50 with Finwe's children?
Ooh! Of course!
From this prompt list.
50 - “Small fire! I said a small fire! This is not small!”
Fëanáro doesn’t know why he agreed to this: it had nothing to do with his apprenticeship nor his courtship nor pleasing his father.
If anything, if they are found it could very well jeopardise all three.
And yet, here he is, alone in the forges at the height of Telperion with four annoying little children buzzing around him excitedly after drawing from him a promise to show them how to make a necklace.
None of them were meant to be in the forge without supervision and Fëanáro’s siblings - half-siblings - aren’t meant to be in here full stop.
He is breaking so many rules for people he doesn’t even like.
“Can we help?” Ñolofinwë asks, doing his best attempt at a pleading face. It is frustratingly good.
Fëanáro hesitates. On one hand, he is already breaking too many rules but on the other hand, what is one more rule broken among the remains of all the rest?
“I suppose...” He begins tentatively. “Why don’t you start with making a small fire?”
Lalwendë cheers and then is shushed for being too loud. Not that that will matter, muses as he reaches up into the cupboard for the metal alloy he knows is there.
It takes a bit of manoeuvring (and, although Fëanáro will not admit it, the invaluable assistance of a chair) until Fëanáro finally gets the tin down.
He turns around and gapes.
He is pleased at his decision to make them wear aprons over their sleep clothes because they are covered in soot.
“Small fire!” He exclaims, hurrying forward even as he contemplates how he’s going to get their clothes clean without anyone getting suspicious. “I said a small fire! That is not small!”
“Are you angry?” Arafinwë asks when Fëanáro is quite certain that the flames are at the correct size.
“No Aro,” Fëanáro says, lifting the boy up onto a nearby table. “But I think I shall have to limit it to only watching from now on. Now, where should we begin?”
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Im still on a Curufinrod kick so if you dont mind 28 with curufinrod and baby tyelpe?
I will write Curufinrod whatever the day.
From this prompt list.
28 - “Were you ever going to tell me?”
There is a soft knock on the door, a hesitant little tap that barely reaches the bed.
Curufinwë sits up. Findaráto stirs beside him and Curufinwë reaches out to gently console him as he slips from the bed to the door.
“Curvo,” Findaráto mumbles sleepily, pushing himself up and rubbing his eyes despite Curufinwë’s attempt to settle him. “What’s wrong?”
Curufinwë does not answer as he pulls open the door to find his son standing there, his thumb in his mouth and the toy rabbit his mother had given him held in the other hand.
Curufinwë kneels down. “What’s wrong Tyelpë?” He asks softly.
“I want Amya.” Tyelperinquar’s voice is muffled by his thumb.
Curufinwë feels all his muscles tense and forces them to relax again. “She’ll be coming back soon,” He says, trying for a smile at the blatant lie. “Who don’t you come and sleep with me and Fifi tonight?”
Tyelperinquar nods sleepily and Curufinwë bundled him up into his arms.
He sends a soft query across his bond with Findaráto - not words for it is not quite a marriage bond but something else that doesn’t quite match its intensity - and Findaráto nods, getting the vague gist of it.
He shuffles over to leave space for Tyelperinquar, who turns and tucks himself into Findaráto’s side the moment Curufinwë lies him down.
They lie in the semi-dark for a long time in silence. Tyelperinquar had dropped off almost at once but Findaráto had not: Curufinwë could feel it in the space between them.
“She’ll be coming back soon?”
Curufinwë winces slightly.
“That’s a blatant lie if ever I heard one.”
“I can’t say that she’s abandoned him. He loves her dearly.”
“Yes, but were you ever going to tell me?”
Curufinwë freezes. “What?”
Tyelperinquar shuffles in between them and they both pause, a long moment of silence dragging between them.
Curufinwë lets out a breath he didn’t know he had been holding when it is clear that Tyelperinquar is still asleep.
“Were you ever going to tell me?” There is something accusatory in Findaráto’s voice. “I only found out through Amarië who found out through a friend who found out through a friend who found out through Rinwendë’s sister.”
Findaráto sighs. “That doesn’t answer my question.”
Curufinwë pauses. Was he ever going to tell Findaráto? He hadn’t really told anyone that Rinwendë had gone for good, back to her mountain home. Tyelkormo had only found out because he had been there for the argument.
He doesn’t know why he is so saddened by Rinwendë’s departure - they hadn’t been married, only together. He hadn’t loved her. He hadn’t.
At least, not in the way he loves Findaráto.
He should have told Findaráto- he tells Findaráto everything - but, for some reason, the words to say had never come out, not even when the opportunity had been perfect.
“I don’t know,” He admits as his thoughts begin to loop back on themselves.
Tyelperinquar stirs again, disrupting any further talking, and this time, the conversation doesn’t pick up as he settles back down.
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Of course, I would love to!
From this prompt list.
5 - “You left me!”
There is something scary about how quiet Mairon is. He sits on the edge of Eönwë’s bed, hands clasped and head bowed, and is the picture of obedience.
“Mairon.” Eönwë is sure that Mairon knows he is here - he surely heard the rustle of fabric being pulled back and felt Eönwë’s presence - but still, Mairon looks up sharply as if surprised.
He purses his lips, his back straightening. “Eönwë.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Where else was I supposed to go?”
“Away from here.” Eönwë keeps his face carefully plain. “You cannot think that the Valar will be lenient on you.”
“No, I don’t.”
Eönwë narrows his eyes. There is something in Mairon’s face.
“You cannot think that I will be lenient.”
There it is, the slightest spasm of Mairon’s face, almost completely imperceptible.
“You left me! To go chase a fools dream with a villain.” Eönwë draws up - he knows why Mairon is here now, to crawl back to his former lover in the hopes that he might fall for his tricks again.
He scowls. “If you are here for my pity, Sauron,” The name drips like poison from his lips. “You will get none.”
Mairon flinches at the words and then he swallows, setting his shoulders back. “Of course.”
He stands and dusts down his clothes, a simple tunic and leggings that are more suited for the forge than for warfare.
“I shall be on my way then.”
He pauses as he passes Eönwë and looks over contemplatively, his eyes straying to his lips, but Eönwë purses them and steps back.
He supposes, as Mairon steps from the tent and out into the night, that he should stop him.
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Finrod x Reader - Imperfectly Perfect
Hello everybody! Well I wrote this fanfic a few days ago, and I thought it was a good idea to share it with you. Hope you like it and I love you all! ♥️
Summary: Finrod, or most commonly known by others as “The King of Nargothrond” has invited you to a celebration. But you need to act properly, after all Finrod Felagund is not a common ellon but a noble one.
Warnings: None, you can read in peace. You’ll only find an attentive Finrod, a sweet Galadriel... and an embarrassing situation.
I admired myself on the mirror. A beautiful diamond circlet shined on the top of my head and my glamorous garments looked beautiful on me. And even though I didn’t liked to exaggerate when it came to my looks, I had to admit I looked great.
My thoughts were interrupted by two knocks on my chambers. “(y/n), are you ready to go my love?”. It was Finrod, the elf I loved with all my heart.
With a smile I walked towards the door and opened it widely as I greeted Finrod with a look of excitement and joy.
It was my very first time celebrating the Feast of Starlight with my beloved, and I was excited for this amazing celebration. Besides the fact that “The almighty King of Nargothrond” invited me to the ball was splendid.
Finrod looked at me with wide eyes and an indescribable expression was plastered over his face. “(y/n).... you look...” he started and his voice seemed as if he lacked air.
“(y/n) my love.... you look totally exquisite... but for me, you always look absolutely gorgeous”.
A delicate smile formed on my features and a slight blush appeared on my cheeks.
“(y/n) you look very sophisticated, I doubt that any other of the guests will look as beautiful as you..., and I say this as a fact” Finrod continued looking at me with adoring eyes.
“Now my darling, would you give me the honor of escorting you and being my companion during this joyful celebration?” he joked with a playful tone and offered me his arm to take it.
"Of course my King" I replied with the same playful voice that he had used with me and I wrapped my hands around his arm.
We made our way to the Feast of Starlight, and we soon reached the huge doors of the palace's ballroom. Before entering I took a deep breath, Finrod was an elven King and I knew royalty had high expectations.
It was a big issue when we started courting. I was afraid his family wouldn’t see me worthy of being with him. But surprisingly, they all quickly took a liking on me.
Finrod looked at me and perceived that I was feeling nervous. “(y/n)... Remember that the most important thing is that you have fun tonight. Unclench your jaw, relax your shoulders, and let me see your adorable smile”.
Letting a breath out I relaxed myself and felt the tension on my back fading away. I turned to face Finrod and gave him a shy smile. “There you go... now you look even more dazzling.” he complimented.
There was not much more time to keep talking because the giant doors were opened reveling a bright light the room emitted.
Finrod and I entered the celebration, the room was lavishly decorated and everything looked resplendent. The guests were all dressed in glamorous robes and gowns and looked extremely joyful.
A delicious scent of sweet treats and good wine filled the ballroom. The beautiful voice of musicians, filled the room alongside the various voices and laughter of those who attended the celebration.
Finrod and I spent some time together, enjoying the party and engaging in conversation with some friends and important Lords of Nargothrond.
As we both saw sweet Finduilas walking away from us Finrod had an idea. "My darling, would you wait for me here just a moment? I am going to search for some wine for us. The wine Orodreth brought from Doriath. We can’t miss to taste it, specially because tonight is the Feast of Starlight.”
“Of course” I replied with a sweet smile. “I’ll come back right away melmë.” Finrod affirmed grabbing my hand and kissing gently my knuckles, and with that he left and disappeared between the multitude of elves.
Now I was alone, well literally because I was surrounded by many elves. I registered the room with my sight and near the dessert table was Galadriel, Finrod's sister and a very good friend of mine.
Soon she looked at me too and greeted me from afar with a smile on her face. I waved back and made my way towards her.
But when I was about to reach the place where she was I felt someone crashing against me. I lost my balance and fell over the dessert table.
The only thing I heard after the loud “CRASH!” were the gasps of the elves that were around me, and my accident had been noisy enough to attract the attention of many.
"Forgive me my- , it was not my intention... excuse me please!" Stuttered one of the servants of the party to which I had crashed earlier.
I removed some of the whipped cream from my eyes and looked around. I recognized the Feanorians, Celegorm and Curufin, looking down at me. They were not looking at my face but at something else.
My eyes traveled down as well, my beautiful garments were a mess. Now they were stained with different jellies and chocolates from the desserts.
"Go away, I'll take care of this" Galadriel ordered to the servant, and without saying another word, ashamed and embarrassed, he obeyed the orders form the Noldor princess.
“(y/n)!” I heard a cry from Finrod at the distance. He rushed to where I was and handed the two glasses of wine he had to one of the random elves who was looking at the embarrassing scene.
Finrod approached me and helped me up. I grabbed him tightly by the arms as I regained my balance.
“(y/n)..., let me take you to my chambers, we need to get you clean and I can borrow some clean clothes to you...” said Galadriel offering me her hand which I took after a moment.
“Go ahead, I will reach for you in a moment” said Finrod. He was surely getting in charge of the situation, he was the King, it was his responsibility.
I walked through the multitude of elves alongside Galadriel, all their eyes were on us, and soon we were out of the ballroom. Fortunately Galadriel’s chambers weren’t too far so we arrived quickly.
“Take a sit, I am going to search for some proper clothes and water to clean you up” said Galadriel hurrying quickly around her room.
While she was searching for clothes I couldn't do anything but to feel sad. It was supposed to be a wonderful evening, but now it was all ruined and I had pieces of cake smeared all over me.
I looked down at my clothes one more time, and tears started trickling down my jelly-covered cheeks. I ruined the celebration not only for me but also for Finrod and to his kind sister. I really felt guilty about this uncomfortable situation.
“Well I found a dre-.... (y/n) are you crying?” Galadriel asked in a concerned tone and I just buried my face in between my hands, at this point I couldn’t hold my sobs anymore.
“I ruined everything Galadriel... I ruined my dress, I ruined the celebration, I ruined the feast for Finrod and you, and I am covered in chocolate!” I cried. “I am sorry Galadriel, now you hadn’t got the chance to enjoy the feast because of me” I sobbed.
“No, no, no, this is not your fault...” said Galadriel sitting beside me on the couch. “This was just an accident, and you haven’t ruined anyone’s evening” reassured Galadriel taking my hand in hers.
“You know... I also had a similar experience once, so I know how you feel” she commented. “But... how? you are a princess, you are perfect, this kind of things doesn’t happen to you” I muttered.
“Oh they do happen..., in one of my first celebrations on Tirion, in which I already attended as a "mature" princess, although I was only 85 years old, I was introduced to a very strange lord.”
“He was-... well he was...peculiar. The point is that when he took me out to dance with him. And let me add he had very... original... dancing steps.”
“In one of his odd movements he stepped on the tail of my dress and tore it almost completely exposing... I think you can imagine that part” chuckled Galadriel.
“Oh no! And what happened next!” I asked intrigued. “Nothing bad... the good thing is that my cousin Fingon was nearby and he lent me his cape to cover me, otherwise I don’t know what would have happened!” Said Galadriel smiling and giggling at the memory of her story.
I couldn’t help but to chuckle alongside her, her laugh was very contagious. “So now you understand why this not your fault. Please don’t feel guilty because this kind of things occur to everyone” Galadriel explained.
“Now I understand, thank you...” I responded with a soft smile on my face.
Our conversation was interrupted when someone kicked the door and entered to Galadriel’s chambers quickly.
“Galadriel how is (y/n)?, tell me how (y/n) is fairing, does there were any injuries?”. It was Finrod who was now inside the room.
He made his way towards me and his sister. He kneeled beside me and cupped my cheek even though I was covered in jelly.
“Are you alright my darling?” He asked concerned. “I am now, thanks to your sister” I responded. Finrod looked at Galadriel and with his other hand he took hers.
“Thank you Artanis”.
“I would do anything for my best friend Finrod” she answered sweetly.
Finrod’s attention turned back to me. He moved the hand that was cupping my face away and ran his finger over the tip of my nose, filling it with whipped cream.
"This is the whipped cream that I like" he commented putting his finger inside his mouth and tasting the whipped cream.
“Finrod!” I giggled and both Galadriel and Finrod laughed. Maybe this evening wasn’t that bad at all.
I spent time with two elves I care for and learned a valuable lesson.
Royalty is perfect, they are imperfectly perfect.
Tags: @iwenttomordor @elarinya-nailo
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this looks like love
~ This was Beleg’s knife. It was more beautiful than any knife he had seen before, the blade covered with intricate designs of leaves and stars and the crossings of rivers and trees.
‘This looks like love,’ his father would have said. He said that about beautiful things wrought with care: knives and swords, baskets, shawls, quilts, jackets. His broken harp. Túrin still didn’t know what it meant. Not entirely. ~
Túrin woke to find himself alone. Beleg’s bed was made up, so were the others'. He got up and washed. He was close enough to Menegroth that there was no real danger if he did not run off alone. He drank sweet water and ate lingonberries and cheese and bread.
Beleg had not woken him early, so he would not study to hunt that day. Beleg had let him rest. Perhaps Beleg had gone to hunt without him. Túrin stepped out onto the small porch of the cabin in his nightshirt.
There Beleg sat, making arrows.
‘You’re awake,’ he said. Túrin nodded. He sat cross legged beside Beleg and stared at the sun. It was midday.
‘I slept a long time.’
‘You were tired.’
Túrin nodded again. He bounced his fingers on the bruises on his knees. He liked how his fingers felt as they bounced off his skin. Beleg did not ask him why he did it or call him strange. Túrin swept his hands up and down, turning his hands in the air, so that his fingers came down first facing his knees and then turned from them, again and again.
‘Do I go back to Menegroth today?’ he asked. He reached for mint leaves from the ground and pressed three into his mouth.
‘No,’ Beleg said. Túrin turned his face up to the sun.
‘In two days.’
‘And then you will go far afield?’ Túrin said. ‘For all the winter?’ He let his hands fly again, bouncing off his knees. He chewed the mint leaves and swallowed their taste.
‘Not for all the winter, I don’t think,’ Beleg answered. ‘I would miss you.’
Túrin stopped bouncing his hands to pick mint leaves for Beleg. He handed them to him. Beleg took them and nodded his thanks. He ate them and kept making arrows.
‘Do you want to speak of which you dreamt?’ Beleg asked.
‘No,’ Túrin said. He waved his hand, letting it spin at his wrist. ‘I think everyone was dead. I was dead.’
Beleg patted Túrin’s knee gently. Túrin brushed the spot when Beleg had pulled his hair back. He didn’t like the lingering touch that seemed to tingle on his skin, even from those he loved. He tried to do it when Beleg wasn’t looking. He had brushed off his father’s touches and kisses. Sometimes he let his mother’s stay, but it agitated him to have a part of his skin even a little wet or a bit different from the rest. He didn’t know why being touched left an impression of the touch on his skin, but it did. He had asked Beleg if he could feel a touch after it was gone. Beleg had said yes, but he hadn’t been bothered by it.
Túrin looked at the yard. It was green and damp. Mud was spreading though. It must have rained a little when he slept. It was quiet, and it smelt like cold rain. Soon the leaves would change colour.
‘Are we alone?’ Túrin asked.
‘Yes,’ Beleg said. ‘The others left last night. They are needed farther North.’
‘Where you will go.’
‘Yes, where I will go.’
Túrin shoved his bare feet down onto the ground. It was soft enough that they sunk a bit into it. It was cold. The grass tickled his skin. Túrin stood and took a large step into the yard. His foot sunk down again, the ground giving a bit beneath him. He walked the yard around like that, in long strides, watching his feet leave impressions in the wet earth, feeling the cold of it.
He liked that the grass was green and not brown. He liked that the ground was wet and not frozen. He ran back to the porch and stood on it with his muddy feet.
‘Wash up,’ Beleg said. ‘You can’t go inside like that.’
‘I know.’ Túrin stood on his tiptoes to touch the very top of the porch where the two slanted roofs met each other.
Beleg patted his leg. ‘Wash. Then put some clothes on. Thingol and Melian will not be pleased if I bring you home ill.’
Túrin wrinkled his nose but threw some cold water from the rain barrel onto his feet and wiped them clean with a rag. He went back inside and came out dressed and with shoes on.
‘Don’t you look darling,’ Beleg said. Túrin had put this underneath ‘strange things that Elves say to each other and sometimes to you but that don’t need a response’ so he tramped off without a response to pee.
He came back to Beleg after and stared at his muddy footprints on the porch where he had been sitting. Beleg gave him a pointed look. Túrin wiped them up with the same rag and hung it over the side of the rain barrel to dry. He sat down again and took the knife that Beleg gave him.
This was Beleg’s knife. It was more beautiful than any knife he had seen before, the blade covered with intricate designs of leaves and stars and the crossings of rivers and trees.
‘This looks like love,’ his father would have said. He said that about beautiful things wrought with care: knives and swords, baskets, shawls, quilts, jackets. His broken harp. Túrin still didn’t know what it meant. Not entirely.
‘This looks like love,’ he said, for maybe Beleg knew the answer.
Beleg studied him. Beleg’s face was ancient but barely lined. It was his eyes that made it ancient. They were like the night sky and all the stars in it – maybe just as old, or maybe younger, but not enough that it would it matter to Túrin when he thought of the ages of the world.
‘Yes,’ Beleg said. ‘Care is love.’
Túrin said no more.
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I finally got ‘round to finishing this chapter of my Silmaril Babies story based off of the wonderful @ibrithir-was-here’s AU! Hopefully I’ll be able to have a bit more regular updates from now on but I promise nothing.
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the last thing i saw
‘Túrin,’ Beleg said. Túrin gripped at him. He couldn’t speak, so he cried. Beleg drew him close, not asking questions. He held Túrin in his arms as he wept. Túrin wept, trying to silence his sobs. Beleg stroked his hair. He wiped at his tears and whispered soft words Túrin didn’t know well.
‘You’re safe, darling,’ Beleg said. Túrin made it out slowly. He held onto Beleg’s hand. Beleg lay close to him on the little bed in the cabin far afield.
From the north a wind was blowing, and the clouds above trembled and fled before it over the night sky. Still the stars shone, brightly furious. And Beleg lay by his side.
Túrin could barely make out Beleg’s face from the darkness that surrounded them, but he could see his eyes, shining.
‘Yes,’ he whispered, closing his eyes as he answered and drawing the blankets they shared closer to his face to keep out the wind and the coming frost. He stilled his crying.
‘Winter is nigh,’ Beleg whispered. For a time, he was silent, and the strange noises of the night covered his breathing; he could have been dead, lying there, with his eyes open and his body still. Túrin shook him, desperate.
Beleg’s hand stirred and stroked along Túrin’s back. ‘Darling.’
Túrin sniffled and wiped at his nose. The winter was coming early. Or maybe this was the normal winters of Doriath. Túrin had come last winter, and had spent the spring, the summer, there, learning. And Beleg had visited and taught him in fighting, though he was still small.
Now Beleg had taken him for a bit out into the woods to teach him hunting, to teach him to survive.
‘Do you spend winters beneath the stars, Beleg?’ Túrin watched the clouds spin over the stars.
Beleg smiled gently. ‘In the snow, beneath the stars? Not often. I have slept in the snow, but it is not often that the drifts beckon as a bed, and snow offers itself as a blanket. We have shelters, such as this, even in the farthest of our reaches. But not beyond the borders of Doriath.’ Beleg shifted closer to Túrin; the heavy blankets moved with him. ‘Do you fear the winter, Túrin?’ Beleg’s eyes were silver-brown like the trunk of a poplar tree under moonlight. He stared down at Túrin, stroking his cheek with the back of his hand.
Túrin stared out small glass panes that warped the night sky, watching the stars without answer.
‘The stars are bright,’ Túrin said. ‘And they grow brighter in the winter, when the nights are cold and long. I thought they would be the last thing I saw.’
Beleg cradled Túrin closer. The fur covering them tickled Túrin’s cheek.
‘I think I’m afraid of the cold, Beleg. I think it will kill me.’
‘Not now,’ Beleg said. ‘I have you now.’
Túrin nodded. But in another world, he had already died and was left frozen. Maybe in another he would die from the fire, from the fever. Maybe he had. Sometimes he thought he was dead already. He didn’t know who to tell that to. It wasn’t a good thing to think. It wasn’t sane enough.
He touched Beleg’s cheek, the side of it where the light fell silver.
‘Do you hate me for being scared?’
‘No,’ Beleg said. ‘Of course not.’ And he said like that was a certainty, though it wasn’t.
Though it could never be.
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I made a gift! ... Fingon and Maedhros from the story In Equal Measure by Philosophizes . A friend that proofreads a loot for me wanted the death scene from the first chapter. I tried doing it in one drawing but i couldn't master the position of two ppl in the same panel whit out obscuring one another. (not in a way that satisfied my gory needs any way , whats the point of making something in gruesome detail if its going to be blocked from sight? ) So i went whit a comic book strip. Hope it works.
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Fandom: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Relationships: male elf and female human, Fëanor | Curufinwë & Original Female Character(s), Fëanor | Curufinwë - Relationship, Original Human Female Character, Elf and Human
Characters: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth Ensemble, Fëanor | Curufinwë, Sons of Fëanor, House of Fëanor, Original Human Character(s), Original Female Character(s), Original Female Character(s) of Color, Original Female Human Character(s), Vala | Valar, Nerdanel (Tolkien), Maedhros | Maitimo, Maglor | Makalaurë, Elrond Peredhel
Additional Tags: Romance, Fantasy, High Fantasy, Drama, Classics, Elf/Human Relationship(s), Elf Culture & Customs, First Kinslaying (Tolkien), Celtic Mythology & Folklore, Mild Sexual Content
Inspired by Charlotte Brontë's Jane Eyre.
After relinquishing his Silmarils to the Two Trees and Yavanna, Fëanor had returned from Mandos to Arda Remade. Swarmed with past haunts and wounds, he was in need of a personal healer.
Khánh, a mortal woman, had grown bored of her current work with herbal lore in a small children's school and wanted expand her career. As fate would have it, she was designated to her new role of assisting the infamous, mercurial Elf.
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A challenge if you would like! 34 with Rôg and Finrod! (I am obsessed with them currently my brain attaches to the rarest ships 🙄)
I do love a challenge! I shall endeavour to provide.
From this prompt list.
34 - “I remember kissing you. Why do I remember kissing you?”
Finrod - that’s what Rôg says his name is - tugs at the edge of his sleeve. It is getting hot in this room but Rôg won’t let him out of bed, citing that he still needs to heal.
He likes Rôg so he does as he says: even if it deathly boring to sit here with nothing to do but drink herbal tea and read the few children’s books that have been deemed acceptable and unlikely to cause undue stress.
There is a knock on the door.
“Come in!” He calls, his voice hoarse from the ragged cut along his throat he can’t remember getting - but he can’t recall anything from before the moment Rôg found him and that eternal relief he felt.
It is Rôg who comes him, poking his head around the door and smiling softly. “Good afternoon Finrod. I brought some tea.”
Finrod groans despite himself and Rôg laughs, slipping into the room with the tray in his hands. “I am sure the healers will allow you to eat something a bit more solid soon.”
He settles down on the edge of the bed, close enough to provide any help that Finrod may require. Finrod knows his hands sometimes shake too much to hold the mug well.
“Thank you.” He takes the drink - Rôg’s hand steadying it - and begins to sip.
“I also brought another book - it’s not a story but I thought you might like it. The illustrations are very good.”
Rôg lays it on Finrod’s lap. It reads ‘The Encyclopaedia of Botany’ on the front of it’s leather cover in swirling gold letters. Finrod should like to open it up and take a look at the pictures himself but his hands are too busy with the mug.
It would never do to spill it and ruin the new present.
“It’s lovely,” Finrod says, looking up at Rôg with a smile. “Thank you very much.”
“I though the children’s tales may be getting a bit dull at this point - I’ll try and find you something more entertaining at some point.”
“It’s alright, I-” Finrod cuts off suddenly as his throat constricts. He doubles over, the tea scalding his fingers as it splashed over the edge.
Rôg pries it from his fingers, setting it on the nearby table. He rubs Finrod’s back in careful circles until the coughing subsides.
“There.” Rôg puts a tentative arm around his shoulders. “It’s alright. I’m here.”
The words ring in Finrod’s ear accompanied by the smell of fire and blood and a gentle kiss pressed to his forehead, his cheek, his lips.
Finrod looks up. “I remember kissing you,” He says and Rôg freezes, looking...almost guilty. “Why...why do I remember kissing you?”
“Do not worry about that.” Rôg tucks a lock of Finrod’s short hair behind his ear. “I shall tell you when you are of a clearer mind.”
“I am of clear mind.” Finrod frowns. “Tell me now.”
Rôg waves one hand vaguely to his left. “We were...something. You have had many relationships in your lifetime, I was nothing special.”
Finrod’s frown deepens. “You are special,” He says, his voice beginning to go hoarse. “I cannot believe that I could have thought otherwise. You are kind and sweet.”
“That is only because you are ill and I care for you. I am not a nice person.”
“That’s not for you to decide.” Finrod sticks his chin out stubbornly. “I say you are nice so that is what you are.”
Rôg smiles, small and sad, and he clearly doesn’t believe him. “If that is what you say.” He stands. “I should be getting going. I have a meeting to get to. I’ll be back soon.”
He hesitates a moment, as if to lean forward and press a kiss to his forehead, but then he turns and slips from the room, leaving Finrod alone again.
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Which of the gondolin elves is interroverted or extroverted?
These are in no particular order!
Somewhere in the middle:
Turgon (I can see him being SOMEWHAT extroverted)
Salgant (I see him being... more extroverted than introverted but still a bit in the middle.)
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Fandom: The Silmarillion
Characters: Melkor, Mairon, an unlucky apple
Summary: Mairon loves his work, and hates interruptions.
He wielded the hammer with practiced ease, careful not to skew the shape.
Mairon had been laboring on this piece for hours, staying long after his fellow smiths and even Aulë ended their tasks.
He sighed, placing his goldsmithing tool down with a hiss of frustration. A burnished russet strand was in his eye, rebelling out of his austere braid.
His muscles tensed as the Maia propped his hands against the worktable. It was not right. No matter the guidance given, the piece he was working did not look harmonious enough, its sheen not subtle enough, and the gold weaving he’d failed along the edges did little to appease him.
The piece in question was a bracelet commissioned by Yavanna herself for Vána, her younger, exuberant sister.
Aulë had entrusted the very task to him, and Mairon did not wish to disappoint. Not for the praise of his betters — though theirs was his home — but mainly for himself, for the thrill and sense of accomplishment it brought. Perfection delighted Mairon, and he lived his purpose through the creative fire of his will.
Lately though, it had all gone rather flat; lifeless. Now, he could not seem to get the right form and the angle always eluded him, despite following the instructions to the letter.
“It makes no sense...” the Maia grumbled, amber eyes on the uneven meld of silver and gold.
The skin on the back of his neck pricked; the potent aura of Valarin power struck him like a blow, as did the unseemly sound of…
Mairon closed his eyes in an exasperated frown. When he raised his gaze, it flared with a wary flame. “Why are you here?” he asked. Again.
Leaning against one pillar of the smithy was Melkor, his black hair a curtain pouring over one shoulder, its shine swallowing the light from the forges. He was chewing on an apple and watching the Maia with that infuriating, familiar expression that left Mairon confused, angry, and rather helpless. The last part he would never admit to, of course.
“Your craft appears strained today,” the Vala said, jerking his chin towards the unfinished piece on the anvil.
Melkor. How the Vala always appeared in the most inconvenient of times grated to no end. And lately, these encounters happened all too often for Mairon’s taste. It was tedious, as was he. And then were those twisting words and incisive comments, and that ridiculously handsome face. Mairon bit the inside of his cheek. He wanted to hurl Melkor outside on his ear, and demand to be left alone. But, saying such words to the most powerful of the Valar would turn his name from The Admirable to the Admirably Stupid. Mairon settled for vagueness. “I have not the time for this now. Do you not have better things to do?” There. He could not help himself.
The Vala smirked, straightening from the pillar and throwing the remnants of his apple carelessly across the clean tiles of Aulë’s smithy. His black attire somehow enhanced his deathly pallor and as he neared Mairon, his eyes shone with a black light, one the Maia had seen harnessed by none of the other Valar. But Melkor made a show of wielding it — and enjoyed it, immensely.
Mairon resisted the urge to step back.
The Vala crossed his black-clad arms and stared at the piece of jewelry. “Aulë and I are of the same powers, but I cannot understand why he would impose such strictness upon his smiths. Should the fire of creation be so contained?”
More of the same drivel. Mairon always had the sense Melkor said things especially for him to decipher, accompanied by a trickle of mockery that burned his blood to embers. He should tell Aulë of this; he would know what to do. For now, Mairon tried another tactic. “There are plenty in Almaren who could make use of your ... wisdom. Why do you choose to haunt —... to come to me? All the time.”
Melkor was not looking at him, nor indeed listening. His attention was on the sad piece having borne the Maia’s frustrated strikes. “Mairon,” he said, beckoning the smith closer with a flick of his wrist.
Mairon obeyed, hoping his amenability would aid in depriving him of the Vala’s presence as soon as possible.
The dark one was running his finger along the object and as Mairon looked upon the bracelet again, the Maia saw something he’d not noticed before, blindly following the set proportions and technique directed by Aulë. “There’s an error here!” The flames in his eyes smoldered, and he nearly shouldered the Vala in his haste to retrieve the object for closer inspection. “This... this should have been cast differently!” A fresh idea brimmed — his, outside the design of Aulë.
“Of course that would fix it. But it also means going against your master’s intent, does it not?” Melkor’s shadowy inflection reached him.
Mairon tore his eyes from the workpiece, his wariness returned. He glared. “I tire of these games.”
Melkor reached and brushed the stray strand of copper out of Mairon’s face, only for his hand to be swatted away. “Think on this: what matters most to you? Following orders or the order you create? Even with such small a thing, you see the results for yourself.” His fathomless gaze went to the golden bracelet, then slicked back to the burning gold of Mairon’s eyes.
The Maia could scarcely take any more of this. His voice came hoarse to his own ears. “I have work to do. And I would appreciate the solitude it takes to do it. If you will — “
“I will,” Melkor said kindly, “as soon as you release me.” His smile was an open gash.
Confused, Mairon looked down; and saw he was holding the Vala by the wrist. Ire burst like the molten depths of the earth. The smith swiftly retrieved his hand, stepping back. “You will leave now.” To the Void with the most powerful of the Valar. At least if Melkor disembodied him for his insolence, Mairon would no longer have to bear his presence or his insufferable torment for a while.
No such luck. The Vala merely shrugged, taking to inspecting his fingernails, completely unfazed. He turned away. “Should you ever wish to hear more about freedom, you know where to find me.”
“I am fine right here where I am,” Mairon growled in his wake.
He heard a short, chilly peal of fading laughter, but no worded answer.
The tendrils of shadows retreated from the pillars, and Mairon turned to his work with a sigh of relief. His voice was soft as he took the hammer in hand, speaking to the empty chamber. “... perfectly fine.”
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Oh wait! How’s number eight (8) with Nerdanel, Anaire and Earwen?
Ooh, I like this one!
From this prompt list.
8 - “We’re family, aren’t we?”
“Anairë, something awful has happened.”
Anairë looks up from her star charts, a frown passing over her face. “What are you doing here Nerdanel?”
Nerdanel doesn’t answer, shutting the door with her foot and slumping into Eärwen’s recently vacated seat.
“I’ve done something terrible.”
Anairë sets down her quill and takes off her glasses, folding them neatly and setting them on the table. “Nerdanel-”
She is cut off by Eärwen’s twinkling laugh, somewhere down the corridor. “Of course! I will have to visit when you are settled in! Goodbye now!”
A moment later, Eärwen appears through the other door, her round face cheerful and her hands clutching a tray of tea and delicious looking cookies. “Your cook is a most delightful woman, you know? Oh, Nerdanel, what a surprise!”
Nerdanel groans slightly and lets her head drop onto the table. Anairë gently pulls the scroll she landed on away and smooths out the creases.
“She was just about to say what happened, weren’t you ‘Nel?”
“It was awful. I’ve made a terrible mistake.” Her voice is muffled by the table wood.
Eärwen’s face falls into a soft pout, her silvery hair bouncing as she sets the tea down and comes to kneel by Nerdanel’s chair. “Whatever happened dear?”
Anairë rolls her eyes. It is just Nerdanel being dramatic again. Eärwen should know this by now and not be drawn in every time.
But then Nerdanel bursts into tears.
Anairë does not recoil but it is a near thing. She does not mean to, it is just that her ruddy-faced, laughing friend does not cry and it is just so abnormal.
“Oh, ‘Nel,” Eärwen says softly, reaching out to take Nerdanel’s hand. “There, there. We’re here.”
Anairë stays frozen in her seat as Eärwen coaxes Nerdanel to sit up and to take a sip of tea until she can speak somewhat coherently.
“It’s...it’s difficult to say.” She swallows. “I...” Her face crumples again but she doesn’t start crying again, much to Anairë’s relief.
“We shan’t judge you.” Eärwen looks up at Anairë for reassurance and Anairë nods sharply.
“We’re family aren’t we? We don’t turn our back on family.”
This seems to be the wrong thing to say as Nerdanel’s face grows dark and - if possible - even more miserable than before. “I left Fëanáro.”
Eärwen lets out a soft gasp, covering her mouth with her free hand.
Anairë does not find this shocking in the slightest. “About time,” She says, picking up her glasses and sliding them into her pocket. “Maybe without you or the children, he will finally have some time to contemplate his actions.”
“The children didn’t come with me.” Nerdanel sighs, running a hand through her hair. “I’m the one who left, aren’t I?”
“Will you go back?” Eärwen asks, her eyes wide with concern.
Nerdanel scowls. “I shall not crawl back to him for his forgiveness.”
“But you love him still.” Anairë is not stupid. That pain in her dear friend’s eyes is not just from leaving her sons.
“Yes!” She buries her hands in her hair with a growl and swings back almost violently on her chair. “Against any and all good reason, I love him with all my heart.”
Anairë stands and offers Nerdanel a hand. “Come. You can stay here until you have a plan. We can talk in the morning after you’ve had a bath, changed your clothes and had a full night of rest.”
“Yes,” Eärwen agrees, pushing herself from the ground. “Ñolo and Ara are staying at the palace tonight and the children are always elsewhere anyway. Stay the night.”
Nerdanel gives them both a small smile. “Thank you.”
She takes Anairë’s offered hand and Anairë leads her up the stairs to the nicest guest room, the one with a large open window and balcony and the painting Arakáno did when he finished his apprenticeship.
Nerdanel should sleep well here.
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I feel like being difficult today, so number 30 of the prompt list, but with third age Maglor and Galadriel
Ooh! This one is interesting - I’ll try my best!
From this prompt list.
30 - “Can you tell me why we’re committing a major crime? Not that I’ll go back on my word or anything, I just want to know.”
Maglor hurries to keep up with his cousin’s long strides.
“Can you tell me why we’re committing a major crime?” She doesn’t answer him. “Not that I’ll go back on my word or anything, I just want to know. Since last time I gave an oath to steal a gem, my family died and-”
“Maglor,” Galadriel says, stopping short and giving Maglor a deadpan look.
“Please shut up.”
Maglor nods. “Shutting up now.”
They continue onwards, the only sound that of the birds and their feet on the occasional twig.
“But really, Artanis,” Galadriel scowls at the use of her ataressë. “Why are we doing this?”
She sighs irritably. “Because I said so, now come on.”
“Right.” There is something in Maglor’s voice that gives Galadriel pause: for thought of their current quest, not because she cares for her cousin, of course.
“Alright, what’s bothering you?”
“Me?” Maglor looks surprised. “Oh no, nothing that hasn’t been bothering me for years and years now.”
“Out with it.” She stops walking and turns to face him, putting the full force of her power behind her glare. “I shan’t take another step until you tell me.”
Maglor looks rather uncomfortable and tugs at the edge of his sleeve. “I am sure you can make an educated guess.”
“I’m sure I can. But that’s not what I’m going to do.” She crosses her arms and scowls, waiting: Maglor will surely cave sometime.
“I have watched four of my brothers die because of the Silmarilli. I just have...apprehensions about trying another jewel heist.”
Galadriel lets out a disappointed grunt. “Oh, is that all this is about? I thought you had gotten over this.”
Maglor straightens, a familiar glint - of stubbornness and haughtiness and surety that Galadriel hasn’t seen for centuries - catching in his eyes. “Have you ‘gotten over’ Finrod’s death? Or Angrod’s? Or Aegnor’s? Or-”
“I get your point,” She says, cutting him off with gritted teeth. “That is not what I meant and you know it.”
“Then answer my first question - why are we stealing this...this ‘Arkenstone’?”
“It’s causing strife among the peoples in the north. We are going to put it back in the earth where it came from.”
“Why does this fall on-” Maglor cuts off, a look of horror passing over his paling face. “Artanis, we aren’t stealing a Silmaril are we?”
His hand, the one still wrapped in bandages to protect an ages old burn, twitches at his side.
She purses her lips and turns away, her braid swinging. “Why do you think I asked you to come?”
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Dear You, chapter 8, exciting stuff.
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Oh! Maybe 9, with Silvergifting Parents and the Ring Babies?
Absolutely! I love the Ring Babies! This is the original capture at the beginning of the Númenor arc because the angst there is just so good.
From this prompt list.
9 - “Shh. It’s alright. I’m here now.”
It is the first time in four days they have been together and the first time in weeks they have even been alone together.
The door to their new quarters - lavish in decoration but no less constricting as a prison cell - clicks shut behind him and Mairon sags, leaning back against the door and rubbing his forehead tiredly.
He doesn’t realise his son is there until he speaks.
“Atya?” Narya’s voice is very small but echoes around the near silent room.
Mairon snaps his eyes open and gives his son the best smile he can muster.
“Come here dear,” He says, pushing himself from the wall and opening his arms in an offer for a hug.
Narya practically falls into them, burying his face in Mairon’s tunic and quietly sobbing, his whole body shaking beneath Mairon’s hands.
“I thought they’d taken you forever!”
“Shh. It’s alright. I’m here now.” Mairon rests his chin on the top of his son’s head and pulls his fingers through his hair.
The cold sunlight filters through the large windows, reflecting off the white...well, everything, making the whole room feel lifeless.
“I’m scared,” Narya admits softly as his tears begin to recede.
“I want to go home.”
“So do I.” Mairon pretends his voice doesn’t hitch in the middle of the sentence. “So do I.”
He has to blink to keep himself from crying as well.
Celebrimbor perks his ears up at the sound of his only daughter’s voice. He had been beginning to get worried when Mairon’s trip north had begun to stretch on longer and longer with no word of when his return would be. He had taken his leave of Eregion to see if he would see them arrive earlier than
But there was no need to worry - if Nenya was here, so were her brothers and father.
“Atya, Atya!” She comes bursting out of the tree line, Vilya’s hand in hers, and flings herself at Celebrimbor.
Celebrimbor laughs softly. “Happy to see me?”She looks up and Celebrimbor’s face falls to see tear tracks over her grimy face. In fact, they are both in a terrible state, now he gets a better look - their clothes torn and muddy and they are both covered in dirt. “What happened?”
Vilya’s face crumples and he shakes his head, covering his mouth with his hands as he blinks back tears, and Nenya has that stoic look she gets after she’s been￼￼ crying and is trying to pretend she wasn’t.
He can’t see Mairon or Narya anywhere.
“What happened?” He asks again, a sinking feeling in his stomach. “Where is your father and brother?”
Vilya shakes his head again and sinks into a trembling heap on the floor.
“Hey, hey, don’t cry,” Celebrimbor says, trying to push away his growing feeling of dread as he falls down to his knees and pulls his son into his arms. “Shh. It’s alright. I’m here now. I’m here and you’re safe.”
He looks up. Nenya stays standing.
She meets his eyes and shakes her head even so slightly. “It was Númenor,” She whispers and swallows, her hands twisting in her skirt.
Celebrimbor shuts his eyes, his stomach dropping, and lets out a ragged breath. There are...a lot of thoughts in his head but he can’t...his children come first.
“Come here Nenya,” He says, his voice somewhat hoarse, and lifts an arm in welcome.
He holds on tight and prays that they are not taken from him too.
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Hey! Maybe 48, with a small Feanor and Finwe?
Ah yes, of course!
From this prompt list.
48 - “In my defence, I was left unsupervised.”
The kitchen is a mess.
Finwë had ran here when he heard the bang and came face to face with a kitchen covered wall to wall in what appeared to be peanut butter.
It coats seemingly every surface in a thick layer. Finwë, somewhere beyond his bemused confusion at the situation, does wonder where on Arda all this peanut butter came from for surely the kitchens did not stock so much.
Fëanáro stands in the centre of it, completely still and staring at the wall in utter shock.
“Curufinwë?” Finwë asks softly so as not to startle him.
It doesn’t work for Fëanáro jumps at the sound of his voice and almost slips on the peanut butter.
“Atya! I’m sorry, I-” Fëanáro cuts himself off and sticks out his chin stubbornly. “In my defence, I was left unsupervised.”
Finwë smiles, partly at his son’s stoic attempt to not be blamed and partly at the relief he feels that Fëanáro isn’t hurt. “It’s alright Curvo. It can be cleaned up. What were you doing here all alone anyway?”
“I wanted to make you a cake for your begetting day.” Fëanáro looks down at the floor in what Finwë thinks is embarrassment. “Because Indis got you nice things and I wanted to make you nice things too.”
“That was very nice of you Curvo. Now, should we get to cleaning up this mess before Ailáro returns and finds his kitchen like this?”
Finwë removes his shoes and outer robes before stepping into the room and trying not to make a face at the feeling of squelching peanut butter under his bare feet.
Scrubbing peanut butter from every conceivable crevice in the palace kitchens was not how Finwë saw the afternoon of his begetting day going and yet that is what he is doing.
He finds he does not really mind.
“...and then Anairë said that the Elenyarië were stupid and she was going to find the real story behind the stars.”
Fëanáro nods, sitting up on his heel and pushing his hair from his face. The small section of the floor that Finwë had put him in charge of scrubbing is only just about clean. “She walked out and everything. Master Rúmil was furious.”
“I can imagine - he doesn’t like it when people disagree with him, does he?”
“No, he doesn’t mind disagreement, it’s just that she did it in a way that he perceived was disrespectful.” Fëanáro stumbles slightly over a few of the longer words but otherwise his pronunciation is perfect.
Finwë is very proud of him.
“Now then,” He says, changing topic as he realises that they have quite finished with the cleaning job. “Why don’t we have another go at that cake?”
Fëanáro’s face lights up and that is all the impetuous Finwë needs to forgo the council meeting this one time.
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How would fingolfin and his kids react to being called babe/baby?
Fingolfin would be a little confused at first about why you are calling him a baby or babe? He’s grown? But once you explained the purpose he’d like being called babe or baby, and wouldn’t mind whether it’s in public or private. He likes the term of endearment and the casualness between you both to be able to use it. Fingolfin certainly uses it in return with you!
Fingon was quick to pick up what you meant by it when you first called him babe/baby. And he adored it, he heavily refers to you as his baby. He loves it and how super sweet it is. Happily he eats up any and all babe/baby references you use for him. No matter how sickeningly sweet it is.
Turgon has mixed feelings about you calling him babe/baby. He blushes and grows flustered and embarrassed. At his height and age what could possibly prompt you to call him such a thing? Are you teasing him??? But when you tell him it’s a term of endearment, he relaxes slightly. Quick to grow flustered again and asks that you keep that as a private term of endearment.
Aredhel, like Fingon, picks up pretty quick on what that means and how it’s used. She enjoys that you like to refer to her as babe especially, and she likes to refer to you as baby. It’s never done in a sickeningly sweet voice. Always with casual and relaxed tones as if it were your name. If anything it’s practically become your name with as often as she uses it with you.
Argon is extremely concerned as to what you mean when you call him babe or baby. Like Turgon he’s trying to decide if it’s a joke? If you are teasing him? Or being rude? For what reason would you be calling him that?? And when you tell him it’s a term of endearment it really doesn’t make it any better. It takes him considerable time to warm up to it. And he doesn’t really go out of his way to refer to you as either or.
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How would fingolfin feel if reader was pregnant? Would that have stopped him from attacking morgoth
No I don’t think that would’ve stopped him from attacking Morgoth. If anything it may have bolstered his reasoning to attack Morgoth. Like the thought process would’ve been:
- We keep getting attacked, and we are seemingly loosing
- It’s only a matter of time until we are next, including Y/N and our unborn child
- Someone has to do something (meaning himself)
The idea of reader and their unborn child having something horrific happening to them would’ve terrified Fingolfin and strengthened his resolve to act the way he did.
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Whose Voice is Heard over the Seas: Part III
(Part I. here, Part II. here)
Of course Maglor had heard about Elrond, the wise master healer of Lindon. Of course he had heard about the kingdom of Númenor and he realized that Elros had been the first king.
But somehow, Maglor had forgotten to care. The grief over the lost jewels, lost brothers, and the lost purpose of life had been all he could focus on for a long time. And it would surely have consumed him by now, if it hadn't been for the two short encounters with the Atani.
But now it was time to stop running away from himself.
Was he doomed to stay here until the End? Yes.
Was he all alone? Yes.
But whose fault it really was?
Everyone's. No one's.
Truly, Maglor was alone, as lonely as an unknown wandering stranger can be. But for the first time in many years he realized there still might be those who sometimes look upon the stars or over the sea, and wonder: Where is the Minstrel? What is he doing right now?
Or perhaps they do not wonder at all. One thing was for sure, though – he would never know until he goes to see for himself.
Maglor suspected the sea would not let him cross the distance to Númenor. He would probably never make it there. Still, he traveled to the ports, to all the harbors which ever saw the sails of the Isle of Elenna, to at least try. But as expected, invisible hands always held him back, silent whispers brought by the western wind always lured him away from the ships.
All he could do after years of this fruitless effort was buy a piece of parchment and ink. He wrote the letter during one winter and finished it in the spring, crafting each word with care.
He felt reluctant to send it, though, and was filled with doubt when he was about to hand the writing to the Dúnedain sailing west. Maglor wondered whether there was still something he should add; he was not certain he was entitled at all to send letters to the kings of Númenor. After having heard about the wisdom and deeds of Tar-Minyatur and his descendants, he felt humiliated and useless. He felt ashamed of himself that he hadn't even tried to reach Elros and his kin earlier, when it had been still possible.
But not just that.
Even if a small part of the stories told about his foster son and his kin was true, Maglor realized he had contributed to it all in his own way. The time he and Elros had spent together had been short, too short for his current liking, but it had been intense and worthwhile. And this sudden sparkle of fatherly pride in his heart was enough to finally dispel the insecurity, and made Maglor drop the letter to the hands of the royal mariner.
He was alone again when he watched the ship leave the port; on a cliff away from the city gates.
Maglor had decided not to wait for a possible answer. He had attached instructions for it, however, he did not really expect any – he had not made any requests or claims in his writing, after all, and he had not signed it with his name. All he had intended was to express gratitude and add some final missing pieces to the personal history of the first king.
Thus whispering a quick prayer to Ulmo and Varda, he looked one last time at the flying banners of Númenor, and turned east.
Strange visions accompanied him on his way, and he wondered whose doing it was. Was it still the Doom of the Noldor? Or could it be his personal curse he had once called upon himself should he ever break the Oath? Perhaps something else entirely, as his journey was hard, but he was still able to go on. The invisible strings that tied him to the shore and kept him from sailing west did not hold him back this time.
But as he continued, the forest darkened and closed over him, so he could not tell the day from the night. What was the meaning of this? Perhaps he was not worthy to see Elrond, either. Or was it an ordeal he had to pass, to be allowed to speak to his kin? After all, many of the Noldor had been forgiven after having passed cruel ordeals of their own, Maglor thought and recalled the melodies of the Lay of Leithian. And with his withered voice, he started to sing, quietly but with a firm resolve that helped him keep his pace, even if his visions encircled him, trying to choke his song down.
He stumbled many times, but kept going. When he fell, he rose again. And when he got to the part that spoke about the great courage of Finrod Felagund, Maglor felt his voice grow stronger, the echo of it coming back to him clean and unshaken. It poured back the strength into his whole being, and the trees and their protruding roots seemed to move back from him on their own accord.
However, his voice failed him when he got to the darkness growing in Valinor – to his father, his brothers, even himself killing the Falmari. Maglor remembered his own heart bleeding over the deeds, regretting for uncountable times all those decisions and events. A desperate cry left his throat as his legs gave out and he fell, just like Finrod before Sauron's throne.
Unable to tell the reality from this vivid nightmare he felt a presence, an intense gaze upon him, piercing and burning.
“What do you want to accomplish here?” Maglor asked in a wild, raging defiance. “You have nothing left to take from me. From this point, I can only gain, and I will, when my time comes!” He cried, raising his head high to look the threat in the eye.
He saw the Enemy's face loom over him, the inner cruelty and twisted nature spoiling its original fairness.
“You cannot break me any further, and you won't, just like you did not break him. Finrod now lives in the light of the West, and you will never reach him again. It is you who shall fall!” He shouted and all he could do afterwards was cover his face from a sudden blaze of heat. Strong gale pushed him back and tugged violently at his hair and clothes, tearing his cloak apart.
He screamed against it, clutching the tree trunks and protruding roots in despair, the splinters of wood biting into his bare hands and face, but he would not let go. Not like this, when he was so close. „It is you who shall fall,” he repeated stubbornly, almost choking on the wind. “And we will watch!”
One last cry, and it was over.
Maglor sank slowly to the quiet ground, nestled between the massive roots and just lay there. As he watched the newfound daylight play between the branches overhead, his eyes started to close. Listening peacefully to the high whistling noise in his ears, he felt a sweet tiredness take over him. And he did not protest.
-End of Part III.
(written for the @aspecardaweek)
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