice startled him from his thoughts. She had not turned her head (or, Caranthir noted, paused her eating while she spoke). “I can feel your eyes on me, Lord.”

“You have keen senses, then,” he countered.

“I have led a dangerous life; I have had to develop them,” she answered, eyes still on her food. Still, he did not answer her, but held his gaze steadily. At length, she turned to him. “You did not answer me, Lord. What are you looking at? You have the look about you of a man searching for something.” Haleth cocked her head, and although she did smile, there was a laugh in her eyes. “What are you hoping to find in my face?”

For that, he had no answer. “Merely looking,” he said softly.

Shaking her head, Haleth turned back to her food. “I am grateful for your hospitality, but you Elves have strange ways.”

Caranthir paused. “Yes, ah, well…” Excellent diplomacy, Carnistir, very princely, he berated himself. “I am sure many of our customs must seem different and unusual,” he said in what he hoped was a recovery. Seizing an opportunity where he saw one opening up, he pressed on. “I am unfamiliar with many of your people’s customs as well, Lady. Please, enlighten me as to the origin of your earlier toast. I found it very moving.”

Haleth hummed a moment while she finished chewing. “In truth, I know not. But as you said, I too have always found it moving. The idea that their sacrifice was not in vain. That we are celebrating their lives rather than mourning their deaths.”

“It is a pleasing sentiment,” Caranthir agreed. “My people, being of eternal life, are often inclined towards intense sorrow at death. It is not permanent for us—we are re-embodied in the Undying Lands, after our time in the Halls of the Dead; we do not continue on past the circles of the world,” he interjected hurriedly at the gape-mouthed stare from Haleth at his statement that death was not permanent for Elves. “I think it because we do not understand death, not truly,” he continued, “not in the way mortals must. But I do not feel it must always be so, for us. I should like if we adopted an attitude not unlike your own.”

Haleth nodded slowly. Her face, usually steeled in a veneer of stern unreadability, had softened in surprise at this last admission. Perhaps, he surmised, she was astonished that such a proud lord as he would so openly admit her people’s customs preferable to his own. But Caranthir was above all a practical person: there were no trade networks built upon prejudice, and no profits to be gained by clinging to pride in the face of a better option. (And besides, his cousin Ingoldo’s funeral dirges really were abominable.)

“Now you have asked me a question, I should like to ask you one of my own,” Haleth said, settling back in her own chair. This was going to be a long conversation, apparently.

“I welcome it.”

*

Alone in his tent, Caranthir plucked away at the design before him. It was a small piece, a white horse courant on a field of green, interspersed with golden flowers. In time, the edges would be circled by a pattern of interlocking stalks, leaves, and flowers. He hadn’t decided what it would be—probably a handkerchief—or to whom he would gift it—at the moment, he was leaning towards Tyelko, but that would rule out its being used as a handkerchief. (Caranthir was not sure the last time he had seen his brother use anything remotely resembling a handkerchief. Or a napkin. Maybe he would use it as a hand towel? Maybe.)

As he sewed, Caranthir considered his earlier conversation with Haleth (which, in all honesty, had not left his mind since he had reluctantly left her side). What had started as a gaffe had evolved into a discussion of many hours, lasting well into the afternoon as tables were cleared around them and people dispersed to their various duties. Caranthir did not think his reputation as a difficult person was always deserved, but he had to admit that he rarely found a conversation so effortless and enjoyable. That his partner was a Mannish woman he had just met did not escape him. His hand stilled.

Haleth did not seem any more the sort of person to use a handkerchief than his brother Tyelkormo, but perhaps she would like the embroidery on the horse.

*

“And then I caught him staring at me!”

“What was he looking at?”

“Me, I think.”

“Why was he looking at you?”

“Who knows? Probably to stare at how hideous a mortal I am!” Haleth laughed loudly, and the group of women around her burst into snorts and giggles. Even here, in the privacy of her own tent, in the company of her own guards, in the safety of her own language, she could not admit that the idea stung. So she laughed it off. Made a fool of the poncy Elvish princeling and his airs. What did she care why he looked at her, so long as he gave her people food and supplies? Let him entertain himself how he would. (An alternative way he might entertain himself with her flitted through her thoughts, and she pushed it away, silently cursing her traitorous mind.) The conversation turned to other matters, and Haleth followed along with half a mind, laughing or hmm-ing where appropriate, but her thoughts remained with Caranthir, and the way his eyes glinted like mica in the sun when he looked at her.

#haleth #caranthir #caranthir/haleth #The Silmarillion #silmarillion #silm fic #tolkien #my fics