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aotearoa20 · 5 months

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Foresight Dark.

//1//2//3//4//5//6//7//

He didn’t know what to expect for the fourth. He took Arafinwë’s remedies and prayed. Nerdanel says he’s hovered but he could not tell her why. Such conversations would lead to more advice he has no interest in heeding. It’s hardly necessary at any rate, Morifinwë has three older brothers who dote on him and a mother and grandfather who adore him. The chance he was ever alone was slim at best.

So the boy turned one and then two and Fëanáro got complacent. When he walked into the nursery one evening and saw a dark haired ellon standing over the bed he didn’t rush over. Makalaurë was one of the few who could quiet down Moryo when he was in a mood like this.

But he wasn’t singing. He spoke softly, using words Fëanáro couldn’t understand. Moryo looked at him, brow furrowed and listening intently. The child didn’t speak much though it worried Nerdanel a good deal more than him. He had been the same and no one would ever call him short on words.

The elf’s smile fell as he entered.

“What do you want?”

He doesn’t even look up, though his hand tightened around the side of the crib.

Dread pools in his stomach, he spoke as steadily as he could, “To check on my son.”

He scoffed and Fëanáro is surprised how much it stung. Dark eyes, sharp and piercing flick up and regard him with cool disinterest. He can’t help feel small under his gaze. His lips twist into a scowl and he stalked over to the fireplace. Though he cuts a far slighter figure than the one before Fëanáro can’t stop his heart from racing.

“Is this a dream? Am I dead?”

Fëanaro opens his mouth to speak but his words disappear like smoke.

“Ai Valar, please, I must be dead.”

“Morifinwë…”

The elf chuckled and turned back, his face now shadowed. His clothes were smeared in blood and dirt but he could tell they were once white. There were gems sewn into the fabric the gave him shimmering and ever shifting silhouette leant on the mantle piece.

“Are you real?” The boy asked, he once again looked him up and down, poking his shoulder for good measure.

“I… yes?”

“You look young, were you really so young?”

“Morifinwë…” a bit of ire leaking into his voice. He’s doing in on purpose. Pelting him with questions so he can’t get a word in. Fëanáro can tell by the glint in his eye and a self-satisfied smirk far too similar to his own. He knew this game he could play it -

“Did you love us?”

His mind stuttered to a stop, “What?”

Morifinwë shrugged and looked back down at he fireplace, “I can’t remember anymore.”

He wasn’t quite aware that he stepped forward until he felt of the fire. The face of his son is flushed from the heat of it. His fingers wrapped around his cold hands, there’s blood on them also. Why was there always blood?

“More than anything. How can you even ask such a thing”

Morifinwë twisted out of his grip, fast as a viper grabbing his own wrist and pulling him closer. This one too shall be taller than him, he thought grimly. It’s terrifying how fast his expression shifted. There is an old fire burning in his eyes that kindles at the sight of him and he snarled.

“Then why did you die! Why did you leave us? Those were not your last words.” His voice rose with every word and the child in the crib behind whined. For a moment Fëanáro watched him turn to his younger self, shooting him a rather unimpressed glare. To his surprise, the baby quietened down with a little pout.

“I - “ Fëanáro shook his head, this is enough, the boy didn’t want an answer but he did, “What happened?”

Morifinwë barked a laugh and released him. He took a step back and shook his head. The boy seemed barely aware when Fëanáro reached out again and placed a hand on his arm.

“Moryo,” he pleaded, there was no time. They were never there long, “Tell me, let me fix this.”

“No.”

He looked surprised at his own answer. Fëanáro’s heart sank when he saw his son look up and meet his eyes, for he could see the decision was made and he would not be swayed. He shook his head and shoved his fear back down his throat.

“There’s no time, why wouldn’t you - “

“I’m married.”

“Stop.”

“I married an aftercomer. Her name was Haleth.”

“Morfinwë, your brothers are downstairs, I have seen what will happen to them - “

“I never told anyone, you may as well know.”

“I… I am glad for you and shall be glad to meet her but - “

“You won’t. But if I tell you, if you change - I may never meet her.”

“Oh, Moryo….”

He chuckled and Fëanáro could scream. He is as mad as the others. He cannot save them, how can he save them?

“I’m a monster, you know.”

Fëanáro grabbed his shoulders and shook him, “Do not say such things.”

Caranthir hissed back with just as much venom, “You don’t know what I’ve done, you don’t know what I’d do again for the singular bright summer of my entire life.”

“I love you, Carnister,” His heart spilled out of his chest without warning. He hadn’t even realised how much his question had been gnawing at him until the words left his lips, “More than anything. More than life. More than all the jewels of the the earth and works of my hands, you must - “

His son shoved him off like his touched burned him. Fëanáro couldn’t understand the look on his face but he hated it.

“I’ll see you in the damned void.”

He turned on his heel and disappeared

#my writing #foresight au #feanor #morifinwe #caranthir #carnister #silm au #silmarillion #tolkien

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furious-haste-of-malice · 3 months

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Screw Yule

⃤ Prompt: Dark Gifts | Melkor x Maglor ⃤ Synopsis: After ages of wandering alone, Maglor is caught by the Enemy. ⃤ Warnings: Non-con, rough sex, Melkor's creepy obsession with Fëanor and his family ⃤ Oneshot (~1.3k) ⃤ AO3

AN: First one for Screw Yule, and I'm starting off with dead dove. Oh well. Hope you enjoy!

Melkor will be referred to as Morgoth because this is Maglor's POV.

Never had Maglor thought he would see him again, at least not until the very end.

For ages now had he wandered the shores of Middle-earth, singing of a world that was no more and of guilt that would never fade, not a single familiar soul in sight – they had long since left as well, he had heard it whispered in the waters.

Only he remained. And that dreadful truth had struck him with renewed vigour when the shadows had come upon him, reminiscent of those who had attacked Tilion many years ago: He was alone. There was no one he could call for help.

Maedhros' name died on his lips. Maglor's hand clutched a small harp, not a silver bow. His voice, mighty as it was, availed him not against this foe, greatest enemy of his kin.

He was thrown down into the sand, and something dark and heavy settled atop him, shadows coalescing into a humanoid shape now that he had been caught. This helplessness, this primal terror despite all bravery – this had to be what the Elves of Cuiviénen had felt.

Two eyes found his, shards of ice amidst creeping darkness, like eerie lights misleading travellers at night. A face became visible, one he believed to recognize from ages past, though it looked different from the mask of benevolence the Enemy had worn in Valinor. To Maglor it appeared handsome and repulsive at the same time, like the visage of one who had once possessed great beauty which had now become faded and foul.

"Hail Kanafinwë," the Vala greeted him in a mocking tone.

"Morgoth," Maglor spat, attempting – in vain – to push him off. "One would think you have better things to do than to pursue a lonely minstrel."

"Perhaps your voice is simply too sweet." Clawed hands grasped his jaw. "Though I shall not lie to you... your blood sings even more sweetly to me."

"Kill me then." Maglor thought of Maedhros again. Was this how it had felt, this sickening mixture of fear and certainty that this being, fallen yet still far mightier than even their father, was going to hurt him, to subject him to whatever cruel design his twisted mind had conjured.

"Kill you?" Morgoth appeared to contemplate the suggestion, then smiled. "Do you not think it would be a little rash to spill the last of Fëanáro's blood that remains in this world so soon after we meet again? Do you not think you should properly greet the mightiest of the Valar, perhaps sing a bit for me?"

"You have no need for minstrels."

"Maybe. But if you please me I shall bestow a gift upon you."

Laughing to himself, Morgoth tore Maglor's clothes from his body with a single swipe of his hand.

"You are not your father, but you do resemble him," he noted, running his fingers up and down his flanks as if he was examining some sort of strange specimen. "I shall content myself with you for now."

Maglor shivered. After witnessing the horrors of war and what had happened to Maedhros, he was not so naive as to be ignorant to Morgoth's twisted desires; yet he also knew the outcome was inevitable. He wasn't strong enough to fight a Vala and knew all would be in vain in the end, like Námo had warned them many years ago.

"Poor thing. It must have been ages since someone last touched you," Morgoth purred.

"Likewise," Maglor spat and was swiftly punished for his insolence with a slap across his face. Even as his head hit the sand below and darkness blanketed his vision for several seconds, he knew that this was far from the Vala's full strength – almost playful even.

Shadows engulfed his body, holding his arms in place, and his legs were pushed up against his chest. When his sight returned to him, Maglor was greeted with the frightening sight of a long, forked tongue licking his flaccid cock before making its way further down.

"N-no... don't-!" He had to force himself not to beg, remembering how brave Maedhros had been. No, he couldn't bring shame unto his brother's memory, even if –

Like a snake, the inhuman tongue violating his dignity slithered inside of him, and Maglor trembled in disgust, both at the act and the way his treacherous body took pleasure in it. Unfortunately, there was a certain truth to Morgoth's words: He indeed hadn't enjoyed the warmth and touch of a lover in many years. But he couldn't accept such contact from the being that had driven his entire family to madness and despair, was responsible for the deaths of so many of his people, had done terrible things to whoever he could get his hands on.

He also knew that the Vala wanted to hurt him; he hadn't even attempted to lie about it or deceive him.

And Morgoth was more than ready to do just that.

His tongue vanishing was the only warning Maglor received before something large and hard was unceremoniously forced inside him, splitting him open as if a massive spear penetrated his flesh. He heard a piercing scream, barely realising that it was his own voice, and weakly struggled against the hold of a creature much stronger and mightier than he.

"What a beautiful voice you have... for an Incarnate at least," Morgoth purred, and every syllable seemed to drip with mockery and pleasure alike. "Do continue with your lovely performance, mighty singer... I shall listen and enjoy myself."

His hips snapped forward, thrusting as deeply as he could, and he set a brutal, merciless rhythm that was devoid of either love or true passion, driven only by greed, malice and a desire to despoil and destroy.

Maglor could do nothing except accept his fate and let himself be violated by his kin's greatest enemy. Had he been an Elf like any other his fëa would have long since fled to Mandos, but the oath still lingered within his mind, keeping him bound to the world. And even as his stomach roiled with nausea and he gasped for breath, through some foul spell or trickery his body still felt pleasure, creeping and unwelcome, but undeniably there.

He sobbed, cursed, cried and screamed until his voice failed him, anything to keep himself from begging for mercy or saying anything that would later be twisted and used against him. Pain surged up his spine with every movement, and his passage had been stretched beyond its limit, muscles going limp as exhaustion settled within his bones.

The sensation of hot, sticky fluid flooding him like the waves Maglor had watched crashing on the shore for ages felt relieving, even though disgust gripped his very being, making him want to throw himself into the sea like he had done to the Silmaril. His own arousal was left unattended, and he didn't know whether it was punishment or perverse kindness – his pride and honour had thoroughly been destroyed, though he would cling to this one small thing like a drowning sailor holding on to a plank of his sunken ship.

Satisfied, Morgoth let go of him. For a moment, Maglor hoped – in vain though it was – that he would be left like this or that his body would perish after all, but one as doomed as he was had no such luck. His very fëa shuddered within its corporeal confines when the Vala's song rang out, and soon he felt his flesh repairing itself, like a needle stitching fabric back together.

"There," Morgoth said finally, pleased with himself. "Let it not be said that I don't have mercy."

But Maglor knew it was a lie. There was no remorse nor pity that could compel the Enemy to perform such an action – only the need to own him, to keep using him and toying with him, to satisfy his depraved desires for the Elf who had escaped him.

And neither his brothers nor his father could help him anymore.

Thanks for reading!

#⊰✦⊱ non-con #maglor #kanafinwe #makalaure #melkor #morgoth #melkor x maglor #cw noncon #tw noncon #dead dove do not eat #silm smut #minors dni #silm fanfic #silmarillion fanfiction #silmarillion #cílil writes #my writing

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a-world-of-whimsy-5 · 13 days

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The seduction of Fëanor

Day 4 prompts: Friendship | Alliances

For: @silmarillionepistolary

Rating: General Audience

Characters: Fëanor

Epistolary format: Journal entry

Themes: Corruption | Seduction of Fëanor AU

Warnings: Manipulation

Wordcount: 1.4k words

Summary: Fëanor writes of Melkor calling on him after he is exiled to Formenos

This is also available on AO3

Fëanáro Curufinwë’s journal

65th day of Y.T. 1492.— Lord Melkor called on me in Formenos, offering his friendship and aid in my quest to deliver all who would follow me from life under the Valar’s rule.

“You are a thrall of Manwë, the brother who supplanted me in everything,” he declared. “Lord Námo pronounced it freely, and to all those who had gathered to hear you explain yourself to those who think themselves to be your masters. He claims that this is your fate, and that this is the fate of all the Eldar that dwell in the Blessed Realm and beyond! And to exile you, to place your freedom in the hands of a lesser prince who speaks against you in secret! Bah! Do you now see, my prince, the truth in my words? Do you now see through their lies and schemes to place your half-brother above you?”

“Aye.” I gestured for Lord Melkor to join me in the gardens. My sons have taken my father on a grand hunt, but many of the servants remained in the palace. I cannot trust them. Despite their many oaths of loyalty, I cannot fully trust them. I cannot risk them repeating whatever they might hear to others. We spread our cloaks on the grass and sat beneath the branches of an apple tree already rich in fruit. “You have spoken the truth of the other Valar, the scheming of the half-brother who wishes to supplant me like yours did with you. The scales have fallen from my eyes, my lord, and I like not what I see.”

The Vala smiled. “It pleases me to know that there are those born into the House of Finwë who are not afraid to open their eyes and see. It also pleases me to see that the words and deeds of others have not put out the fires within your heart. Join hands with me, Fëanáro, prince of the Noldor. Join hands with me, and I will aid you in all things. I will carry you across Araman and the icy wastes of the Helcaraxë. I will deliver you and all those who follow you from thralldom. I can make you a mighty king. High king of all the elves in Endórë. Am I not a Vala, also? I am that, my prince, and I am so much more than those who sit on their great thrones in Valimar. There are many things that I am willing to do for the Noldor, for I am their friend, and I am a friend to you most of all.”

His words struck a chord within me. I confess, Lord Námo’s proclamation was humiliating to hear. To live the life of an exile is a terrible thing. To have my half-brother, the son of a woman who usurped my mother’s rightful place by my father’s side, and a prince who secretly speaks against me hold the key to my freedom within the palms of his hands, was even worse. The knowledge of it would have been more than I could bear if my spirit had been weaker. Woe be to my foes! I am stronger than they think, and I will not yield. I will not bow my head and live my life according to the whims and wishes of others. I studied Lord Melkor and pondered if I could indeed trust him to honor his vow to aid me. The others branded him a liar and a schemer, a Vala who was most dark and cruel and cunning. I do not think such is indeed the case. He pulled off the mask my half-brother used to hide his true self, did he not, and showed the other Valar for what they were? Beings who placed my half-brother above me by making him Regent of Túna, and who expect the Eldar to live their lives shackled to the Valar’s feet? It is too much! Too much! But to leave the only home I have ever known and to begin life anew in a land I have only heard of in songs and my father’s many tales… my hesitation must have shown, for Lord Melkor placed his hand over mine and gave it a soothing squeeze.

“Take hold of this hand, Fëanáro, prince of the Noldor,” he said anew, “and I will help you find freedom from those who dare call themselves your overlords and mine. I will never restrain you, nor will I place others above you. I will make you a king who rules all other kings and a master of your own destiny. I will help you carve out a great kingdom in Endórë, a kingdom that will live on for a thousand ages and beyond. No one will hinder you, not even the weak, short-lived beings the Valar intends to place above the elves. I will make certain that they do not. Pray tell me your answer.”

I considered his words and his offer to aid me. I thought of what I could become if I joined hands with him: a king who rules all other kings, a master of my destiny. I could lay the foundations for a kingdom that would thrive through the ages. I will have no one to restrain me. I will have no half-brother plotting to usurp me. I will have no one to say that I go too far, no one to declare that the works of my hands are unlawful and unjustified.

But the Silmarils, came the unbidden and worrying thought. What will become of the Silmarils? What will become of the hallowed jewels? What will become of your father, your wife, and your sons?

I knew then that if I took Lord Melkor’s hand and agreed to leave with him, many preparations would have to be made. I could not leave the hallowed jewels here in Formenos. Even if I left my father, my wife, and my sons behind, I could not leave the greatest and most treasured of my creations behind. I could not leave them in the care of others. It would only lead to their destruction if I did, and that was something I could never allow.

“A great many preparations have to be made, my lord, if I do decide to leave with you,” I replied. The hand over my own squeezed gently again. “For I cannot simply leave on a whim. I need to discover who among my followers and my kin will be most amenable to leave with us, and there are a great many things that we must take. Provisions to guarantee our comfort, treasures that I cannot bear to part with, arms to protect us from the short-lived race that the Valar hope to place over us. I trust these things will not be a hindrance in any way.”

“I understand very well, my prince, the need for such measures.” Lord Melkor lifted his other hand to one of the low-hanging branches and plucked a crimson and gold apple. He offered the first bite to me. The fruit was uncommonly ripe and sweet, and I savoured the taste. Lord Melkor then helped himself; his bite was as hearty as mine. He turned to face me and smiled. That smile was dreadful and beautiful—even more beautiful than the hallowed jewels themselves. Then he set the fruit aside and reached out to brush his thumb over my chin and wipe away the juice that dripped down.

“But I hope you will have faith in my ability to provide for you and keep you and yours safe,” he continued softly. “Nevertheless, sound out your allies and make your plans! And do not take too long! Word of my coming here will fly to the furthest corners of Valinor on the swiftest of wings. Others will not take kindly to my calling on you, and they will not forgive you for listening to what I say. My brother may not forgive you for listening to what I say. We must be ready to leave when they are ready to move against us.”

“Indeed, my lord.” I made my decision. I will leave. Even if the others insist on staying behind, I will leave. I will forge a glorious new life and name for myself—one that will live on in tales and songs. It is my destiny. Lord Melkor squeezed my hand a third time. This time, I reciprocated the gesture to show him that I agreed. He was pleased. “Indeed.”

tags: @cilil @asianbutnotjapanese

#silmarillionepistolary #epistolary #fëanor #melkor #fëanor x melkor #the seduction of fëanor AU #the silmarillion #the silm fanfiction

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lotr-bitches · 7 months

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i love them, your honor. a scene from my fic:

An entry from High King Finwë's personal diary regarding Lady Míriel þerindë (Y.T. 1170).

I have never felt such pain. I was so sure, the Valar were so sure, that she would come back to me. I feel as if my heart has been ripped from my chest and I am cradling it, still beating, in my hands. I wish for the pain to end. Please let it cease. I am nothing without her. I am nothing without her love. I wish I had been told that love was such a wretched little thing; that those who you love could be ripped away at any moment and cease to exist. I wish I had been told of this pain. Sometimes, in my darkest moments of late, I wish I had never been in love.

It is not right. It is not just. I am glad for the great love I shared with Míriel. I am glad for it. I have to remember that I am glad that it was something we shared, however fleeting.

But I wish it had not happened. I wish none of it had ever happened. I wish I had never woken in that secluded valley. I wish I had never been cradled in the palm of Eru. I wish Eru had never seen fit to fill me with life. My life means nothing without my love.

Note from the Compiler: Here the paper was torn. The rest of this entry was assumed to be from the same entry as above. However, this is not certain.

I have remembered my Curufinwë. I have remembered my Fëanáro. I will call him Fëanáro from now. Míriel deserves the honor of her son being called by the name she chose for him. He will have everything. I will give him as much love as is possible. I will give him the love of both a mother and a father. It is the least that he deserves. He is my greatest treasure. He is my hope and the personification of my love.

My fiery Fëanáro. My wonderful son. You are my greatest pride, my greatest joy. I give no love but to you. I promise this. I give no love but to you.

find the rest on ao3. my user is queenelsa567.

#silm fic #silmarillion #finwe #house of finwe #miriel therinde #my fic #finwe x miriel #i love them your honor #i am having so many feelings

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dalliansss · 6 months

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❝ oh I hate that man, I hate that man ! ❞

→ 𝑫𝑨𝑵𝑮𝑬𝑹𝑶𝑼𝑺𝑳𝒀 𝒀𝑶𝑼𝑹𝑺.

Findekáno -- Fingon, on this side of Arda, looks up from doing an inventory of his clothing and effects just as his Atar, Nolofinwë (Fingolfin, on this side of Arda), strides into his tent, looking positively livid -- red in the face and stomping his feet like a toddler denied some present or candy during Yule Festival. Fingolfin is still in furs -- as is Fingon -- for here by the lands called Mithrim, it is quite cold. The Noldor decided to encamp here after the ships landed by Losgar, if only to set down their roots before the plans for the first delegation toward Doriath were consolidated.

But back to the present. Fingolfin looked ready to draw his sword and charge all the way to Angband and demand recompense for every discomfort the sailing from Alqualondë had done to him (which, in the very extensive list, consisted of the following: itchy, rough sheets; too thin blankets; round-the-clock vomiting over the railing of the Swanship; the fishy smell from the ocean which they had to endure for months-- etcetera, etcetera).

"Oh, I hate that man! I hate that man!" Fingolfin yells in accented Sindarin.

But Fingon doesn't lose his head. He fiddles with his tunic, inspects it, then folds it and adds it to the stack he's already accounted for. "Who is it today, Atar? Who offended you?" He asks his father, his tone amicable.

"YOUR THRICE-BESHITTEN UNCLE!" Fingolfin rounds on him, eyes round as dinner plates. A vein throbbing somewhere by his left temple that should probably concern Fingon, but, uh... "DO YOU KNOW WHAT HE DID?! DO YOU?! DO YOU?!"

"Uhm, no, considering that I've been here in mine tent all day, doing an inventory of all my possessions. I am also busied counting my money; I've a mind to visit Ingoldo and Carnistir's shop later and see if I can buy myself eggs and bacon for breakfast tomorrow--"

"YOUR THRICE-BESHITTEN UNCLE WENT OFF TO EXPLORE THE MOUNTAINS! EXPLORE THE FUCKING MOUNTAINS! FOR ORE! WHAT THE-- HE'S THE KING! HE'S NOT SUPPOSED TO GALLIVANT OFF INTO THE SUNSET YAMMERING MADLY ABOUT ORES! I'LL SHOVE A GEODE RIGHT UP HIS A--"

"Language, please, Atar," says Fingon. He holds up a pair of undershorts. Aw. He will also have to ask Carnistir to replace the garters... it'd be quite a loose fit.... "If I remember correctly you were the first of us to swear fealty to uncle. You can't curse your king like that. It'd be treason. Please don't give Uncle Fëanáro any more excuse to decapitate you before your time."

Color rushes all over Fingolfin's face. The vein by his temple seems to grow larger. Fingon, despite himself, feels the very faint beginnings of alarm. Should he scream for a healer now? Could Elves die of a busted artery or a vein? Maybe they'd find out.

"Useless!" Fingolfin mutters before he rushes out of his eldest son's tent, no doubt intending to go to Turgon's and there continue his whining in the hopes of finding someone sympathetic to his cause. Fingon had a shrewd idea what his father was up to: rally some support, march out with said support, and bodily drag his Uncle Fëanáro from his budding love affair with the local rocks.

Nasty business, that. Fingon didn't want to deal with the fall-out.

Humming, he finds three more undershorts that need garter replacements, and picking these up, he stands and ventures out of his own tent. Where was Carnistir? He hopes he brought spare garters-- or perhaps Ingoldo did. He has enough coin to pay for some stitches-- or so Fingon hopes. Hmm.

#silmarillion #my drabs #fingon #fingolfin #findekano #nolofinwe #along came an elf

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outofangband · 2 years

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(Updated) Captivity of Maedhros Extended Musings, Part Two

Part two of this!

Angband World Building and Aftermath of Captivity Masterlist

I tried not to ramble too much about my world building especially where I already have done that, I did link a few posts, but as always please feel free to ask questions it’s one of my favorite topics

Nelyafinwë Maitimo is brought to a smaller chamber with a low stone table set into the ground itself. The two orcs who position him in a smooth seat with his arms bound delicately upon each side act as a mockery of attendants to the high king, their movements exaggerated. The elf is frazzled, exhausted and starved but not nearly so much that his eyes do not narrow at this, that he does not stiffen at this little joke at his expense.

Maitimo is not trusted to behave. He has been beaten, whipped, and denied water over the course of several days but he is still defiant to the point of a nearbsuicidal recklessness.

The Vala sits opposite to him, long fingers poised together in a mocking contemplation.

“Should we parlay as planned, my little failed king?”

A comment is made on the skills of Fëanor with his words and is Melkor going to be blessed with some of this legendary talent? Has his eldest son has inherited much of the great orator’s abilities?

Deprived of proper sleep and nutrients, the voice of Maitimo is hoarse, his replies are curt and cold and he cannot stop the tremble in his hands as he is fixed with the terrible, almost hypnotic gaze of the Dark Lord, made worse of course by the crown he is wearing.

(In the first set of extended musings I talk about how Maedhros feels seeing the Silmarils, being so horrifically close yet at the same time farther than ever from fulfilling the Oath. So I won’t ramble on it too much here other than to say that Melkor finds this little predicament incredibly amusing.)

The first time the burnt hand of Morgoth grips Maitimo’s throat and shoves him against the wall, the sound of chains rattling around the room and the light causing Maedhros’s eyes to water after only twelve or so hours in the darkness. The momentary victory Maedhros had felt from getting a rise out of the Dark Vala fades away to terror when he sees glittering eyes and sharp teeth and feels the primordial power he’s trapped in. Moringotto’s touch lingers on his skin long after he is released and slumps to the ground, gasping for breath. Melkor observes him coolly before ordering him to be taken back to his cell until he is called for again. The order is of course given in a language that Maedhros has little to no knowledge of and it’s quite frightening to not know what’s being said of your fate.

He’s alone in his cell again, wearing rags, if anything, dark bruises forming on his neck and unable to forget the feeling of that hand.

(Then of course he will learn that Morgoth’s true cruelty often came when he could momentarily act in ways not immediately destructive or violent but that comes later.)

The first meeting with the Lieutenant is brief. The Maia has not been given particular orders as to the prized Noldo’s treatment other than that he is important to Melkor’s…plans. Mairon too has projects he intends to use an elf of such a rich bloodline and heritage in. He’s a scientist and sorcerer and business will come before pleasure. Curiosity gets the better of him however. He stalks through the more isolated stretch of the dungeons where Maedhros is being held. Spends several minutes simply lurking in the shadows. Perhaps Maedhros glimpses a spark in the gloom beyond the barred doors. Perhaps he was left in a cell with barred doors for this purpose And so other dark creatures could taunt and harass him.

Which of course they do. The high king of the Noldor is quite a spectacle and though there are strict orders regarding his treatment (not, you understand, out of kindness or mercy but because Melkor is quite possessive of what he sees as his trophy, stolen from Fëanáro like he did the Silmarils)

Orcs and balrogs come by to throw taunts at him. Even Gothmog himself is not above gloating or worse. Laughing as Maedhros makes a move towards the barred door as though an animal provoked into violence.

Humiliating the captured king is a favorite hobby of several of the guards and servants of the fortress and it takes some time before Maedhros, stubborn like his father, gets a hold of his temper and his pride and stops rising to the bait. Which he is pleased to learn often infuriates his tormentors more when they get no reaction.

The pride and will of the Noldor is quite amusing to poke at and their High King is a particularly delightful example.

The Maia approaches, fair formed and glowing, one of the brightest points in this dark place and Maedhros is filled with profound dread. He has perhaps heard stories of the former prodigy of Aulë who is now the lieutenant of Angband and mastermind behind some of the most horrific of projects cooked up in the fortress. Perhaps he has only heard whispers and rumors. He does not know what to expect.

Mairon’s initial meeting with Maedhros is almost like a viewing of a particularly useful material before it is bought. He is not harmed, perhaps not even touched beyond light manipulations of his limbs so the Maia can see from all angles. Scrutinized. Perhaps dark hints are made of the uses that the sorcerer has for such a specimen. How would a Noldo of noble birth survive the conditions and procedures that the Lieutenant has in mind. So many horrific experiments I, the writer, have.

Perhaps he is held still by whispered words of a spell, perhaps it is merely the terror that holds him there.

It is relatively early on he is given his first symbol of imprisonment. The first brand is not the one all captives receive, rather some archaic symbol of evil that Melkor has claimed for himself, as well as the one that Sauron inflicts upon all captive elves for organizational purposes. . Then there is an iron collar that will mark his skin long after it is removed for the last time, as do the manacles so often on his wrists and ankles. The collar is not worn by all captive elves, for those who slave in the mines and caves there is of course the risk they will use it in suicide attempts.

For Maedhros it is primarily to make the process of dragging him from place to place, torment to torment easier and of course it is also for humiliation, the proud king of the Noldor, collared like an unruly hound.

The branding of such an important prisoner is entertainment for some of the crueler servants.

Later he will receive more; the star of his father’s house, the word kinslayer in more than one tongue (author’s note: two fics about this are posted!), the crown of Stolen jewels and more, all etched, carved or burned into his skin.

But this will come later. For now, he is marked as all thralls are with an additional marking to indicate that his fate and treatment is under the direct control of Melkor.

#the silmarillion #maedhros #morgoth #melkor #Sauron #Mairon #short writings #musing and meta #in the iron hell

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death220467 · 9 days

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Day 11 of asking the Silmarillion fandom to call Fëanáro by his Quenya name

Previous arguments:

He died before they started Sindarizing their names, he probably never canonically approved of a Singarin variation of his name. It was understandable enough as it was in Quenya to Cirdan and his people

He died young, by using his Quenya name you are constantly reminding yourself and others how young he died

While there was a small chance of Fëanáro Sindarizing his name given how hard he disapproved of people changing his mother name he would not appreciate his name being changed at all either.

Thingol’s ban is cultural discrimination and erasure. Not ignoring the ban and using Sindarin names for characters who did not choose to Sindarize their name is participating in the cultural erasure. Please don’t participate in cultural erasure even if it’s fictional. Ignore the ban.

If we accept he put it in place because he didn’t want to hear the language in which the orders to attack the Teleri were given then we have to ignore that Teleri also speak Quenya. The ban is illogical in this case. Ignoring the ban and calling Fëanáro by his Quenya name is the right thing to do.

Fëanáro, according to HoME (The War of the Jewels) knew Valarin better than any other elf. He appreciated languages. I am sure he would have appreciated Sindarin. I am equally sure he would have not appreciated his language being banned at all. (Respect languages correctly with our Language Lord!)

He is a Noldorin king and he died before the practice of sticking finwë to your name again became a thing. Let’s not make his name seem shorter by Sindarization.

Using Fëanáro’s Quenya name is a wonderful way to introduce your friends to the linguistic side of the silmarillion fandom.

We are already using completely different alphabet system to spell Fëanáro’s name. Let’s not push it

Fëanáro is not that harder to spell from its Sindarin variation

(Takes a deep breath—I can do it, I can do Sindarin propaganda)

11. Why would the Sindar want lord Fëanáro to have Sindarized version of his name? They hate him and his sons and people. Why let these kinslayers use their beautiful language?

#tolkien #silmarillion #feanor #actually it’s #feanaro #fëanáro #please call him fëanáro #time to get the big guns out #aka propaganda time #i will start with the hardest part #a week of things I don’t believe in if I can manage #i think i can do it for three days #let’s see how this goes #ignore I went mia for four days #not important #thingol #figured the guy deserves to be tagged at this point

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brynnmclean · 1 year

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fell in love with the fire long ago - aka, I’m having a Mairon-shaped meltdown, clearly [all other posts under this tag]

Melkor, after he is released from the Halls and Manwë allows him to go where he will in Aman, visits the Forge. Mairon—he does not run away so much as he just… immediately removes himself from the area.

It's for the best. All his projects would have gone awry if he had stayed. He cannot stop his hands from shaking.

Melkor had smiled at him and longing had twisted in his gut, strong enough to make him want to retch.

He had been making jewelry for the Arafinwëan boy, Findaráto. Ever since he had learned that Mairon was a jewelsmith as well as bladesmith, Findaráto had commissioned him specifically for work. The latest was a tiara of some sort for his sister, Artanis.

Mairon has not met Artanis yet, but of course the rumor of her had reached him—the story of her refusing Fëanáro a strand of her hair for a project had circulated amongst all of the smiths. Fin had confirmed the truth of it to Mairon himself, quietly grinning while Mairon made careful detail work on a brooch.

"You'd like her," Fin said, flipping through some architectural design sketches of his own. "She has a spirit that would match any fire you've seen."

The boast made Mairon laugh—but Noldorin pride is always a sight to behold. He enjoys witnessing their fierceness, their ambition, their creativity. The Valinorian born Eldar in particular have a light in them that fascinates Mairon. They have been born into a world untouched by Shadow. There has been no darkness in their lives for them to know fear.

Mairon hears Melkor's laughter echoing in his ears and knows the chill of it down his spine all too well. He has not spoken out against the Valar's decision to release the Enemy and to trust in his repentance, but…

Mairon finds his feet moving down the road to the Sea. Ossë is not at the shore—Mairon vaguely remembers now some word of him stirring up a hurricane in Beleriand—but the sound of the waves strikes Mairon true and his hands are still shaking, burning really, so he shifts from his usual form to something else—he does not let his thoughts rest too long, only wanting an animal's lack of complicated thought as he dives into the waves. He glides, serpentine, through the surf until he tires of it and beaches himself on a sandbar.

He breathes in cool air and tastes salt on his tongue. His teeth remain razor sharp and they ache.

Quietly, he realizes that he is angry. It glows like an ember in his stomach, stubbornly clinging to heat despite water to quench it.

He hears laughter from the shore, but it comes from light, elvish voices instead of the one he dreads. Someone calls out to him as he shifts and rises back up into his usual form.

The swim back from the sandbar is slower than before, but Findaráto has saved his boots from seawater and Mairon finds his rage replaced by gratitude. He is very glad to not be alone.

"Mairon," Findaráto says, clasping Mairon's arm, all cheer and friendliness. When he steps back, he gestures toward his companion. "Meet my sister, Artanis. She came to take me back to Alqualondë, but I thought I'd introduce you first."

Mairon—stares. The elleth at Fin's side is, frankly, the most beautiful he has ever seen. His eyes roam over her face, her hair—the rumors are true about her hair, silver and gold mingling in perfect harmony, like the dawn of the Trees caught—heat rises in him again when he realizes that he's been silent a beat too long. A flush sears across his cheeks and he hopes neither elf notices.

He forgets the proper gesture to make to her so he holds out his arm the way Fin had to him. "It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Artanis." His voice comes out smoother than he expected—and better yet, after a brief flash of surprise, Artanis looks pleased as she clasps his arm, returning his gesture of camaraderie. "Your brother has told me much about you."

Artanis slides a wry look at Findaráto. "Clearly he forgot to mention my coming and to extend an invitation to you. Our mother has been wondering who Fin's talented jeweler friend is and—"

"—would like to at least have you over for dinner," Findaráto finishes, laughing. "Which will turn into you staying with us for at least a few days, if you are amenable and if we can tear you away from the Forge for longer than a minute."

Mairon looks at Artanis and thinks of golden leaves and nets of pearls—the project, the draft sketches in his office—but her eyes meet his. Blue as a cloudless sky. He takes a step back, telling himself it wasn't a stumble.

He thinks of refusing—the routine, the order, the work of the Forge, how necessary it is to him, how can he step away from it now—but he looks at Fin and his stunning sister and finds joy flashing in his heart like a sudden flame. "Let me pack a few things and I'll come with you."

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light-of-the-damned-stars · 2 years

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In the silverish gold of light, the jeweled dew was dropping through the velvet curtain of night, richly embroidered with the stars. The celestial sparkles, recreated as a stranding of diamond threads, seemed alive pulsating and changing its shape.

White elegant hands of an elf that had long forgotten hard work gently embraced his wife’s shoulders. They got under a shawl that seemed to be carelessly put on, yet it was intended to be like that.

“Miriel,” he sighed passionately; his palms slid lower, squeezing breasts and then lower to her waist, “you know, Ingwe’s third child was born.”

“I’m tired, Finwё,” sadly replied the elf, leaving the spinning wheel fully made of silver.

Silence fell upon them. The spouses had not once said everything to each other and the ever-ready World Creators with whom they dwelt side by side.

“My love, your sadness upsets the Lords. It was them who took us from the dark, perilous lands, beyond the sea to their Blessed Land, so that the People of the Stars would be happy.”

“By force?”

“Miriel! What are you talking about? We have everything we’ve ever wished for! Remember, when you craved for the embroidery threads from jewels, which nobody but you could use? Remember Vala Aulё, the Creator of Mountains and Minerals, crafted for you magic threads and scissors, the only ones in Arda capable of cutting them? Are you not grateful?”

“Fëanáro, the Spirit of fire,” the queen smiled sadly, calling the heir’s name she gave him, “I don’t know how to bring him up here, Finwё. Don’t know what to teach, what to tell and how. The past of our People will sadden anyone and, as you say, the sadness of the Eldar upsets the Lords Valar. Does it mean that we have to consign everything that happened in the homeland to oblivion? Finwё! Our sisters and brothers are still there! The farther I am from them, the more osten I think about them!”

“Our children won’t understand us anyway. Why bother them with these fears? Even the meaning of ‘brothers’ and ‘sisters’ is different to them. We, the Awoken by the Creator Eru Ilúvatar, felt the kindred differently than those born from the mother’s womb. We had awoken near the lakeside and felt affinity ith some and with the others we wanted to…”

“Have children, Finwë. But then our loved ones died at the hands of one of the Valar. Can you fathom that the Valar haven’t saved all the Children of Eru Ilúvatar? Not all the People of the Stars! They didn't even consider defending dwarves, the Children dear to Vala Aulë. Finwë, I refuse to think that Lord Aulë created the living beings capable of speaking and simply forgot about them, putting them in danger!

“You're saddened by your thoughts, Miriel!”

“And you're just afraid to think about what might sadden the masters of the land you live on! But Valinor, the Blessed Aman, is our home too! The Valar said it when they took us away from Middle-earth. Then, why must we always look around and heed, thinking if we might've hurt someone by being unhappy?”

“Miriel, please!”

“Do you want to soothe me with your caresses? Do you want more children? Do you think it's right to give Fëanáro to Vala Aulë and his helpers-Maiar?”

“What's so bad about it, love?”

“Bad? Nothing, I guess. But this way Feanaro will never know that one of the Creators of our home, our world, our Arda, might torment and kill his kin. There... In the Twilight Lands, on our sacred Cuiviénen lakeside where we had awoken under the starry vault.”

“But why are you...”

“No more words, Finwë. Please.”

The spouses fell silent again. In a gorgeous bedroom of their own palace, two beautiful naked elves didn't approach each other, for they happened to fail overcoming the strongest wall of duty to be happy and not to upset anyone, despite anything.

"I visited Valiё Vairё," finally said Miriel, putting away her black hair and covering up with an embroidered glossy silk, "I asked the Weaver of Fates about those who were left. She gave no answer. But Vairё is married to the master of the Abyss, she doesn't have to answer. I simply stepped closer to the Halls of the Dead, home of Vala Namo. Finwë, I know that our brothers and sisters are alive. Not all of them, but they're still fighting."

"They rejected our benefactors, Miriel."

Silence fell upon them again.

“I'm tired,” the queen sighed.

"You gave birth to our son and as if burned out!" The king kept to himself this desperate accusation that had once been unwarily spoken.

"I don't know how to bring up children here." The answer was the same.

The window was closed and the elven lords of the Noldor didn't notice a giant eagle flying from the sacred mountain Taniquetil where the king's Arda palace was standing.

"Vala Manwё Súlimo - to the sea. The messenger-bird, the spy-bird, was heading for the Twilight Lands to show the Lord through its all-seeing eye what was happening in the darkness where the light of the Valinor Trees was out of reach, where was only the shining of the celestial stars and the fires of war, where the week had challenged the mighty to defend their right for freedom and life itself.

***

"We will take fight on a hill!" An elf, who wasn't very tall, but strongly built, with dark hair and gray eyes, in roughly made woolen clothes and wolf's pelt on his shoulders, raised a long spear. “This time, the Orcs will fail!

“Do not forget, brothers, that even if you see your mutilated kindreds among the enemies, they are not your loved ones! They're blighted creatures who don't remember you!”

"Glory to Denethor!" Shouted the elves preparing for battle. "Glory! Glory of the Stars!"

The neverending darkness of the Twilight Lands was lit in the fires of torches, and in a moment - the flames of deadly conflagration, conjured to protect from the approaching wolves. Violet, lilac, burgundy and black needles of a gloom coniferous wood became crimson and all the shades of red.

A gray-haired elf in leather clothes and jewelry made of fish skulls looked at his sons standing at his side.

"Lord of the Sea came to me in my dream. He promised to help. Vala Ulmo said that the eagle we had seen was the messenger from Manwё, Lord of the Winds himself! He is the king of all Arda! Vala Ulmo answers to him too, as even the sea and the ocean are obedient to the winds. The king Manwё has seen our misfortunes; thus, he will take pity on us. We will take fight, but will not stand alone.”

"Nowё speaks the truth!" Agreed the crowd. "We've seen the enormous eagle too!"

"The Valar help only the obedient!"

"Yes." A white-haired elf with piercing gaze came on the hill. He had a strong beautiful armour above leather clothes. "Brothers, do you recall how we were told about hope? The Valar wanted us to give our hope to them, but now I'm your hope!"

"Yes, Amdir!" Denethor burst out laughing, joined by others. "The hope, proven by deeds, is nothing like foreign ghost Estёl!”

With fish skulls around his neck, Nowё frowned. However, as much as he worshipped Vala Ulmo, he kept silent.

"See?" White-haired warrior banged his fist on the steel armour. "Not only orcs have steel now! The curved dirty knives they take from their underground prison are breaking against our armour and shields! Right, master Telhar?”

A barrell-like light-bearded dwarf with wide nose and deep-set eyes approached the elf. Amidst beautiful, tall and well-built men of the People of the Stars, the Children of Vala Aulё looked like ridiculous disproportional short creatures dressed in oversized capes and caps. Having dainty eyebrows and thick eyelashes, the Elves never grew facial hair even in their older years, but the mountain dwellers, men and women both, sometimes happened to grow hair to such an extent that it wasn't clear from the first sight whether it was the front or the back of a dwarf.

"You're right, khulum." Telhar threatened the orcs coming from the north with his fist. "Me steel'll make our host invincible!"

The starry dusk of Middle-earth gleamed with flashes of polished metal that soared into the sky, roared thousands of voices, shouted war cries.

"Err," the dwarven smith poked Amdir. "We've ne'er fought goblins and ain't no experience on surface. Give yer orders, but don't screw our boys. I hold ye responsible for my brothers.

The elf nodded. Having heard their conversation, Denethor confirmed the readiness for a fair fight, without sacrificing ones for the sake of saving others.

"In the name of the Great Mahal!" Announced swarthy dwarven commander, calling the mountain people creator, Vala Aulë, in his own way. "Kill the scum!"

Shining armour of the bearded warrior was decorated with the cave lizard's claws and horns, making it look heavy and uncomfortable, but it didn't seem to bother the dwarf.

"Hey, friend of khulum." The smith turned to Denethor, and the elf bend over to express reverence and special attention to the war helper. "Boys and I've crafted many things, but we took this khulum's measurements." Telhar gestured toward Amdir. "While we've got some time, go try the armour. Make sure helmets and breastplates fit comfortably. We'll set the forges and fix if something's ain't right.

"Thank you, brother," Denethor smiled.

"'Tis nowt," the beard-head waved off. "Tis a shared trouble. We need to unite. Don't wanna become a six handed abomination with me head sticking out of me arse."

The crimson trees cracked under the wind, the stars flickered disturbingly, hearing a threatening rumble from afar.

"Soon." The mountain chief-warrior clenched his teeth. "Vermins are coming to their death!"

The Elves nodded and rushed to the smiths. Tired of constant attacks from the north, the Children of Eru, who had not gone to Valinor, wanted to vanquish their enemies, but before they had not known how to work with metal, until they met the Dwarves.

Now, the hope for peace became reasonable, and despite the fear of death in battle, many smiled.

- Glory to Denethor!

- In the name of the Great Mahal!

- Help and guide us, Lord Ulmo!

- Victory shall be ours!

- Hooray!

***

The only elf in Middle-earth glowing with the Valinor light returned to the hastily set hut, which, however, looked beautiful because of the wreaths of fluffy spike flowers above the entrance.

“Elvё," the woman, who appeared to be an elf at first glance, smiled at her husband. Her black hair waved magically as if it moved on its own, her starry eyes gleaming with frighteningly mesmerizing intensity. “Your warriors will be victorious. But take care of them. There are enough men to die for the greater good.”

The Elven king nidded.

“Yes, Melian," intoxicated by the spell, Maiё was convinced that he had spoken all the previous speeches himself, "my People will suffer no losses, for we will be protected by Denethor, my brother and Amdir. Our lands, our Ёglador, will not be drenched in blood.”

The Creator's Helper, who had left Valinor, tucked her curls behind her ear, shaped like a tree leaf, and pondered. The queen knew a secret that could not be known to any Child of Eru, no matter what title he held: an important conversation had recently taken place with one of those whom Melian had once served.

"This is for you. Not only you have asked for it," said through the space Valiё Vairё to her younger helper as a plea had been made to keep the People of the Stars safe from the maddened Vala, distorting everything he reached. “We decided to show mercy to the renegades who had offended the Valar by refusing to follow them and to the one who should have been loyal to her Lords. Yes, I refer to you, unfaithful helper Valiё Estё. But you and all of you who have chosen darkness shall see — everyone is entitled to forgiveness and redemption. The one you call the enemy is our brother, and he is aware of the wrongs he has done. It is not for you or your Elves to judge him. Destroy his mistakes, but don't you dare forget who in Arda is Creator and who is servant."

“Elvё,” Melian smiled, “you will protect your People.”

The silver-haired elf sank down on the skins beside his consort. The starry abyss took him, like a whirlpool, soporific and sweet. The king felt that with his wife-Ainu he could fear nothing. Any wish would come true.

***

A song burst over the battlefield. The white-haired elf, using the magic of music, surrounded by his warriors who protected him, watched proudly as the ugly enemies stumbled and floundered. Amdir’s commands could be heard from time to time. The hill to which Denethor had climbed with his archers and lances, was ablaze with a ring of fire.

“Take them alive! Alive! For the master!” The Orcs shouted, disgustingly muttering Elvish speech.

It got dark: the flaming veil was quickly trampled under their own fighters. Huge red-eyed wolfhounds, whose thick furry skins were hardly harmed by arrows, rushed forward. Hiding behind the beasts, the Orcs charged up the hill, while the others wiped off the Dwarves and Elves closest to them.

Seeing the defenders fall one by one, the warrior-singer panicked, the music faltered, and, realizing that Amdir's voice had long been lost behind the cries of his wounded comrades and the bloodthirsty creatures that were ravening from the battle, the white-haired elf raised his arms in a shout:

“Don’t kill me! I will not harm you! Mercy!”

The response was amicable, vile laughter and a repeated order to take prisoners alive for the master.

The fight continued, some were commanding to retreat, others to attack. And no one noticed the giant eagle that appeared in the sky again, like a cloud that covered the stars.

***

Slowly opening the curtains and looking out over the silvery light of the sacred Tree of Thirion, Miriel went to the bed. She had embroidered the silk linen herself, and there was not a more beautiful matrimonial bed in all Valinor.

Finwë embraced his beloved wife again, tucked into her magnificent lush hair, bit lightly at the pointed tip of her ear.

“Let us make Feanaro a gift: a little sister," the king whispered, “she will be the most adorable princess in Arda!”

“I'm tired, I'm sorry. Perhaps I should go to the Gardens of the Lord of Dreams and rest. I do not wish to sadden you and Feanoro.”

As she slipped from her husband's embrace, Miriel Terindё returned to the spinning wheel.

“Remember the songs we used to sing when we left the Twilight Lands of Endórë for Valinor?” King Noldor made a try to cheer his wife up.

“Yes, they were merry. But I hear them differently now.”

The queen looked at the magical silver of the Telperion Tree pouring through the window. Tears ran down her cheeks.

From my life

Destroying the shaky peace

Shake it off with a shaking hand

Dust and dust.

Thousands of days

Leaving again behind me

I will go after the dream

With fate in hand.

I'm leaving,

My footprints in the water

In color ripples will turn

Playful wind.

I'm leaving

A track of new victories

And the sun shoots out

The road with light.

My shabby house

Hidden in the cold rain

A little sad

But there is no place for me in it.

With the first beam

On the surface of the water barefoot

I'm leaving like a dream

Meet the dawn.

I'm leaving,

My footprints in the water

In color ripples will turn

Playful wind.

I will not be back,

Cover with fall foliage

Everything that was stored with you

Under our sky.

***

Thirion's palace stirred in an instant as, in the golden glow of the Laureline Tree, a white horse rode up to the main entrance, and a black-haired boy in plain Noldor prince clothes deftly jumped straight up the stairs.

- Father! Mother! I’ve learned something! Vala Aulё and Maia Curumo showed me how a crystal grows, how a druze is formed! Unbelievable!

From the high porch, the king's servants were observing the child, ready to help in any way they could. Noldoran Finwë himself came out to his son and took him in his arms.

“Let us go to mother!” Ordered Feanaro. “I want to give her a crystal that the Lords grew before my eyes!”

The king looked away and heaved a sigh.

“Let us return to the chambers, my ingenious heir, my Curufinwё,” he said quietly, “I need to tell you something very important.”

***

Full text https://ficbook.net/readfic/6544987

Thanks for translation https://vk.com/catharisen_art

Art by @bellabergolts

#elves #noldor #fanfic #silmarillion #the silmarillion #digital illustration #finwe #miriel therinde #jrr tolkien

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arofili · 3 years

Text

For @navyinks 💚💚💚

....

"Atar, ah, could we have a moment?"

Fëanáro raises an eyebrow. "What is it, Nelyafinwë?"

"Um...in private, please?" Maitimo asks. It's been years since Findekáno has seen him this nervous—perhaps not since the first time they had spent the night together.

He reaches out and touches Maitimo's arm. His fingers linger longer than he intended, and he is rewarded with a fond glance and a deep breath.

"If you would, Atar?" Maitimo prompts, this time indicating he would like to speak to his father in his office.

"Mm, very well," Fëanáro agrees, rising from his seat and stretching out his arms. Maitimo flashes Findekáno a timid smile, and he nods firmly.

"Atya, could you come also?" he asks his own father.

Ñolofinwë frowns. "With Fëanáro? Are you certain?"

"Behave," Anairë calls from the other side of the room, where she bounces little Arakáno Sintamo on her lap.

"Yes, dear," Ñolofinwë sighs, and this time it is Findekáno's turn to smile nervously at Maitimo. He reaches out, taking his father's hand, and leads him into Fëanáro's study.

"Him, also?" Fëanáro says snidely as Findekáno closes the door. "I thought you said in private, Nelyafinwë."

"This is private," Maitimo says firmly. Findekáno takes his place by Maitimo's side, feeling more confident standing with him than he ever could alone.

"Atya, Uncle," he begins, trying to make sure his voice does not shake. They've put this off for too long—he can't let his resolve falter now.

"We have something we need to tell you," Maitimo finishes for him. "For...some time, Findekáno and I—"

Findekáno tenses, watching as Ñolofinwë's eyes widen and Fëanáro leans forward with his nostrils flared.

"We..." Maitimo falters, biting his lip, and Findekáno cannot take the tension any longer.

He wraps an arm around Maitimo's waist, pulling him close, and blurts out, "We are together. In a—in a relationship. As lovers. Melotorni, you might say."

For a moment there is only silence. Then Fëanáro smirks, his eyes fixed on his son as he extends his palm toward his half-brother. Findekáno watches in astonishment as Ñolofinwë grumbles and reaches into his purse, pulling out a handful of coins and dropping them into Fëanáro's hand.

"Wh..." Maitimo looks like he's been run over by an oliphaunt. "Atar?"

"Of course you're 'together,'" Fëanáro scoffs, his eyes glinting with mischief. "I've known since you were young which way your gaze was turned, Nelyo, and ever since Findekáno latched onto you that he was never letting go."

"Atar!" Maitimo squeaks, blushing that attractive shade of red Findekáno likes to tease out of him. He isn't quite as alluring when it's his father he's speaking to, but he is certainly just as adorable.

"You knew?" Findekáno demands, glaring at his father. "And you said nothing?"

"Well—we had a bet," Ñolofinwë admits, but he looks suitably chastened.

"He thought you'd take another decade before you got the balls to tell us," Fëanáro says smugly. "But I knew better—my Nelyo, he's braver than that!"

"Findekáno is the one who insisted we tell you," Maitimo mutters, and Ñolofinwë's face lightens.

"That's my boy," he says gruffly, and pulls Findekáno into an embrace. "We are very happy for you, Finno. Truly."

This is not at all what Findekáno had anticipated. He'd prepared for the worst: disownment, exile, utter devastation, made bearable only by the certainty of Maitimo at his side. And yet—their fathers had guessed! They had already accepted their love!

It is better than any dream, Findekáno is certain. He laughs, hugging his father tightly, before letting go and flying into his beloved's arms. He kisses Maitimo full on the lips, joy bubbling up within his fëa, and doesn't even mind the exaggerated reactions from their fathers.

"Atar, I—we—thank you," Maitimo says, his eyes misting over. Findekáno leans his head against his chest, overwhelming happy in a way he had not known he could be. At best he had imagined grudging acceptance, not—approval!

"I cannot say I was happy when I solved this equation," Fëanáro admits, "but it is clear how happy he makes you." He nods to Findekáno, then playfully elbows Ñolofinwë in the stomach, perhaps just a bit harder than strictly necessary. "And if I can swindle some coin off this bastard—"

"Atar," Maitimo groans, and Findekáno laughs, tugging his beloved out the door, excited to let everyone else know the truth of their love. If Fëanáro and Ñolofinwë had figured it out, he is certain they have kept no secrets from all but the most oblivious members of their family, but it is a cause for celebration nonetheless.

And, he notes to himself as he kisses Maitimo for all to see, if their fathers' bet gave them the time to prepare for the public announcement before they were forced to reveal their relationship by some tactless interrogation—well, he supposes he can forgive his father for taking the more conservative bet about his bravery.

He is the Valiant, after all!

#maedhros #fingon #russingon #my writing #my fic #fingolfin #feanor #navyinks #tefain nin #good dad feanor #good dad fingolfin #fluff #i wrote this at 1am on my phone and immediately pasted it into tumblr #have mercy on me for any typos and whatnot #a private word

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a-world-of-whimsy-5 · 14 days

Text

Changes afoot

Day 3 prompts: Family | Loyalty

For: @silmarillionepistolary

Rating: General Audience

Characters: Maedhros, Fingon, Nerdanel, Maglor

Epistolary format: Journal entries and letters

Themes: Soft | Fluff | Hints of Russingon

Warnings: None

Wordcount: 2.2k words

Summary: Fingon writes to Maedhros telling him to expect a visitor. A feast is held in honor of this guest, and both Maedhros and Maglor write their observations of what takes place before and after it begins. Maedhros later writes to his mother about their new guest, and his fears about his father.

A/n: OC name meaning

Indilien, wife of Maglor - Indil (Lily) | ien (suf. feminine ending; feminine patronymic).

This is also available on AO3

Letter from Findekáno to Nelyafinwë

249th day of Y.T. 1492.—

Beloved,—

I trust I have not wounded you by my delay in sending this letter, for my tasks have been many of late. Father cloisters himself often with my uncle, talking, but I fear such talk will bear little fruit. My uncle has grown weary of the many quarrels between your father and mine; he wants no part in them, and I am beginning to think he is wise to keep away. My mother, however, is afraid. She believes this all portends to some dark and terrible doom that is yet to reveal itself, but my father does his best to comfort her, saying all will be well in the end. Perhaps he is right, but my mother’s words weigh heavily on my thoughts. What if she is correct and my father is wrong? What if there is something dark and dreadful hiding in the shadows, biding its time until it is ready to consume us all? I try not to think too much about such matters, and I will write no more on them. Morgoth’s lies have already poisoned what we once had, and I will not give him the power to taint what we have slowly begun to rebuild.

The cherry trees are in full bloom. My mother’s garden is aflame with brilliant little white flowers. Soon, that white will give way to crimson fruit. Do you remember, my love, how we would lie beneath those flowers while the others were away? How we admired the stars and talked and laughed and loved each other without a care in this world? I still go to those trees and lie beneath their laden branches. I think of your hand over mine, your lips warm against my own. I try to make myself content with the memories of you and me, but I find it is not enough for me. I will try anyway and bear up as much as I can until your father is released from his exile and I can take you into my arms again.

Yours in all things,

Finno.”

P.S.—My love, pray do not allow your heart to grow troubled when you find this letter being borne to you on swift wings. A change is afoot, and whether it is for good or bad, I cannot say. A visitor rides for Formenos even as I write this letter, and you will see them standing before the gates of the great keep your family calls home soon enough.

Letter from Nelyafinwë to Findekáno

251st day of Y.T. 1491.—

Beloved,—

I am not wounded in the least, my love, by the delay in your last letter. You are your father’s oldest, his heir. You cannot shirk your duties toward your family; it is something I understand. I must confess, your forewarning has roused my curiosity as to who this visitor might be, but I will not press you for more on their identity. We will learn of it soon enough, and we have room enough to spare in Formenos for a great many people. I hope my father will be pleased with this intrusion into our lives. Few things bring him joy now, save for us and the hallowed jewels. Forgive me for not writing more on this score. Fëanáro is my father after all, and he would not think highly if I revealed too much of his struggles to you.

I, too, think of the blissful moments you and I spent beneath the branches of those cherry trees. Sometimes, I sit by the window of my bedchamber and look at the sky and the many stars that adorn it. I think of the stars you and I would try to name whenever we caught sight of one we had not seen before. Then I wonder if you are looking at the heavens at the exact same moment as I am and if you are looking at the same stars as I am. I feel your absence so keenly, my love. I cannot rest or eat, or set my eyes on any task; you are a constant in my thoughts. I will try to endure our separation as much as I can until this dreadful exile is over and we can see each other again. Pray do not allow yourself to be troubled by talk of dark portends and signs of doom. Morgoth’s treachery has been exposed, and we are whole and well. Once we are reunited, I intend to show you that you had no cause for fear.

Written by the hand of he who loves you,

Nelyo.

Maitimo Nelyafinwë’s journal

258th day of Y.T. 1491— Just as my beloved wrote in his letter,a visitor rode up to the gates when Telperion reached his greatest bloom. It was grandfather, no less. He decided to come to Formenos and live with us after father sent him word of its completion. Other members of his household, his steward and household guard, and other servants mostly came with him.

Father was delighted. “Our family is now complete again!” He cried and embraced his father, our king. “Just as it should be! Come, my lord. Come with me, and I will take you to your chambers, so you can rest.”

Grandfather was just as pleased, though I thought it all rather strange. He left his queen and their children in Tirion and followed my father into exile. True, his other children were all grown and they were no longer elflings in need of a father’s guiding hand, but it still left a strange taste in my mouth to see grandfather leaving his other family behind so easily. And it must have wounded Uncle Arakáno to see my grandfather choose my own father yet again. Still, I kept my own counsel; now was neither the time nor the place for such questions. It would darken everyone’s mood—my father’s chief of all. Nevertheless, I will still listen to what they say; perhaps I will hear something useful.

Father commanded that we have a great feast in honor of grandfather’s arrival. There would be fine wine and delicate pastries, roasted deer and boar, and even fish caught from a nearby lake. Káno and his bride will sing and play the harp for us. Our little songbird and his wife, the Lady Indilien, ensconce themselves in their chambers, composing music and a series of verses in honor of the occasion. Once, I stopped by the door to listen. Káno was singing, and his lady strummed the harp for him while he did so. What I heard moved my heart in a way I could not imagine. My brother truly is the most gifted among minstrels—he is an elf who could rival the Vala ómar himself.

His skill with the sword also improves. I teach him as much as I can; one never knows when one will need the use of one, now that Morgoth has escaped and returned to Endorë. During the first mingling of the lights, we make our way to the sparring yard before our other brothers have even opened their eyes, and engage in swordplay. Lady Indilien often joins us, but only to watch. My sister-by-marriage has little interest in hunting and fighting; music and singing are her greatest delights. She keeps herself content by sitting on the side and cheering for her husband. Káno made a wise choice, I think, by taking the lady to be his wife. She is patient and uncommonly kind, traits my brother desires greatly. I pray their marriage will be a happy one and that no misfortune darkens their doors. Now I must set aside my quill and ink. The hour of the feast is almost at hand, and I must prepare myself for it.

Makalaurë Kanafinwë’s journal

259th day of Y.T. 1491— The feast was splendid. Everyone dressed in their finest robes, and even Tyelko conducted himself in a manner befitting a lord of high birth and rank for once. The cooks surprised us all by setting a tasty table. There were rich stews, soft bread, and fresh fruit, as well as meat and mead and wine for anyone who desired them. Father said little. It displeased him to hear that my uncle Arakáno now rules Tirion as its regent, for it was supposed to be him ruling in grandfather's stead, not his half-brother. Nevertheless, his mood revived not long after. Grandfather joining us in exile cheered him in no small measure. Perhaps he thinks that this is yet another victory over my uncle, another sign of how he will be first in grandfather’s eyes even when he is in exile, even after he threatened my uncle’s life. I like it not. Strife within our family grows day by day, and I fear it bodes ill for us all. My lady urges me to take no part in the quarrels of others. Alas! If only I could do such a thing. Fëanáro is my father. He is my father, and I love him just as much as I love my mother. I must, however, hold onto the hope that he will free himself of his anger and resentments and that our family can be whole again once this dreary exile of ours is at an end. Now I must go. There is something father wishes to show all of us.

Letter from Nelyafinwë to Nerdanel

261st day of Y.T. 1491.—

Beloved mother,—

We were told of uncle Arakáno’s change of station. Pray offer him felicitations on my behalf, and tell him I wish him nothing but success.

Mother, you will be pleased to hear that grandfather arrived safely and that all is well with him. There was a splendid feast. Káno sang for us, as did Lady Indilien. You should have heard them. They sounded so sweet together. Everyone cheered and asked them to sing and play for us again. The day after the feast, father took us to the cave that was found during the building of Formenos, and threw open high, iron doors to reveal a great vault.

“After toiling many a day, it is now finished,” he declared with a great flourish, and he led us inside. Father had labored over the vault in secret, and none of us witnessed its transformation until he opened the doors for us. I wish I could write more on its many aspects, but father forbade us from doing so. Forgive me for saying this, mother, but father’s sense of mistrust has deepened even more. He bid Lady Indilien to wait outside while he brought forth the silmarils. Káno was ill at ease with this, for father’s wish sounded more like an order and less like a kindly appeal one would make to another. Still, he held his tongue, perhaps for his lady’s sake. Lady Indilien, however, did not seem to be offended by father’s command.

“It is quite all right, my love,” she said, squeezing Káno's hand. “I am content to wait outside.”

After she took her leave of us, father revealed the hallowed jewels. They were as glorious as always, and their radiance was a wonder to behold.

“My greatest work,” father said, lifting them one by one for us to admire. Each jewel glittered like they possessed the light of a thousand stars, and their light shone like gold and then silver, and they bewitched us all with their beauty. “They must be guarded at all times, for never again shall I make anything to match their likeness and glory.”

We admired them one final time before father returned them to their secret chamber. The vault felt strangely darker in their absence, and the air grew a little colder. Then father rejoined us, and we departed.

Write to me when you can, mother. I long to hear more from you and of the great city I once called home.

Your son,

Nelyo.

Letter from Nerdanel to Nelyafinwë

263rd day of Y.T. 1491.—

My son.—

The days seem to last longer here in Tirion. Perhaps it is because I am here, and you are all in Formenos. I miss you all so very much, but it heartens me to know your father is not alone, and you are all with him.

I rejoice to hear that Lord Finwë is safe and that his journey was without trouble. I have also passed on your kind words to your uncle; it lightened his heart to hear them. His task is not an easy one; the lies and false counsels of Lord Morgoth hold sway over many hearts, and discontent is still strong. We help him as much as we can to ease the many burdens that have been placed on his shoulders.

Queen Indis has taken her place as one of my students, and she is proving herself to be an apt pupil. We spend many wonderful hours together, and I am pleased to claim her as a friend.

As for your father, pray do not take his actions and disposition to heart. Lord Morgoth’s lies brought about a profound change in many who gave an ear to his false counsels, your father most of all. Perhaps, with him no longer under the influence of Lord Morgoth’s words, your father’s nature will return to its former self. I will write to your brother and I will counsel him as best as I can. I am also glad Káno has Lady Indilien, and I am glad you can call her sister. Listen to her, my son, and take care of your father. Write to me about anything that troubles you, and I will do what I can to aid you even from afar.

Your loving mother,

Nerdanel

#silmarillionepistolary #epistolary #fingon #maedhros #maglor #nerdanel #fëanor #the silmarillion #the silm fanfiction

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sakasakiii · 2 years

Text

First Lines

Request: List the first ten lines of the last ten stories you published. Look to see any patterns you notice yourself, and see if anyone else notices any. Then tag some friends.

thank you for the tag @torpi46 !! it’s my first time seeing this sort of tag game, but im certainly not complaining because ‘twas fun PLUS now i have a bunch of fics of yours to binge read over the next few months 😆 heheh

uhhh i guess um. they all start off with a bunch of elves having varying degrees of crisis? oh dear. i really need to get in the habit of breaking my paragraphs up omg

Unwarranted Documentation

Elrond was upset, to say the very least. That admittedly wasn’t a common sight since between him and Elros, most often remarked that he was the calmer twin: more mature, more composed, most likely from having inherited - if you can use that verb in the complicated context of their relationship - Maglor’s even temper and gentler disposition. For one, he prided himself on this reputation that the people of his adoptive fathers seemed to unanimously bestow upon him. He had just turned seventeen, after all, and was quickly growing into the rather large shoes he felt he had to fill now that the cusp of war was closer than ever.

Nobody’s Child

He had not felt anything at first. He - or at least, all the little scattered pieces of his still-unformed fëa - had spent what seemed like an eternity or two floating around a vast stretch of land slowly being sculpted to motion. Around him he had grown accustomed to witnessing life that did not belong to him. Sometimes he watched as a beautiful woman with glowing eyes reached into the sky, brought her lips to the stars clasped in her palm and kissed them; those stars in turn grew limbs and bodies, and once they could move freely, she scooped them into her arms and called them her children.

he is but a king, fallen into fire

Fingers brush against Maedhros’ face, landing lightly on the scarce areas of skin that aren’t peppered with bruises and clotted blood. As they travel upwards, they trace lengthy scars that curl across his right eye and snake onto his forehead. Eventually they move onto his hair, weaving themselves into the tangled mass of crimson that lies haphazardly spread about his head across the dirty stone floor like a blood red cloud. The long fingers run through knots, smoothing them out with a gentle delicacy that soon devolves into rougher, crueller tugging.

little time to say goodbye

The child had screamed when Maglor drew closer to him, his tiny body shaking like a leaf swept up by a typhoon. He’d stretched his hands out to form a protective shield of sorts; it was surely an impregnable fortress in his innocent mind, although to Maglor it made no difference. When the Noldo picks him up by the collar, Elwing’s son turns into a rabid dog that flails and wails and snarls, lunging forth to sink his teeth into any bit of flesh that isn’t protected by crimson-flecked armour.

A Bond Deeper Than Blood

He was losing him. Findekáno had realised that even before he was placed on a stretcher and taken to the Nolofinwëan camp’s medical tent; even before he’d held him in his arms atop Thorondor’s back; even before he’d made the rash decision to pay for his life at the cost of his right hand.

Maitimo was fading.

a familiar wound, a familiar farewell

Nolofinwë is going to die today.

If you run and tell yourself that you must not stop running, no matter what the cost, then you might be surprised to find out just how obedient your usually-rebellious body can be. Up until this point, Nolofinwë always thought he had it worst; to be the owner of a frail hröa and a child at that! How half-brother Fëanáro used to scoff at him and his attempts to play out in Laurelin’s light with the rest of the children his age.

But now Nolofinwë runs, bare feet skimming across the smooth floor of his father’s palace.

tagging: @elennalore @someoneinthestars @outofangband @dialux @playing-with-inks @aniconictea but please feel free to disregard!! ❤️

#tag games #misc #silmarillion #writing #i have finished exactly Zero (0) of these fics and i started one of em in march 2021 smh

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raointean · 3 years

Text

Half-elven week: Day 5 - Legacy

"Eldarion, come with me." Eldarion looked up from his books. His mother stood in his doorway, beckoning him.

"Where are we going, Mother?" He stood to follow her and grabbed her hand.

"We go to see friend of your father's whose child was recently born. It is my belief that the two of you will grow very close and you shall guide them as they grow." Eldarion looked up at her, confused and annoyed.

"But Mother, I am a prince. Why should I be the one to teach the child? I ought to learn from those above me, not waste my time teaching one so far below me." Arwen raised her eyebrows at him incredulously. How could he be so blind as not to see his own hypocrisy? Nevermind, she would address that another time.

"My father always said to me, 'Care for those smaller than yourself, Arwen. Protect them and teach them and they we be your legacy.' I understood not those words at the time, but they are clear to me now and so I pass them to you. Care for those smaller than yourself, Eldarion." Eldarion sighed and rolled his eyes but followed her anyway.

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

"Ada?"

"Yes Arwen?" Elrond looked up from his book, a novel by an edain author of Rohan, to see his daughter's tiny face peeking and the bushes that obscured him from the rest of the garden.

Arwen clambered up onto the bench to sit beside him. "Why do 'Dan and 'Ro follow me around and coddle me so? I am plenty old enough to wander the house on my own."

Elrond laughed and set his book down. "I think it may have something to do with what I told them. It was a phrase that your... grandfather told me often as a boy."

Arwen looked up at him curiously. "What did he say?" She had missed his hesitation about her grandfather.

"He said 'Care for those smaller than yourself, Elros.' He often got us mixed up, 'Protect the young ones. Guide them well, for they will be your legacy.'" Elrond’s eyes saddened, thinking of his fathers' fates.

"And that is what you said to 'Dan and 'Ro?" He nodded. Arwen thought for a moment. "Can you un-tell them? Please?"

Elrond snorted. And then he laughed. He drew her close to his side and pressed a kiss to her forehead. "I will tell them to give you your space, little one."

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

"Maedhros?"

Maedhros looked towards the elfling walking his way. "Which one are you?" They had taken the twins months ago and they had finally stopped trying to escape, understanding the the Fëanorians were their best hope for survival. Maedhros could still not tell them apart however.

"I am Elrond." Maedhros turned back to watch the treeline.

"'Tis late. You should be asleep." Elrond looked down ashamedly.

"I could not sleep. Maglor was teaching us of Doriath this afternoon and it left a question that burns at my heart." Maedhros looked at him and, after a moment, gestured for him to sit beside him on the rock.

"What was your question?"

"Why did you search for my uncles? They were lost in the woods and you knew that they did not hold the silmarill. It could not have been your oath that motivated you."

Maedhros looked down upon the child. That was a lot of large words from such a small being. "I searched for them because they were children. They did not deserve to die."

When Elrond sat in silence, he continued. "My father once told me something a very, very long time ago, before everything. The jewels, the oath, even before we left for Middle Earth. He told me 'Care for those younger than yourself, Maitimo.' For that was my name then. Guide them, show them the way for, if nothing else, they will be your legacy.' That is why I tried to save your uncles, and why we took you in. Our legacies are fire and blood and death but, perhaps through the two of you, we may atone for some of what we have done."

Elrond blinked... and blinked again. That was not the answer he had expected. It was much deeper and more complex than he had thought. Maedhros took notice and sent him back to bed.

As he gazed back into the treeline, he could not help but think of his father. All of this had happened because Fëanor could not be satisfied. He had seven sons that he had cared for and taught, but he had not accepted that as his legacy. He wanted more.

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

"Maitimo, come and see. Your brother has been born!" Maitimo bounded over. Only twenty years old and he was already a big brother!

Fëanáro directed him to sit in a nearby chair and hold his arms like so. Then, he gently set the sleeping babe in his arms. Maitimo wondered at how tiny the child was, his fingers spindley, his nose just a dot, his ears like the shells of a small snail.

"What is his name Atto?"

Fëanáro looked down on the two of them, tears welling in his eyes and love in his heart. "Makalaurë, his name is Makalaurë."

Maitimo looked down at his young brother and suddenly felt a wave of anxiety wash over him. How was he to be a big brother to this tiny, delicate creature? He feared he would crush him by accident.

Fëanáro noticed his son's breathing speed up. "What is it my son? What is wrong?"

Maitimo choked out a sob. "I don't know how to be a big brother. I will break him, I know it!"

Fëanáro chuckled as he took the baby back into his arms. "You will not break him. Soon he will grow and be strong enough to play with you. From there, your job will come naturally to you I think."

Maitimo looked at him, lip trembling and eyes still filling with tears. "But what is my job?"

"Your job comes down to a saying that my atto once told me. 'Care for those younger than yourself. Teach them, guide them, protect them. If your life amounts to nothing else, they will be your legacy.' To put it more simply, teach him what you know. If you can do that, you will be great among elder brothers."

Maitimo smiled and reached his arms out for the baby. Fëanáro set Makalaurë in his arms once again. Maitimo was no longer afraid of crushing him.

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

"Fëanáro? Come here a moment." Fëanaró rolled his eyes. Ever since his father had married that... woman, he had been trying to get them to bond. Now Indis had gone and reproduced, which meant that Fëanáro would have to "bond" with the whelp as well. Ugh.

"Yes father?" He got up and walked into the room where his father was holding the child.

"Come, meet your brother. I have named him Ñolofinwë." He gave his father a nonplussed look and bent over to look at the beastly creature.

"Greetings, son of my father. Just know, I care nothing for you. Goodbye." He straightened and made to walk away, but Finwë called him back.

"Fëanáro, sit down! You are going to hold your brother so that he may become familiar with you." Fëanáro rolled his eyes again and stomped to a chair and slumped into it, arms crossed.

"It is only half my brother." He muttered under his breath. Finwë rose and passed the baby to him.

He held him a moment and asked his father, "And why am I to care about this?"

Finwë sighed. He would never stop trying to make peace within his family, but he knew already that it was unlikely to ever come to fruition. "You should always care for those younger than yourself Fëanáro. They will be your legacy. Whatever you teach them, wherever you guide them, they will remember. You will always be a part of them."

Fëanáro looked down upon his brother in disdain. Perhaps he could teach it to be like him. Perhaps it would become his loyal servant forever. Perhaps having a brother wouldn't be so bad.

#halfelvenweek #eldarion #arwen #elrond #elladan #elrohir #maedhros #feanor #maglor #finwë #legacy #definitely was not thinking about hamilton while writing this #Fëanor didn’t take his own advice #Fëanor was an angsty teenager

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sparklecryptid · 2 years

Text

So, spurred on by the trailer dropping and the subsequent spirited discussion in the discord - please see below for some of the mental images that have been playing in my head recently from the Feanorian Time-Travel ‘verse. (Warning: Not Remotely Canon)

And no, I’m not sure what Feanor did to piss them off.

***

“Walk away, grandsire.” If she was of a more poetic frame of mind, Ruiniel might say that she doesn’t recognize her own voice.

She does not tend to indulge in self-deception. The calm, composed tone that suffuses her words is intimately familiar, and Ruiniel knows it as of old. It is the voice she uses when she argues the relative cost of a life. Of how one assassination, one sacrifice of an embedded spy, is not only profitable but necessary.

She is not Caladion, haunted by the shades of their relatives. She is not Calemir, who at least has some memory of his father. She is not Saeleth, who was raised by a dog-shaped Maia. She is Ruiniel, and she will not hesitate to murder.

“Walk away now, Curufinwë Fëanáro. Or I will hurt you.” Because Caladion’s expression is pinched in a manner she has seen before, when their grandsire talks at him and does not understand why he refuses to engage. Because Calemir is grinning, bright and false as a two-headed coin and because Saeleth is eyeing his throat speculatively.

Because Ruiniel has brought ruin before.

Predictably, Feanor does not walk away. Predictably, he acts as if he has said nothing wrong, as if they are acting - unreasonable. Unreasonable, in response to everything that they have fought, lived, endured, all because this elf sired their sires.

Ruinel drains her glass and stands, turning to face the one called the greatest of the Noldor.

“None of us grew up with our sires. Or with you. Dead or missing, it didn’t matter - they were gone. Our mothers did their best, but it wasn’t always enough.”

“But there was someone.”

“There was someone who raised us. Who told us stories of our sires, of you, and did not condemn either. There was someone who spent every coin he had in his purse without a second thought to see that we would have what we needed to survive. Who guided our hands into the correct position as he taught us swordplay. Who listened to us when we wept, gave us good advice that, admittedly, we ignored a lot - to our future dismay. Someone who was there at weddings and funerals. Someone who gave us names, when our mothers could not. Who was kind to us, even when none other was.”

“He put himself between us and the nameless numbers who screamed that we were Feanaro’s grandchildren, and held us accountable for our sires and grandsire. He literally went down to his hands and knees, throwing all pride to the side as he begged for our lives. He took a sword to one of the ainur themselves for our sake.”

“Shall I tell you his name? The name of the only father some of us ever knew?” Ruiniel does not savor the moment, the anticipation. She simply wants it over.

“Arafinwë Ingoldo.”

Okay I’m just. Screaming over this. This is so good. so good. And I’m. the fall out of this. the fact that these children of the future think of themselves more as Arafinwe’s children than children of the house of feanor-

have a thing.

____

Calemir doesn’t like to think he’s vengeful. He doesn’t like to admit that he can hold a grudge as well as his father. Grudges are useless things, things he tries to avoid but at the moment Feanor is testing the length and breadth of his self control.

He talks at them as though he expects them to listen to everything he says. He looks at them like they are his simply because of the blood that runs in their veins.

None of them like it. Caladion looks second away from either throwing something at Feanor or leaving. Saeleth looks more wild than she has in a long time and is eyeing Feanor’s throat as though she is wondering just what she would do to shut him up.

Ruiniel’s face is a mask, and when she speaks and speaks of how they were raised, when she tells everyone of who raised them the silence at the table is suffocating.

Feanor turns his glare to Arafinwe who sits further down the table. Arafinwe’s shock turns into a mythril mask as he stares at Feanor, daring his brother to say anything against him.

“You and yours,” Ruiniel continues to address Feanor and Calemir leans back in his chair, a small wicked smile on his face, “Have done nothing for us. You can hardly be called family.”

“We have each other,” Saeleth says loftily, head in her hand as she uses her other hand to swish wine around in her glass, “That’s all we really need.”

#maglor has a son au #caladion is meanwhile like 'fuck'#meanwhile arafinwe is just 'guess i have more kids now'#and sudden fierce protectiveness over them

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