#rip Maedhros

[finrod-feelagund]

i was looking through my old sketches and found this (it's Maedhros healing after thangorodrim)

what was i doing

#maglor #celegorm #rip maedhros #doodles

[youareunbearable]

Its late and im tired so please excuse if this doesn't make sense but lately, I've been thinking about Angry Aredhel must have been

Like realistically, when has this woman made a single decision about her future for herself, and in the few times when she did, when did it not end in tragedy

She must have been so angry, so frustrated and wrathful at her lot in life. She was meant for other things, greater thing! She was a disciple of Orome, the Maiden in White, one of the best hunters in his group along with her cousin.

Yet here she is, caged and trapped like a pretty little canary in a wire house. Stolen from her purpose because of her eldest brother's blind loyalty, her father's stubborn pride, her second oldest brother's blinding grief, and her baby brother's terminal bravery. She's across an ocean, escaped one cage for another by her tormentor and abuser posing as a husband.

The bastard won't even name their child.

She must have be so angry, stuck in that endless darkness, the forest must be such a familiar landscape but so different, twisted and wrong like looking into a warped mirror.

Shes grieving outside her "home" one night, having managed to convince the trees to part their branches just enough that she can glimpse a star or two so she can bask in the starlight. Its been a year since the birth of her son, and nothing has changed. Eol won't look at the boy, and she can feel herself drifting. Without the ability to see the passage of time, without the Light of the Trees or with the Sun and Moon chasing each other across the sky, things are blending together and she feels adrift.

At least when they crossed they ice, they were able to watch the stars move across the endless dark.

The starlight warms her skin, as weak and distant as it is, so she basks. With her eyes closed and face tilted up she feels like a lizard in the mid day sun. Behind her, she hears a noise, a twig being deliberately stepped upon. Aredhel whips around, raising her glowing lichen lamp, wondering if its her husband or one of his servants come to take her back. She feels a little feral at the idea of being dragged away from the pitiful starlight.

A wolf, with a pelt as crisp and clean as the snow dusting Himring's mountain top, slinks into the soft glow. Its fur takes on an almost sickly colour in the green luminescence. The wolf settles at the edge of the light, resting on its haunches as it observes her.

Aredhel thinks she's beautiful, for it is a female wolf. Even in the weak lamplight the beast's silver eyes seem to glow on their own, piercing her very fea and enticing her to come forward, to come closer. There is a power within the she wolf, one Aredhel craves.

The white beast introduces herself as a member of Orome's hunt, and Aredhel believes it, for the she wolf looks like the perfect hunter. The wolf asks her what she, as a fellow hunter, is doing out so far away from her kin and cub.

Momentarily surprised by the ability to speak, for not even Huan can speak so freely, Aredhel responses. She shares her desire for light, her frustration with her "husband," and how she wants a different life for her son. She never wanted this, and she wishes she had the ability to take control of her own fate.

The wolf is sympathetic to her plights, and offers to help her free herself and her child.

"You do have the ability to change your own fate, young one. Asking for help is something no one else could have done for you."

So Aredhel leads the wolf back to Eol's house. They walk through the entry way, both hunters are silent as the dawn as they go. Aredhel heads towards the master bedroom, but hesitates at the door. She can see Eol on his side of their bed, snoring lightly as he does. She hesitates, seeing a vision of what will happen once he realizes she's gone. Fire, doom and death follows her, poison and a flash of fang would flicker in him before he strikes her down for disobedience, for stealing away the son he won't even name.

The wolf nudges her aside, ghosting past her into the room. Aredhel's throat closes up and she slinks away, heading towards Lomion's nursery. She leaves to go strap her sleeping infant son to her chest, then grabs some supplies from the kitchen in a bag. Not even hearing a mouse skittering in the walls, let alone her wolf companion, she steels her nerves to check the master bedroom one more time.

As she passes her bedroom, she can see through a crack in the door and her breath freezes. Standing over the now corpse of her husband, maw dripping red from the freshly torn out throat, the white wolf looms. Aredhel stares transfixed, she can almost taste the blood between her own teeth, feel the rush of the kill, ache of her gums as tendons and tissue would rub against them. The wolf turns to look at her, silver eyes wild, white fur stained with her kill. Aredhel feels the air return to her lungs, she feels lighter and free, a little giggle slips past her lips and the wolf peels back its lips and bares its dripping fangs in a smile.

Aredhel leaves the house, fleeing on foot and all the while she can hear the wolf following her, keeping pace and shadowing her in the darkness, and at some points, ahead of her, leading her out of the woods. Running like this, oh she hasn't done this in years!. The wind snapping at her hair, branches and leaves kissing her cheeks and arms, the rush of a completed hunt with another one ahead of her feels like her first real breath in a long time. It feels like days later, and seconds, heartbeats, when she can see the treeline, dawn's hazy reddish glow peaking through the trees.

Aredhel gives a joyful cry and runs faster. That laughter bubbling up inside of her finally bursts past her lips once she breaks the treeline. The sun on her skin is warm and bright and all she wants to do is laugh and cry and scream until her throat is raw and her tears run dry. But she has to keep moving, she has Lomion still with her, and she is too close to the woods to feel truly safe yet. She walks north, and east, not really knowing where she's heading but knowing that she'll cross into her cousins' land soon. As she walks, she soon realizes that she hasn't seen or heard from her she wolf in a while. Stopping, Aredhel turns to look back, but no where can she see that brilliant white coat, or any tracks that look like wolf paws. She squint, looking back at the distant treeline and sees nothing but shadow. She mourns for her companion, wishing she could have wished her well or at least thanked her for her help. She wonders if Orome set the wolf to free her, not wanting to see one of his hunters in chains.

Its about mid morning when she comes across some of her cousins men, and they're horrified. They ask if she's ok, of she's hurt, they take her to a nearby stream even though she insists she's fine, that she wants to see her cousins.

When she sees her reflection she's scared for a moment. All she can see it blood, dried and crusted down her throat, staining her lips and chin. There is red all along the collar of her white dress, her sleeves, but her hands are clean, and so is her son still asleep strapped across her chest. She looks into her reflection, not yet comprehending. Silver eyes that seem so familiar stare back above the red, above the proof of her freedom.

She bares her bloody teeth in smile.

#Aredhel #silm #silmarillion #Maeglin #i think it would hot if Aredhel pulled a finrod and ripped out eols throat #with her bare teeth like Yes Please Queen Slay lmao #Celegorm is so proud when he finds out like Lmao Still Got It Cuz!!!!! and a bonus new free nephew!!!! #Curufin is disgusted he is related to these ppl but also is supportive of Aredhel going ape shit like she deserves #she chipped some of her teeth on thr bite so like the loving cousin he is curufin makes her mithril fangs #maedhros screams into his hands when he finds out but is also proud. so is fingon! thats his Baby Sister!!! #Lomion grows up Normal and Loved and Nolo adores him and is glad to have a sensible heir for when #fingon inevitability leaves them to marry Maedhros. whenever they get around to it.

[quixoticanarchy]

you can project very hard onto a little fictional guy with horrendous problems and it might be cathartic. but watch out

#explaining maedhros to my therapist. rip

[meadowlarkx]

amendation, chapter 3

There is a clarity to Maedhros’ vision, something at ease in him. Maglor, if pressed, could not recount how long ago, if ever, he had last seen it in his brother’s face, or felt it in the echo of his soul against his own. His grey eyes, Maglor has realized, bear no sheen of Treelight. None do, who have returned from Mandos, Maedhros had said.

Maglor dared to believe him. Our brothers. Father. Have—

No, Maedhros answered quietly. Not yet.

You still left Aman’s shores for me.

This, impossible though it seems, he is coming to understand.

Part 3/3 of amendation, in honor of @maedhrosmaglorweek day 5, New Horizons | T, gen | Read here on AO3

#maglor #maedhros #maedhrosmaglorweek #silmarillion fic #silmarillion #silm fic #my fic #on maedhros and maglor week you started and on maedhros and maglor week you shall end... #i have changed my fic posting format on every single one of the tumblr posts for each of these 3 parts RIP #beachfic

[silmawensgarden]

Maedhros in his garden, cutting flowers.

This one is from early February, I had tried a more semi-realistic approach to drawing him.

° Which elf should I draw next? Currently having s hard time choosing 😂

#maedhros #silmarillion #feanorians #tolkien #elves #sons of feanor #silm art #silmawensgarden #maitimo #nelyafinwe #RIP to one of my best skin-tone markers :')

[deer-with-a-stick]

I gotta say, these polls are hilarious. You’ll see fandoms flipping out and trying their best to get their blorbos to win only to be stomped by the bigger fandoms. RIP Maedhros and the desperate attempts at explaining Trash Elf Drama in that sibling poll lmao.

Well. They’ll be stomped unless its the Ninjago fandom. Somehow. That was hilarious and this popcorn is delicious.

#polls #tournament poll #maedhros #silmarillion #ninjago #the red-green poll was so funny #rip mario and luigi

[erynalasse]

Sometimes I just wanna see an AU where Fingon and Maedhros reunite in Beleriand without Thangorodrim in the middle of it all. 

The thing about the rescue is that it’s very heroic, very dramatic, and very conclusively proves that Fingon can put friendship and loyalty above whatever betrayed feelings he carries about Losgar. I’m sure there were conversations—lots of them, surely!—but at the same time, when your cousin braves Morgoth’s fortress itself to save you, the rest kind of follows from there. 

Just can’t get the idea out of my head, y’know? There’s nothing more tasty than someone expecting the most final of rejections and getting a hug instead.  

Picture Fingolfin and his sons sending a delegation to the Fëanorian camp after they cross the Ice. I don’t think anyone on either side knew what to expect. The Fingolfinians have no explanation for what happened to the ships, and the Fëanorians weren't even expecting the other force to show up. There’s tons of tension, probably a lot of saber-rattling on both sides, and Fingolfin is genuinely thrown by seeing Maedhros wearing the Noldóran’s crown when he spent days preparing to face his mad half-brother. 

I think at this point Maedhros was probably already planning to give the crown to Fingolfin. Rescue aside, all the other reasons why the abdication made sense in canon still apply. The entire house’s legitimacy for the kingship is in ashes just like the ships. But something that big comes out in a private discussion between Maedhros and Fingolfin, not in public, not during their first meeting. So the two rulers bow to each other and make all the right speeches of humble apology and gracious acceptance, and all the while Maedhros is very carefully not looking at Fingon. Somehow nobody dies. 

Maedhros knows his cousin can’t kill him because that would really set this fragile peace on fire. But almost anything else is fair. Fingon may never speak to him again, especially after his brother’s wife dying on the Ice. What good did standing aside at Losgar do for that?

Finally, finally, Maedhros gets a moment alone with Fingon in the middle of this chaos. Fingon probably comes to him, since Maedhros is probably assuming the worst until he’s proven otherwise. What can Maedhros say to him? I missed you deserves an acidic response. I tried to stop him is a pathetic excuse. I never meant this to happen can’t bring back the dead. I will make this right is already a lie, because there are no reparations for a betrayal this complete. 

In the end, Fingon speaks first. “I heard about Ambarto. I'm sorry, Maitimo.”

Maedhros nearly loses his composure altogether at the fresh grief. “I heard about Arakáno,” he returns. Fingon’s head bowed, and this bridge of shared grief for little brothers lost far too soon gives Maedhros something to cling to in the storm. 

“I am so, so sorry.” There. The only words he could give. 

Fingon’s face crumples in the way that could mean he wants to laugh or weep or start screaming. Sometimes it also heralds a very unwise decision, like— 

“Maglor told me you stood aside.”

Where is this going? Fingon has stepped closer, and Maedhros can’t breathe. “It stopped nothing, Findekáno, you know that—”

“—it matters to me—”

“—that just means I could have betrayed you more fully, Findekáno, what is there to appreciate—”

“You are so infuriating, Maitimo,” his cousin hisses, yanking him forward into—an embrace? “Stop taking your father’s blame on yourself.”

Maedhros stands there and trembles for a few minutes before squeezing Fingon back fiercely and burying his face in his gold-braided hair. He doesn’t mean to weep, but he can’t seem to help it either. The crushing relief leaves him breathless. He has spent so long holding together his brothers and his people through one loss after another that the joy blooming in his heart hurts almost as much as the grief. 

“We have so many things to talk about, Maitimo,” his cousin says, pulling back enough to wipe roughly at his own face. “But we are going to talk about them together,” he emphasizes, after taking in Maedhros’ renewed tension. 

For the first time since Valinor, Maedhros finds he can laugh joyfully, not bitterly. “Yes. Together.”

#my post #my writing #? #I suppose this qualifies #I have a bad habit of starting something in the style of a post and ending it in the style of a narrative rip #maedhros #fingon #russingon #if you want it to be #deliberately ambiguous

[hirazuki]

Clematis or marjoram for Melkor?

Thanks!

Clematis | Mental Beauty | Your mind vs. my mind

•────────────────────⋅☾ ☽⋅────────────────────•

He descends the stairs to the lowest level; the long hall at the bottom takes him lower still, past the smithies and furnaces, the vast storerooms and the deeper mines and the opening to the caverns below the mountains, where molten rock sits spewing fire up at the shielded sky.

The light underground is warm, here, in Angband -- candles and torches and liquid flame; a merry union with the air that lives inside the fortress. It is a far cry from the cold cradle of Utumno, subterranean dark swathed in blue-green lucency, the seat from where poison and peril once flowed out to stain all the land, and fear walked abroad in his name.

It sickens him.

It is not Utumno the Deep-hidden (and fear no longer leaves his side), and in the moments where spite threatens to soak his thought and touch wholly, as a corpse-sack laden with gathered blood, he craves to strangle it: choke it all out until everyone is suffocating from ash and from ice, as though that would recall old power; as though it would bring back a time when the pain was a sleepless, aching thing in his mind and soul only. Now, it is in his skin and in his bones, tightly sewn into this charred flesh he cannot shed, which, to all of Angband, he pretends does not bother him.

He walks, and his steps fall with less thunder and more substance together than they once did -- as they do yet with each passing day -- and he pretends that this does not bother him either.

Melkor slows, feet edging the doorway to his destination: a yawning room, empty save for the single lantern burning low on the floor, the shadows it casts, and the elf in chains, shackled to a wall.

Maedhros -- Maitimo; Nelyafinwë -- the first son of Fëanor and newly vested High King of the Noldor. The commanding piece on the battlefield against his own.

Anger blazes anew in Melkor, as fresh as the blood that blackens his ever-blackened hand from where he had stuck it through an orc, mere moments ago. The creature had fallen to the ground in a clatter of iron and ivory, to join the already-rotting answer to his missive.

So, the elf is not to be bartered. Nor sapped for information: he knows nothing of import; Melkor has already wrung him dry. 

What, then, is to be done with him?

Melkor longs for the release, however temporary it will prove, that he knows violence will bring; to rework flesh and mind and spirit until they are recognizable only with mounting horror as a guide, fragmented visions in broken glass.

And it has always served well, as example and as warning.

However... there is something to be said about a much different kind of blow dealt to his enemies, the damage wrought by murmurs and mistrust, were their king to return to them one day, visibly -- inexplicably -- untouched, where all others have come back disfigured.

Mairon had advised the latter, before leaving -- dutifully, reluctantly -- on his orders to scout the new elven camps with his wolves, tongue tinged with something that on anyone else would have been nothing short of insolence and insubordination.

Mairon is right, of course.

How very like his own self of older days his lieutenant has become, all fluid grace and pretty words (though with an orderliness, a precision, a lack of waste, that he himself, naturally, has never possessed), while he --

Melkor clenches his jaw, and tastes metal in his mouth.

He knows what is happening to him.

Do they think he does not? Do they think he cannot see? His moods, fey and mutable always, yes, but in both directions, now grow ever more dire with no recovery. Irascible. Implacable. Insatiable. He sees it, knows it, fears it, with the bloodless terror of clinging webs and unlight, the daily dread of recognizing a dozen glinting eyes and undying hunger across a mirror, and yet is powerless to stop it.

He desires the light as he hates it, needs it as he cannot abide it, and now that he possesses it, finally, and in a manner that he can keep it all to himself, he cannot possibly cast it aside, no matter that it is the source of his decline.

They would like the jewels gone; the orcs and the balrogs, the werewolves and trolls and vampires, the elves in his service; all his servants; Mairon, most of all -- and this he knows, too.

They shield their eyes with downturned faces before him and disguise it as reverence, scuttle down dark passageways like rodents before a flood, resentful of the violation he has brought to the underbelly of Arda -- nay, to its very womb -- and the war that it has spurred to these shores.

There is no question that the assault the caged treelight wages on their senses is unbearable.

The assault it wages on his own is tenfold thus.

The glare blinds him, everything bleeding in a white haze of indistinct shapes, and the weight bows down his head, until the very idea of rest is but a distant dream of shadows among pitiless light; a memory of breath above water, above crushing rock.

To bear the Silmarils is excruciating. How to let them go, when to bear their loss would be even more so?

How to see them fall back into elven hands?

Melkor has always begrudged the elves their existence, but his hatred of them was not always such. He had entertained himself with them, in the beginning, when all they had known was stars and dark, slumbering woods and the shadow-shapes that walked in the hills. But the war that led to his wreck and ruin was made for their sake, and this he will never forgive. After Angainor, after three ages in Mandos, after Fëanor and the accursed creations of his hands -- he has nothing but hatred left.

This one, though, he thinks, regarding red waves spilling over bare skin like open wounds, glistening dark in the candlelight, this one is different.

Mairon has the right of it -- this one, Fëanor's eldest that burns with the same fire as his sire, yet more tempered and therefore more dangerous, is of rare value, despite his apparent worthlessness as leverage. He may benefit greatly from a different touch than the heavy hand of slag and slaughter that has become Melkor's fare.

Surely, he remembers how; he's not so far gone as that.

He may not be able to discard this body anymore, but he can still craft illusion -- and so he wraps an image around himself that hearkens back to shapes of old, larger but not too large, imposing yet sinuous, like black smoke coiling in the air, hair dancing around his head in tendrils with the languor of oil in water. He keeps his face constant, eyes glowing like the ice of the northern wastes, but little else: hands and limbs, all materialize and dissipate in dark mists as he pleases, as needed to caress, to cajole, to taunt.

Melkor is not certain what he is aiming to achieve with this, how this will aid in his deciding the fate of Fëanor's son; but, then again, there never has been much purpose beyond impulse. It is his nature, after all, and he merely follows it.

He allows himself a prick or two; a scratch, here and there, carved so shallow that not even his lieutenant can complain.

There is no response to his attentions.

It is only a matter of time before he teases the elf with those much-sought after jewels that live upon his head, the first time since donning his crown that he has removed it, in an effort to provoke a reaction -- any reaction, to break that stony composure that has quickly turned from amusing to aggravating until it crumbles like dry clay beneath his gaze -- and he presses them against his face, in the space between eyes and jaw.

Maedhros screams.

He recoils as he is burned, viciously cracking his shoulder on the wall behind him, and the acrid stench of seared flesh fills the air: it is a scent Melkor knows well.

They stand there in stillness, elf and Vala, one heaving with enough force to empty out his innards, the other regarding the iron in his hand, both silent; both surprised.

It is Melkor who recovers first -- and he laughs.

"Oh, this is precious," he finally breathes, returning the crown to his head and shedding his guise in his elation.

Maedhros is hissing and swiping -- like a cub, belonging to one of those long-fanged beasts of horn and plated bone that he had fashioned in the dark beyond the Lamps, that has been deprived of its morsel -- and saying something, but Melkor is no longer listening.

He runs his hand through hair red like blood, tangling his fingers in the strands, claws grazing skin gently, the urge to harm sated -- briefly; a mere flake of snow before open flame; never fully -- by this new knowledge. For no thing he can visit upon the spawn of Fëanor could ever surpass this.

It has been a terrible game, this affair of theirs, he thinks -- Fëanor's mind against his own -- absentmindedly continuing to stroke the elf's head, as though it is one of Angband's cats that he is soothing through a restless night.

But, however this ends -- whatever becomes of him; no matter if they throw down his towers, wrench the wretched West from its dim horizon to these far shores and hew his feet from under him -- he is secure in the certainty of one single thing:

His mind has already won.

• ────────────────────────────────────────── •

Anon, I hope you like this!!! Thanks so much for sending this in and giving me a chance to show my actual serious take on canon-verse Melkor instead of the humorous comic version I keep throwing at all of you ♡

#melkor #morgoth #maedhros #silmarillion #tolkien #silm #my writing #hira writes tolkien #cw: torture #i guess? i should probably tag? i can never tell how much requires a tag #but this is like. a whiff of torture. Torture Lite™ #i'm SO SORRY this took so long!!! Melkor was *N O T* cooperating.T_T #this was supposed to be like. only a couple of paragraphs. but he just wouldn't shut up about how sad he is. #he really wanted to let everyone know how incredibly sad he is. #(edit: also stuck a read more on there because i didn't realize. just how. fucking long this is rip X_X)

[stompandhollar]

The Past Comes Back With The Light In the Morning ✧ؘ༄ؘ ˑꔫ༻✧

A/N: Here’s a sample from a fic I’m working on, that explores the dynamic between Maedhros, Maglor, Elros, and Elrond. It will span multiple chapters, and cover the end of the first age into the second.

Pairings, Themes: Will include a little bit of past Russingon, obvi, and lots of queer interpretations of the text. Enjoy :) <3 ( TW- descriptions of the deaths of Eluréd and Elurín.)

Characters: Maedhros, Maglor, Elrond, Elros

Word Count: 1,000

CHAPTER ONE

Maedhros was a sight to behold. Towering in stature and red of hair, his form was worldly and beautiful. Called Maitimo for his broad build, he stood out among his six brothers. The eldest son of Fëanor’s deep copper hair swept to his ribs, and coupled with his narrow, straight nose and low brow, he did not fashion himself as approachable. Where his right hand had once been, there was a scarred and maimed limb.

He hadn’t wanted to storm the city. Or, perhaps he had. Either way, semantics aside he had certainly awoken that morning with no desire to cut through his own brethren by the tenfold. But bound to their oaths, he and his brothers swept the woods surrounding Sirion for their young cousins. Hounds tracked their sent, and horses galloped after them in pursuit of whatever trail they may have found. With a heaviness, they trampled the forest floor, the swords they carried already dirtied with fresh blood, brandished in wait for their next meal.

“Maitimo,” called Maglor, dismounting with a crunch of his boots against dry leaves. “They’d have gone home to their mother as soon as they heard the warning bells. If we return to the city–”

“Or to the shore. The sea guard may be carrying them to their father as we speak.”

Maglor nodded, raising a hand to their men. “Divide yourselves. Go to the sea, and go to the keep.” His raven hair hung loose, not braided back in intricate patterns like his brother’s. The horsemen followed his instructions as soon as the commands left his lips, and within a moment, the two were left alone under the trees. Quiet crept in slowly.

Maglor sheathed his blade. “Thank Eru. With all their clamour the twins would have heard us from ten miles away.”

“Five miles.” Maedhros trilled with a smirk. “They are only half-elven, onóro melda.”

Maglor crouched low to the ground, laying the back of his hand flush against the dirt. Memories plagued him, dancing through his amber eyes like shadows flickering through a fire. Years before, caked in muck and stinking of decay, two small bodies had lain limp beneath an oak tree. Their bloated faces etched themselves in Maglor’s mind; their own microbes having eaten through their intestines and worked their way to the surface.

“Funny.” Maglor mused.

“What’s funny?”

“I believe we’ve done this before.”

Maedhros bristled. “Eluréd and Elurín were long dead before we even started searching for them.”

“Two sets of dead twins in the woods,” Maglor hummed to himself, crafting a gruesome tune as he walked along. “Both never to reach adulthood—”

“And to think I believed leaving your gondolin at home would prevent your morbid little melodies.”

“How do you want to pass the time? The forest is deep and the day is almost over. We’ll be searching all night,” Maglor pushed a collection of leaves out of his way, impaling one with his sword. “Besides. You aren’t exactly entertaining company.”

A sound.

A crunch of leaves. Maedhros put up a hand, and Maglor fell instantly silent.

The brothers exchanged a look, and sheathed their weapons. Narrowing in on a corner tucked beneath the green, there was a hint of a tunic peaking out into view. Maedhros lowered his hand, and both elves crouched low.

✧༺ꔫˑ༄ؘ ✧ ༄ؘ ˑꔫ༻✧ ✧༺ꔫˑ༄ؘ ✧ ༄ؘ ˑꔫ༻✧

In the distance, in the brush, Elros gripped his twin brother’s hand tightly. He knew the armor of the elves who crouched in front of them, obscured partially by branches and leaves. The Fëanorian star was unmistakable– he had seen it all his life. Crossed out in history books, etched into old stonework, welded onto abandoned armor. It was an ever-present and abhored symbol in Sirion, and he had spent many an afternoon asking his septa questions about it’s origins. She was an elder woman with a fiery spirit, and in many un-lady-like words, she told him of the Oath of Feanor and of the brothers that took it up.

He knew that Maedhros was cruel, tempered, and unyielding. A kinslayer twice over, maimed from a punishment he should have never escaped. That the fire of life was hot within him, and his strength was of the ancient world, both melded together into a singular, undeterred obsession with recovering his father’s Silmarillian jewls. Maedhros was otherworldly– unlike even the great Elven Lords that Elros had grown up knowing. His septa had told him that the gods had marked him far apart from other elven kin. That he had escaped death too narrowly, too quietly, and was rebirthed as one who has passed through death into ecstasy. As one that returns different from realms of the dead. Of Maedhros, he knew only what she told him, and she had told him every gory detail.

By all accounts, the boy reasoned, this was the end.

“Have you killed our mother?” He spoke out plainly– boldly, for a boy only six years grown. The men crouching outside the bushes caught his eye through the shrubbery.

“She lept from her balcony. Drowned.” The shorter, darker haired one said. Elros felt Elrond’s grip tighten on his fingers.

“Ah. I see.” He answered, pushing his chin out, voice breaking only slightly at the news. “Then, I suppose you’ll want to kill us, too.”

“One would suppose that, wouldn’t they?”

Elros stepped from the brush, tugging his brother behind him. “Make it quick, then.” He shut his eyes, and puffed his chest, readying himself for the blow. Elrond, quieter than his counterpart, kept his eyes open.

The schuth! of metal easily sheathing itself into the soft earth cut the silence. The sound inclined Elros to open his eyes again; eyes that widened in shock to see the hilt of Maedehros’ sword an inch from his own nose, blade half submerged in the forest floor. Behind him, Maglor had done the same.

Elros knew only what his septa had told him, and she had not told him that “Fëanorian” had once been, in days of old, synonymous with “honor”.

Maglor’s hand was extended. “Come. I’ll help you onto the horse.”

#elros and elrond #elrond peredhel #elros peredhel #lotr #rip #the silm #the silm fandom #the silmarillion #lord of the rings rings of power #rings of power #rop elrond #maedhros #maglor #maedhros and maglor #maglor and maedhros #kidnap fam fic #the silmarillion fic #lotr fic #rop fic #the past comes back with the light in the morning #russingon #durin and elrond #elrond x durin #durin x elrond #kidnap fam

[lapras-lazure]

bird?

#i remember doodling this with the youtube screenshot as a reference for the head like #months ago #ark: survival evolved #rip maedhros the argentavis #his wife was named luthien because we thought it was funny

[red-winters]

i can’t believe the majority chose Glorfindel in the zombie apocalypse: choose your fighter poll (silm edition). so what if he’s cheerful and has good hair. what happens AFTER he self sacrifices and DIES to buy the post apocalyptic refugees/you time to get away??? there are still (presumably) MORE zombies out there and your protection is gone!!!

#at least Finrod can build an underground city!!! #and while the efficacy and safety of ripping a zombie's throat out with his teeth is a VERY questionable method of self defense #it is still respectable!!!! #sure Glorfindel came back EVENTUALLY but that was what? a thousand plus years later? by the grace of the Valar??? HELLO #blogchatter #that being said everybody in the tags is hilarious and make good points #except for the Feanor voters #i feel like y'all just want to watch the world burn #i feel like the best scenario is living in a fortress managed by both Finrod AND Maedhros

[thecoolblackwaves]

I sketched some random naked Elves below cut

🌲🌿🌳🌲🌾🌳☘️🌱🌲🌾

Yes they're fucking and yes the twink tops

#idk why i was just thinking like hmm what do i envision elven bodies like #and i dont think theyre all the same these are just to varieties #also whos who #im thinking beefy: celebrimbor celegorm maedhros feanor curufin (but hes short as fuck and has no ass) #twink: maglor caranthir ambarussa (but theyre more athletic) #ill do lady elves at some point probbaly and i assure you nerdanel is fucking RIPPED #my drawing #my posts #elves #tolkien #silm

[myceliumelium]

Maedhros has cared for a great many children through out his long life, some with more success than others. Rip elured and elurin

#in green is mae and itty bitty caranthir #in red is mae and Gil-galad #bc I cannot contain myself to one theory on that man #been doing a bit of mental exploration of gil son of mae and good fucking lord #that shit can get angsty #especially about Sirion #maedhros #caranthir #gil-galad #silmarillion #tolkien #art

[ruthlesslistener]

I'm a simple man with simple needs- I see a suicidally depressed, terribly scarred elf who had it all before it was ripped violently away from him who then lost all will to live other than the drive to finish the vengence quest that he got tricked into and I imprint on him immidietly

(This is a Maedhros 🤝 Mithrun appreciation post)

#dungeon meshi #mithrun #maedhros #i

[nin-varisse]

Reading the Silmarillion for me was like: Wow the Feanorians are all horrible, horrible people, I don't get why they have so many fans?

Actually I feel very sorry for Maedhros, he's such a tortured (literally) soul and man, he deserved better! He lost his "best friend" (wink wink) and he tried to save Elurin and Elured. The rest sucks tho. Actually Maglor also didn't deserve such a horrible fate??? He tried to raise Elrond and Elros as well as he could and the Oath just absolutely ripped his soul into pieces. But the 3 Cs are still horrible. Well Caranthir did actually keep himself out of most conflicts and he did save Haleth and her people, he doesn't seem like a bad person per se... But Celegorm and Curufin suck, they are responsible for Finrod's death! If I think about it I feel a little sorry for Curufin. All he was seen as is Feanor 2.0, I mean even his mother called him "little dad". Surely it's no wonder how he turned out considering he was always in the direct shadow of "the greatest" noldor to ever exist. But Celegorm sucks extra bad, he tried to force Luthien to marry him! But in the end, all he wanted to be was a hunter, he wasn't responsible for his father's Oath. Also he was left by his only loyal companion, that probably drove him even more to madness.

But I'll never excuse Feanor's behaviour! He's responsible for the Oath upon his sons and therefore for their deeds and he started the first kinslaying over some stupid boats! He's the most terrible character ever! ... Actually satan himself whispered him into his ear for 60 years and he wasn't entirely wro-

#a truly wild ride #not to be a feanorian apologist but I kinda am #also I did like maedhros from the very start #ambarussa didn't really do a lot that's why they are missing #but they are tragic twins I adore them #feanor #feanorians #maedhros #maglor #caranthir #celegorm #curufin #a hint of #kidnap fam #russingon #the silmarillion #silmarillion #silm #reading the silm #tolkien #meta #nin's thoughts

[annoyinglandmagazine]

Maedhros is ridiculously overprotective

During their childhood if any of the siblings were getting bothered by someone and they yelled for Nelyo he would drop everything and come running immediately. One time at a family gathering Curvo had started a fight with Argon and was losing. Badly. He hadn’t even gotten to the start of the second syllable and Maedhros was pulling them off each other with a first aid kit. He had been at the other side of the house in the middle of a conversation. Curvo hadn’t even yelled that loudly.

One time he found out Kano was being picked on. He was the equivalent of 15 and Maglor was like 12. He found Maglor crying after some 16 year olds had ripped up some of his music sheets. That was the first time Maedhros ever held a sword to someone’s throat. He had to be pulled off by three guards and no one could believe it because he was meant to be the well behaved sibling. When Feanor found out he was ridiculously proud and told Nelyo as much. Nerdanel glared at him disapprovingly but secretly agreed.

I firmly believe that even the whole way through the first age any of the brothers just needs to send one vague letter saying they might be in a bit trouble. Maedhros will be diverting the majority of his army to track them down wherever they are and make sure they’re ok. If Aredhel was Maedhros’ sibling Eol would have been found in a week and would be begging to be killed by the end of the week.

Anytime any of the Sinda diplomats get too aggressive towards Tyelko and Curvo about certain things Nelyo will make it clear that, yes, what they did was wrong and he’s aware they’re adults who made their own choices. But. They are also his little baby brothers so would you be so kind as to take a step back before he does something he most certainly would not regret. Everyone thinks Maedhros is scary enough to negotiate with on political matters. But that’s nothing compared to dealing with Protective Older Brother Maedhros.

Maedhros was very angry about the Angrod incident. He yelled at Caranthir for about half an hour. Moryo had apologised as soon as he’d seen Nelyo’s face but Maedhros still felt as if he couldn’t let his brother off so easily over something like this. He looked down at Caranthir’s face while he was in the middle of it and then he just stopped. Because that’s Moryo. This isn’t some general who went against his orders, that’s his baby brother and he looks like he’s about to cry. And he just hugs him. He knows it’s not even remotely the right thing to do, he can’t just not punish his brothers after they jeopardise relations with their allies. But damn it, he just can’t cope with any of his siblings look at him like that.

Maedhros loves his siblings a lot ok? Is this sort of about Maedhros losing the older sibling poll? Maybe.

#Silmarillion #tolkien #maedhros #feanorians #maglor #curufin #celegorm #caranthir #feanor #nerdanel #sons of feanor