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that-angry-noldo · 2 years

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You Don't Know My Name - part three

[Fingolfin is in a process of adopting this unknown warrior who also happens to be his long-lost younger brother but he's not aware of it. It's okay, he's in denial.]

Part one - part two

It was early in the morning when Finarfin woke up, ready to face the new day. It is late in the night when he allows himself to collapse near his son's bed.

Near his son's bed. Nowhere near his house.

Gods, Eärwen must be so - they were supposed to be home by breakfast. By breakfast.

She must be worried. Holy hell, she's definitely worried. Was she looking for them? Eärwen knew how to track trails-

Finrod was pale and unnaturally still. Finarfin breathed out.

Finarfin swallowed a hysterical laugh. Not like it matters now. Tirion was miles and miles away from his house, from his land - gods, it was in another country. How the hell was he in another country? What had to glitch so hard in the fabric of the Universe to create such a - such a mess?? Was it intentional? Was it the divine intervention? What WAS IT?

He'll panic later.

What does he know? The Universe glitched, bringing him in the middle of a fight. In the middle of an orc attack (assasination?) on the Royal family of the Noldor. From what Nolofinwe had said, the king wanted to express his gratitude to him, which... could've meant literally anything, from a formal "thank you" to lordship, or knightship, or any other royal nonsense.

... Well, he didn't know what to expect from Ölwe either, when he was first called upon His Majesty's face. Perhaps, the best strategy was to be quiet and quick to learn. It carried him through Ölwe, it will carry him through... whatever this is.

Finarfin wasn't new to royalty and its traditions. He met Ölwe on several occasions - on battlefields, in ballrooms, hell, on his own goddamn wedding - and there was always a sense of mutual respect. However, Finwe wasn't Ölwe, and Finarfin didn't know what to expect.

Upon deciding so, Finarfin closed his eyes, too exhausted to keep the sleep away from his mind.

Fingolfin woke up with a ringing headache.

... Nolofinwe Fingolfin Arakano also had an antisocial warrior and his underage son under his care now.

Anaire wasn't beside him, which made sense - he collapsed in his private chambers the second Finarfin and his son were in healer's hands. His body was sore. Not that somebody cares, though. Nolofinwe Fingolfin Arakano was supposed to carry his duties no matter what.

Why.

...Gods, he missed Anairë and boys already, but reporting to his father would be at top priority list.

He groaned, throwing a blanket aside and getting up. Great. He somehow managed to get his armor off yesterday, but had no strength to change his clothes nor to take a bath. It was probably good he didn't make it to his and Anaire's rooms yesterday. She would definitely force him into changing and bathing and what else, and Fingolfin wouldn't Have Any Of That.

... on the other hand, he really didn't want to report to his father today.

It was absolutely not because he felt petty or - actually, you know what, he did feel petty. And hurt. And he's pretty damn sick of Finwe forgetting he has two sons. And two daughters.

... And Arafinwe, if he's going that deep. Even though father hadn't exactly forgotten about - well. Whatever.

It's not like Finwe actually needs to hear Fingolfin's report. He was there himself, for one. For two, he has Feanor's we're-the-best-we-fear-no-man we're-trained-to-eat-orcs-for-breakfast escort.

Finarfin, on the other hand, is in bigger need of someone who could explain what the hell had he gotten himself into, and he just happened to be under Fingolfin's care, so maybe the prince should pay him a visit.

(It is definitely not because Finarfin is painfully similar to -

Gods. Fingolfin really, really should stop projecting Arafinwe on anyone who has a slightest resemblance with his brother.)

Knock, knock, knock.

Weird. Finrod never knocked on their door. Did something ha-

For the love of Gods, what the hell was Nolofinwe doing in his house.

Wait.

Oh.

"Good morning?"

Yeah. Right. Good morning. That's how people great each other, sure, holy - okay, okay, just say it back -

Oh wait. Is that food?

"I've supposed you haven't got the chance to get yourself something to eat, so-"

Finarfin didn't realize he was starving, even though it wasn't surprising - he didn't eat a thing yesterday.

He casted a quick look at Finrod. The boy was still asleep, but he was looking better.

He muttered a quick "thank you" and grabbed his bowl. Hell, he was hungry.

He felt like Nolofinwe resonated with his statement - the prince sat by the opposite wall, eating his own food in silence.

"I don't think I asked for your son's name yet."

Finarfin snapped his eyes on him, instantly tensing. He opened his mouth, closed it, struggling to form a response.

Nolofinwe smiled, drifting his gaze to the sleeping boy.

"I think he's the same age as my youngest," he said quietly. "He's not older than fourteen, is he?.."

"Thirteen," Finarfin finally whispered. "He's thirteen."

"Oh. Turgon turned thirteen few weeks ago. Where are you from?"

"I'm- north Telerin kingdom."

Nolofinwe frowned.

"That's... a long way from here. Are you a traveler?"

You certainly weren't packed like one, hanged in the air. Finarfin locked his eyes on the plate.

"No. I'm not."

"What brought you to these lands, then?"

Heck if I knew, Finarfin wanted to laugh, but he pressed the hysteria down.

"I- don't know. Teleportation magic. Not on my will."

"Ah," Nolofinwe didn't look as shocked as he should've been. "Yes, you tend to do that." It took Finarfin longer than usual to remember that he did, in fact, teleport right after the battle. "In that case, we'll figure out how to get you and your son back. That's the least we can do." Nolofinwe smiled, but then sighed. "Not the last, though. The King wants to speak to you."

Oh. Yeah, that was expected.

"I'll try to arrange the audition after your son wakes up. I suspect you'd want to stay with him here for the time being? Right."

Nolofinwe stayed a bit longer, talking about other mandatory things. Finarfin tried his best to listen. He did. He regretted not having something on him to write it down, though.

Nolofinwe left after.

Finarfin couldn't shake off the feeling of familiarity and fondness whenever he thought about the prince, so he turned his attention to Finrod.

Somehow, he was sure Nolofinwe loved making paper ships and letting them swim down the stream.

#HELLO GUESS WHAT THIS AU'S NOT DEAD #finarfin #finrod #fingolfin #silmarillion #tolkien #tolkien fic #tbh i'm not exactly glad with how this chapter turned up #in my defence i had writer block specifically for this fic #my name au

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skyeventide · 3 years

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hi, if you are planning on writing the embalmed M.E. post, I'd be extremely interested! amazing topic

oh man okay I'll try to put it together. I'm gonna stick mostly to one single text for this one because, as a topic, memory-embalming is really large and I think you can construct a lot on like, solely the concept of memory and fading and preservation in the legendarium. and I’m not gonna try that lol

the quote where Tolkien uses the "embalming" word is letter 131. I should preface this by saying that more often than not I take great issue with the way jirt talks about his theology-adjacent Goodness and Good Choices, and I think it's pr... pro... pronghhh I don't wanna write that word lmao, please take it as me intending "it has non-straightforward issues that are worth a second look", not as anything else. it’s problematic, there I put it down lol academic gremlin brain won, for anyone who doesn’t wholly align with him philosophically. so I suppose anyone who generally agrees with jirt's own reckons will disagree with my takeaway here, but so are things. anyway, I'll try to explain why I called it a value judgement.

screenshots first:

I know this is a lot of text, but it's needed. so there's kind of a lot to unpack there but to strip it down to the relevant basics:

part of the reason why some of the exiles do not return is that they don't want to return as exiles, but remain where they have power and stand at the top of the hierarchy (this to me feels like, specifically, a very Galadriel motive — but that's yet another post lmao); they also want peace and bliss, and that is another motive, the same peace and bliss that exist in Valinor (and while the first motive I list, I believe, is directly consequential to the status of the first age's survivors, this second motive, having the peace and bliss of Valinor outside of Valinor, has been present and thematic since the speech of Feanor to the Noldor, and likely before that); they can't therefore abide the "fading" of the land, the way it changes with time, and endeavour to preserve it — embalm it (this becomes emblematic in one of the various versions of the creation of the Elessar, or one of the them: a stone that, if someone looks through it, shows things as they would be when healed, whole, and beautiful. in one of said versions, Celebrimbor gives this stone to Galadriel, who is saddened by the change of time. this is Celebrimbor of Gondolin, or perhaps Telerin Celebrimbor, but no matter the origin, the theme persists)(second parenthesis to point out how third-age Lothlórien, preserved by Nenya, is in all effects a land out of time, where ancient things aren't simply echoed but continue living, and where trees literally don't die. leaves change colour during autumn and winter, then fall down in spring when immediately new buds start growing); fourth motive is the healing of the land's hurts and its adornment.

the difference between healing the land and “embalming” it, I suppose, is the acceptance of its change under the sun, so the acceptance of time's passing, while healing and adorning it work in unison with said passing. of course the matter here is, the absence of decay is kind of Valinor’s whole thing. but we know, both from letter 156 and the Akallabêth, that Valinor isn’t inherently a blessed land and it doesn’t give immortality by virtue of being Valinor. in fact: “'for it is not the land of Manwe that makes its people deathless, but the Deathless that dwell therein have hallowed the land; and there you would but wither and grow weary the sooner, as moths in a light too strong and steadfast.” and letter 156: “for as emissaries from the Valar clearly inform him, the Blessed Realm does not confer immortality. The land is blessed because the Blessed live there, not vice versa, and the Valar are immortal by right and nature [...]”

so, really, it’s not the where that counts. jirt, I believe, makes it pretty obvious that it’s the why and how, and through whose counsel. what I think is identified here as the fault isn’t that preservation of the land isn’t possible and therefore should not be attempted (clearly it is), rather it’s the wish to create a paradise of their own, a desire that Sauron identifies and exploits. now, obviously I’m not trying to argue that Sauron is right or anything the like (even at early stages, and despite the partial overlap of motives, Sauron’s goals can’t really be called good, even though you might argue that they gain some form of internal conflict), or that in pursuit of a challenge to the divine harm becomes justifiable — this isn’t really about characters and more about jirt the man himself and his production.

I just generally take issue with the idea that wanting a heaven of sorts, made with your own skills, which is within the realm of possibility, and by no one’s leave but your own, is inherently a bad thing, or that it must come with harm and corruption, and compromised motives. but in the narrative of these books, from an outside-of-text perspective, it doesn’t seem to be possible to issue the challenge that letter 131 talks about without also giving aid to evil (Sauron, earlier Morgoth) willingly ot unwillingly, without getting closer to “magic” and “machinery”, without it being written and interpreted under a lens of “embalming”, of refusal to let the world live its course. it isn’t possible to have that cake and eat it (yeah jirt kind of wrote that saying wrong lmao), which is identified as a corruptible weak point.

it isn’t possible because this discontent, or this wish for independence, is in itself a seed that the story connects to evil and lies (Morgoth’s work in Valinor, and possibly earlier than that his discord); because it’s inherently linked to wanting the top-of-the-hierarchy authority granted by Middle Earth. and because the legendarium doesn’t truly leave room for any gods-challenging story that isn’t some form of taint and mistake, a Fall™ (challenges to Morgoth here don’t count, he is the fall; this is about Eru and the Valar).

(I think here it’s relevant to note that the elves not being in ME is elsewhere called out as a loss for Men, who do not have the “elder siblings” at hand who were supposed to teach them and guide them; as well as the fact that Eru in morgoth’s ring mentions, himself, that the elves have been “removed to Aman from the Middle Earth in which I set them”. so it’s not necessarily so straightforward in all aspects — but I think a discussion on that would be going a little too much beyond the scope of this tbh)

I believe my point is exemplified by a note in this same letter:

“preservation in reverent memory” here is not negatively judged, despite being effectively an antiquarian lore memorial to (”good”) tradition. Elrond also rebukes Sauron, and is not at all subjected to the same Ring-related test as Galadriel in LotR. and I think this is sort of the narrative point of the story, part of the greater (in good measure theological) thesis underlying it. and why I called it a value judgement.

#quenta noldorinwa #ingoblingo #anyway... death of the author or lack thereof #not tagging any of this with them characters cause like #I don't particularly care to catch anyone who'd get offended by it #shrug emoji #answered.#JRR Tolkien

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blankdblank · 4 years

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My Pearl Pt 15

Pt 1 - Pt 2 - Pt 3 - Pt 4 - Pt 5 - Pt 6 - Pt 7 - Pt 8 - Pt 9 - Pt 10 - Pt 11 - Pt 12 - Pt 13 - Pt 14 -

Books. Every time you turned around you seemed to be hounded by them. Finally Irime had gotten the final copy detailed to how you all agreed and Fëanor had helped to perfect the descriptions of each marking him as a co-author. They were branded as your recipes with a professional’s review on each making the book all the more interesting to readers when the first few sample pages were released and his comments on how appalling it all looked compared to how it tasted hypes the dishes up even more.

Officially you had been Thorin’s partner for five months now since your verbal flub and together your cooking teams had turned the Dwarven dining experience on its ear with how the Stone had blended. Now regulars were sampling from both menus same as the newcomers who some had even been steered away from your dish they had aches to try for a more appealing Dwarven classic, and everyone seemed to love everything about the change. Your spots on the weekly shows had brought on more fan mail and amped up the competitions between your rivaling teams making the fans love it even more.

This week however, after your last week where you sluggishly made it through your shift at the Stone, a much needed vacation was scored for you. Thorin would have to work through most of your first week but then he had plans to let you rest up those days and hoped the trip you could take would help to shake your weariness off you. They all had their own slumps that’s why every few months they set up vacation times for each of the team on rotations to prevent anyone from overworking themselves. It was advertised as usual and no complaints were had.

“How did you do that?” Thorin hummed smoothing up against your back with hands easing around your hips. It had been a week at least since he’d been able to hungrily pin you down as he used to with the bustle of the new changes to the Stone and your traveling for your book to come out.

“Cook with my eyes closed?”

“Mhmm,” he hummed ghosting his lips across the side of your neck aching to carry you to bed but knowing you needed your rest. So cuddling and holding you close was what he could do as even in your sleep somehow his once comforting warmth had you burning up and sliding away to cool down. You were pushing to hard, they were all pushing you too hard, it was too much to soon and he tried to ease the burden on you only to see your body slump in moments you thought oh were alone aching for relief from something he could not verbalize or was too afraid to. “How ever did you learn that?”

Weakly you giggled and raised a hand turned your head to kiss his forehead revealing your temperature spiking again in his nearness. In his readying to pull back you said, “Culinary school. Eleven ones at least, though my gran had already taught me when I was little so it didn’t take me long.”

Playfully he asked in the smoothing if your hands over his arms in a sigh to stay, “Why would they teach you that?”

“So you can taste the food without eating it.”

“Really?”

With a nod you turned in his arms saying, “I can show you if you like.”

After a low chuckle he shook his head, “I would rather not risk a fire.”

In the smoothing of your hands up his chest he inhaled deeply locking his eyes on yours, “Please? Try it for me?” Again he exhaled in the stroke of your fingers around the name of his neck almost bringing a lustful growl from him, “I promise you’ll enjoy it.”

“Just this once.” With a smirk you stepped away sliding your hand across his chest in a quick walk to your room leaving him there only to return with a sleeping mask making him roll his eyes in your sliding it in over his face. And in Khuzdul you purred by his ear, “Let me touch you in the most intimate place possible,” inhaling sharply at how deeply your hint of a growl in your timid mastering of his tongue after months of practice he remained focused then smirked at your adding, “In your kitchen.”

One by one you showed him through where the ingredients were and the feel and smell of them all. Touching him just enough to let him know you were still there, easing your hands on and off of his to adjust them when needed but letting his muscle memory handle the rest.

“Now, slice the ginger.” His head turned and you folded your hand over the back of his, he would have felt ridiculous if he didn’t feel so damn connected to you and lulled into a calm state by the sound of your voice. “Your knife is here, you know how to hold it. Now bring it over, elbow to your side and feel the tension in the ginger when you press,” the knife touched the root and sliced through making him wet his lips feeling the distance between the blade and his hand, “And again.” You guided a single sweep to slide it over and slice again before the ginger was traded for peppers and tomatoes completing all the dicing when the list was through.

“Now that your sauce is simmering your chicken.” The sizzle and sound of it sliding onto the pan in your guidance make his hair stand on end in anticipation. He knew how long to cook it all and how it felt so this wasn’t so strange but the scents and sounds were as if it was his first time.

“What about the sauce?”

“Give it time.”

“But-,”

“When you taste apples let me know and you will stir it.”

“Apples?”

“Mhmm. Now the ginger for Elves is quite strong, but to Dwarves it gives it that slight honey taste, and since we have twice as many taste buds as you it’s best to learn in moderation how we season our foods.”

“Okay.” After wetting his lips he said, “I think I should flip it,”

“Not yet,” you said holding his hands in place before his head tilted slightly hearing a soft popping sound making you smirk in your releasing his hand saying, “Now,” and again his hair on his arms stood on end hearing the slide of the spatula and the smooth raise of the chicken breast he flipped over and let sit.

“Apples,” he mumbled having breathed in the taste deeply as you had showed him to breathe through this to help him pick it up quicker.

“Good,” guiding him a step over you swapped his spatula for the large spoon he used to stir the sauce he then added the last of the ingredients you had set out.

The last bit was easy, guiding him to pour the sauce on the plate with the plop of the meat on over it making him pout for a moment knowing the presentation was awful, “Appearance is nothing for your first try, just taste.” His lips parted and he hummed lowly and removed the blindfold to delve into the meal you had helped him make that honestly didn’t look half bad now that he’d tasted it, and most assuredly he would give your lessons another try. But for now you were tired and after a lingering kiss when the dishes were cleared he hummed out, “Come in, to bed, I’ll ravage you in the morning. You need your rest.”

But the ravaging wouldn’t come and there was no ask of how you felt. He knew, you felt awful and it was his fault. He had missed something and couldn’t bear to hear you say he had failed on protecting you from this weariness he had inflicted. So to bed you went sharing another kiss at an arm length apart to grant you some cool air to drift off in and that was it.

Groggily you opened your eyes in the plushy bed a couple feet from Thorin, whose usual body heat painfully proved too much for you lately and sitting up you let out a heavy breath in the tiring task of removing the covers from over you. Completely frozen to the core you sat up somehow coated in dried sweat only to have your eyes drop to your arms that flopped onto your lap. Pale and clammy they lay there with your dark green veins showing all the clearer and yet up near your wrist you gasped in seeing a telling sliver of glowing blue veins in the crease right under your palm. Somehow you managed to get to the bathroom yet your hasty closing of the door made it slam tearing Thorin from his sleep.

“Dearest?” Sitting up he looked around the room seeing your side of the bed stained with sweat and assuming you were getting sick he hopped out crossing the bed to rush to the door. At the wooden barrier he heard the click of the lock, “Jaqi, what’s wrong? Let me in.”

Panting against the door feeling your legs beginning to wobble you replied, “Thorin I need you to get my phone.”

Thorin, “If you need to go to the doctor come out I’ll take you.”

“Thorin, I need you to call Fëanor.”

The rattling of the door made your lip quiver as tears welled up in your eyes at his frantic, “Jaqi, open the door.” Trying to remain calm in his panic of trying to learn what was going on.

“Thorin, my phone…”

“I can call him later. Just-,”

His words cut off at your hand hitting the door weakly, yet with enough force to make it rattle on the frame, “Thorin! Please?!” The ready squeak of your voice rendered him speechless, “You have to get my phone and call Fëanor. Tell him I have Neriama. Please, you can’t waste time in this you have to call him.”

Softly he replied, “Ok.” Turning away he hurried to get your phone and dialed the number returning to the other side of the door, “It’s ringing.” Wetting his lips he waited to hear the answering click then said, “Fëanor you’re on speaker. Jaqi’s locked in the bathroom says she’s got-,”

Through the line he answered for you, “Neriama?”

You weakly answered, “Yes.”

Fëanor, “The girls have it too. Must have passed it on to her. We’ll come and get you and bring you out to Greenwood. Now Thorin, you need to pack a bag for her. And do not get near her. It’s treatable but not for Dwarves. She’s highly contagious and we’ll send a team out to help sanitize your house too.”

Thorin wet his lips, “Take her to greenwood. For how long? If she’s sick I want to be there.”

Feanor said as you lowered to your knees to sit down and conserve your strength. “Thorin it’s only a week, possibly two. But you can’t be near her or she could kill you. Trust me we’ll take care of her.”

He had no choice, he had to let you go and his last glimpse of you was in Amrod’s car from a distance. His eyes lingering on the glowing pale blue veins in your face and orange tear streaks from your now bright green eyes down your clammy blotchy cheeks with a mask Celegorm had brought for you. Stuck outside while his house was being scrubbed talking to Caranthir, who would be helping to finish your tasks at the Stone today calming him as he shared how common this was for Elves under their first thousand year birthday. The car pulled away and he signed again for you to call him when you got settled in earning a nod and a wave from you.

All the way to Greenwood you were flown on a waiting emergency jet packed with supplies for emergency cases like this you and your three nieces were spread out in lying still after falling asleep due to the first bout of medicines to counter the common yet debilitating disease. The house was sanitized in record time and Thorin had gone back to change then head off to work early. The full crew arrived and sunk in mood right with him in the wait until word could be had of your status.

Lunch was when he got the call, the phone nearly flew from his hand when he jerked it out of his pocket, answering the call he listened to Feanor’s sharing that you were settled into the quarantined suite with your nieces in that wing of the best hospital in Greenwood.

Thorin, “Do they know when she will be awake?”

Fëanor, “Sometime tomorrow, the medicine is really strong up front she won’t be conscious very much the next few days.”

Thorin’s eyes shut and he rubbed his hand over his forehead asking, “Is there anything I can do?”

Fëanor sighed, “You’ve done so much already.”

Thorin scoffed, “I packed a bag! Then I stood aside while our home was scrubbed and she was carried out! How is that help?”

Fëanor, “You’re healthy and safe. It doesn’t sound like much to you but you’re going to be there when she gets home in a few days.”

Thorin’s lips parted, “I thought you said it might be two weeks.”

Fëanor, “The girls will be closer to two, apparently the medicine works faster in Hobbits. Her veins have already started dimming again which normally takes two days to stop.”

Thorin felt a surge of hope wash through him, “That’s good then,” he wet his lips, “She’s not getting sick or anything? I know you said she was asleep, but before that?”

Fëanor, “Normally it just makes them sleep through the medicine, without it they get violently ill.”

“At least she won’t be too uncomfortable through it then.” He wet his lips, “I’ll let you get back to it then, um, my lunch is almost up.”

Fëanor, “She told me to tell you to go be magnificent, and not to worry too much about her she’ll call when she wakes up.”

Lowly Thorin replied, “I will, thank you.”

The phone cut off on Feanor’s side and he moved to go sit at your side again, brushing up the covers that had slid down in your slumbering wiggle. Stroking your back calmly his gaze again turned to your heart monitor and then below it to the fetal monitor showing the steady pulse flashing across the screen.

Honestly, it wasn’t the medicine, you were wide awake not half an hour ago but after hearing the positive on your blood panel you had lasted calmly until the doctor had left the room then cried yourself to a point of exhaustion you drifted off in their arms. You did mean to call and said something similar to what Fëanor had said on the flight over, yet you had worried so much about how to tell Thorin he thought it best to leave it to you when you felt better. This was amazing news but also one to jab at an open wound that would no doubt make Thorin insist on seeing you to comfort you through it and worry about not just you but your surprise bundle too.

“How is that possible?! I’m on X. It’s supposed to be the strongest in injectable birth control.”

The doctor wet his lips hearing the wandering heart rate beeping in its dips and rises in your adjusting to the news. “It is, for Elleths. Meaning, when you do see your obgyn again you should look into Hobbit based hormones, after giving birth of course.” He let out a weak chuckle, “I’ve known Hobbitesess to just hold a friend’s baby or have a pregnant friend and it triggers those hormones to start ovulating even over the strongest medications.”

He inhaled deeply then stated, “These medications for your Neriama will not harm your baby, we’ve had hundreds of young mothers and babies pass through healthy, you said you haven’t shown any symptoms so it seems we’ve caught it early. Still if you would like we could bring in a monitor for them as well.” His brows inched up as your eyes remained fixed on his in your speechless stare, “Would you prefer a monitor?”

You managed a half nod and he flashed you a weak grin, “We will have that in here shortly, you rest and we’ll see if your progression tomorrow will allow us to get a sonogram machine in here to measure the little bud.” He turned and that day back in Orcarni flashed back to you, all that pain and terrifying confusion leading up to you having to bury your son and out the tears poured, your now green tears as you wept into the chests of Fëanor and your brothers not already curled around the girls.

You knew you could get through this but what the hell would you tell Thorin, how would you tell him, and more alarming was the whirlwind your mind spun into considering what he might say in return.

Through the screen of Thorin’s laptop he sat up in bed watching you sleep after you had dozed off on your video chat. Truly he didn’t mind and he was grateful for your loving conversation no matter how brief, in which he had told you he loved you, not his usual five times a day but twelve.

Three months now he had cherished each time he had said it since his first shout of it through the phone so you could hear it over the wind on the opposite end of the football match for Frodo stirring up awws and whistles from the crowd around him waiting in line at the concession stand. A giggle was his response before the cheers drowned out your response you happily repeated when he brought you the food you had asked for he insisted on getting alone.

He wanted you to be home so bad but nearly to full color again he watched you sleep hating the miles between you and after nearly an hour when he felt his eyes unable to stay awake his finger found the space bar to end the call so he could sleep with you, or at least dream he had. A full six days you had been gone and he had just his final shift to get through after deciding to keep busy at work without you to remain around his family who were the only thing keeping him sane between contact with you. Finishing the final button on his shirt he turned with brows furrowing at the out of place doorbell.

Instantly his heart skipped in the hope it possibly could be you coming home early, though halfway through the house he remembered you still hadn’t been discharged yet and had promised to call when you had and were on the way to flying home. Still he found the door and shoved the memory back of his being locked on the other side of his bathroom door from you that nearly had him in tears if he focused on it too long, and he opened the door.

“Delivery for a, Thorin Durin.”

Thorin accepted the tablet from the Dwarf and looked to the sending address, mumbling to himself, “I didn’t order anything…” a grin eased across his lips reading your name from the hospital in Greenwood, “Ah..”

Hastily he signed his name and thanked the delivery man who handed over the medium sized box and accepted his tablet in its place, “Have a nice day, Mr Durin.”

Thorin, “Same to you.” He said closing the door to hurry to his living room with the box.

Drawing out his key from his pocket he broke the tape on top and his brows furrowed in removing the packing holders. Until he spotted a tiny oak sapling in a pot coated with bunnies and acorns making him smirk as he followed the instructions on the card reading across the top, ‘Feed me, Keep me warm, let in the light.’

Chuckling to himself he gave it the water it needed and set it next to his mini sprout filled herb garden in the window box in the kitchen for light. Then returned to the box grinning seeing the black bearded crochet ram nearly seated upright with a head nearly too large for its body making him chuckle and trace his thumb over the heart on its front left rounded hoof. From there his eyes wandered to the deep blue sealed envelope with your writing on it feeling a bit too thick for just a note inside. And as much as he wanted to open it his phone chimed and he relented to waiting for his lunch to do so and carried the ram and card in their box all out to his car.

All the way through the shift he managed to go, constantly stealing glances at the box his family had all stolen glimpses of their own stirring up whispers as to what the box could hold. Frerin had come by the show to ensure it all went smoothly for his big brother who seemed more stoic than usual through the full show against a Dwarven team to lessen the effect of not having you there.

Down along the wall when the cameras stopped rolling and the guest team had to get back to their own place in the call that had them hurrying off to a family gathering that got moved up in the arrival of an unexpected guest they had to pick up along the way. Freed from the obligated tasks Thorin went to the table where he smirked sliding the box closer to himself. A tap on his shoulder drew him away to get a hug from Frerin in asking, “Still tomorrow?”

Thorin nodded, “Midnight possibly if she can get out earlier.”

A gasp came from behind him and he smirked in seeing the ram being lifted from the box by Bilbo saying, “You’re serious?” Thorin’s brow inched up and before he could ask what he meant Bilbo asked, “Which sapling did she send?”

His brows pressed together curiously, “Oak, why?”

“Great choice, strength, resistance and knowledge. Perfect choice.”

“How did you know about the sapling?” He asked turning to Bilbo in confusion.

Bilbo smirked lifting the ram then asked, “Do you mind if I give it a squeeze?”

Thorin shook his head, “I can’t see why not.” He answered curiously with a hitch in his voice watching as Bilbo grinned squeezing the heart only to make Thorin’s lips part at the faint heartbeat coming from the ram luring the others closer as Bilbo’s grin spread wider bringing it closer to his ear.

Lowly Thorin asked, “Why is there a heartbeat-?”

His eyes focused on the doll with his mind and heart racing as to why you had sent it making Bilbo peer up at him curiously, lowering the doll he looked into the box pulling out the envelope clearly not opened yet, “Oh…”

Thorin repeated, “How did you know about the sapling, and the heartbeat, Bilbo?”

Bilbo wet his lips passing him the envelope his hand folded around through the thundering of his heart, “It’s a Hobbit tradition. Pick a sapling to plant as a symbol of a new beginning, then you take an animal of your choosing to add a voice box with a recording of the heartbeat of-,”

Tears had welled in Thorin’s eyes in accepting the ram he pressed the heart on to hear the heartbeat again, and he whispered, “Our baby..” Lowering his gaze a tear streaked down his cheek in pressing the doll to his cheek just next to his ear drawing more tears from his eyes until it stopped playing and he lowered that hand to help open the envelope to pull out your letter. Sniffling softly he unfolded the letter from you stirring his teary grin out,

“Thorin,

I tried to think up the best way to tell you, and every time I thought something up I always knew that it wouldn’t be right and I’d probably just end up staring at you lost for words. Waiting until I got back was out and over the phone didn’t seem right. So, here it is. Turns out the ‘foolproof’ birth control I was on wasn’t Hobbit proof. One of the blood panels at the Hospital came back positive.” His voice wavered in adding, “I’m pregnant.”

In that Frerin gently tilted the page to continue reading, “Please don’t worry the medicines are completely safe for expecting mothers. I do have an appointment set up in a few weeks for another check up to get everything started on that front. I should be home soon, take good care of the sapling,” Frerin chuckled adding with a smirk, “Plus don’t forget to tell Dis the race is on to the delivery room. It’s sort of a toss up in genetics as to when I could be due, anywhere from 12 months to 4 years. And if my Hobbit side wins out I might just beat her.” Spreading chuckles through the group in another tear falling down Thorin’s cheek. “I love you, Jaqi.”

Folding the letter up again he passed it to Thorin, who pulled the paper pocket enclosed disk out making Dwalin say, “I’ll drive you home and we can pop that in.” Thorin nodded and melted into the tight family hug lasting for a few minutes as he calmed enough to have Dwalin drive him home.

Anxiously they all settled onto the couches and chairs brought in around it along with the full family that had been called over, peering up at the screen when Bilbo closed the disk tray then hurried over to Dwalin’s leg nipping at his lip in seeing the first image of the grey and black screen popping up. Blind shifting had Thorin wetting his lips for a moment anxiously as the wand was shifted and the heartbeat played again louder making Thorin cup his ram against his cheek tearfully in seeing the curled body of the baby whose body was mostly head at this point drawing another sniffle from him. A sea of awws and comments filled the room and hugs were issued with a meal to follow celebrating while plans for a fuller celebration when you returned were bring set up.

Pt 16

@himoverflowers, @theincaprincess, @aspiringtranslator, @sweeticedtea, @thegreyberet, @patanghill17, @jesgisborne, @curvestrology, @alishlieb, @jogregor, @armitageadoration, @fizzyxcustard, @here2have-fun, @lilith15000, @marvels-ghost, @catthefearless, @imjusthereforthereads, @c-s-stars, @otakumultimuse-hiddlewhore, @mariannetora, @shes-a-killer-kween, @ggbbhehe4455

Hobbit/LotR – @abiwim, @jotink78, @pastelhexmaniac

x Thorin – @evyiione, @deepestfirefun, @queenoferebor

My Pearl - @here2have-fun, @onewithleaf, @sherala007

#Thorin x Reader OC #Hobbit #lotr #Chef au

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notactivexx · 5 years

Text

Loki x Reader

This took me way longer than it should have do to school, little siblings and little cousins. Sorry!

Plus, My other two request for the anons are almost done!

Warnings: I wrote i=this way too late at night cuz its my only free time and my editing skill goes down after three am sorry.

Requested by @scorpionchild81

how about a Loki x reader: after an argument, Tony makes a bet with Loki and Thor, who was the better seducer. Tony also wanted proof of progress in hand from the two gods... But what happpens when true feelings get involved and when heart really break? All ends up that reader slaps Loki yelling "A bet? I was just a stupid bet?!" Angsty, sad, fluffy - do the oneshot as you wish…

I made it Gender Neutral btw!

The Avengers, and Loki, who had helped with their mission, were having a party in honor of their success. Usually there wasn't any sort of celebration, except shawarma, of course. However, this had been a very important mission, with two years of work and danger leading up to it. You were talking to Steve and drinking wine, oblivious to the conversation only a small distance away from you.

________________________________________________________________

"So Thor, you found a girlfriend here on Earth yet?" The host of the party, Tony, asked the blonde god sitting at the bar.

"I have not," Thor turned around to face Tony, slushing his glass full of Asgardian mead. Beside him, Loki snickered. "Not since I stopped courting Jane."

"That's no surprise," Thor laughed.

"You mock me, and yet I haven't seen you with anyone yet. Do not be so bold, brother," Loki took another sip of his mead.

"I could take my pick of any man or woman here, if I were interested," Tony raised his eyebrows.

"Oh really? You think you're the best seducer here?" Loki was unfazed by Tony's comment

"They don't call me Silver Tongue as a jest, you know," he said.

"Well in that case, Asgard must have pretty low standards. I'm clearly the best seducer here." Thor let out a hearty laugh.

"But I have courted the most out of us! It seems that I just cannot be resisted."

"And perhaps that would be impressive, if any of those courtships lasted for more than a fortnight." said Loki dryly. Tony smirked.

"Well, there is an easy way to solve this," Thor inclined his head, looking interested, and asked,

"Which is?"

"A bet, of course. I suppose you gods have bets?"

"But of course! We have the greatest, most dangerous bets. I remember once - "

"And what do you propose we bet?" Loki cut his brother off. Tony took a minute to think.

"Fifty bucks?" he suggested. Loki looked confused,

"Bucks? Why would I need bucks? Seems like a nuisance to have around."

"What? No, not the animal, the -" This time, it was Thor who interrupted.

"I believe it is a form of Midgardian currency. The Dollars have several names," he looked at Tony for confirmation, "correct?"

"Uh, yeah. Anyways, you good with that?" Thor and Loki nodded. "Okay. So, now we need to pick a person."

"Why can we not each choose a different one?" Loki asked

"Well I mean, it wouldn't exactly be fair that way? Like, one of us could get someone easy to seduce, say, Banner, leaving the other with someone harder, like Nat."

"Maybe Maria Hill?" Thor shook his head soon after he spoke though. "No, that would be far too difficult, even for me." Loki scanned the crowd. He saw (y/n) dancing clumsily with Steve and Sam. He smirked. It was the perfect opportunity… He had been wanting to speak to you, but he was seized by a strong sense of nervousness when you approached. But now, if everything went well, he'd get to be with you. If not, he could just say it was a bet. It was perfect.

"What about (y/n)?" When Loki made the suggestion, the other two turned to look at them as well.

"That," Tony looked at the other two. "Sounds like a bet"

_____________________________________________________________________________________

Three days after the party, you noticed something strange about a certain trio. Thor had been showing off, winking, and telling stories, most of which seemed very exaggerated, much more often. Tony had been flirting and using cheesy pickup lines almost non-stop. Although you usually took the time to flirt back, it was still rather confusing. Even more so when you were talking with Maria, who said she hadn't been experiencing the same things.

Loki had changed too, but in a much more discreet way. For the first two days after the party, you would catch him looking at you. He would smile at you then look away, and occasionally raise his eyebrows when you saw him. One the third day you ran into the him on your way to breakfast, and he spoke to you this time,

"You're looking lovely today. Is that a new shirt?" You blushed and looked at your (f/c) shirt.

"Um.. Uh yeah.. It is." You stuttered your response, and to try to make up for the awkward words you gave him a nervous smile. He returned it with a smile of his own.

"Very nice. Well, I'll see you around."

"Uh.. Yeah. See you.. Um.. See you around." Watching you walk away towards the kitchen, he smiled to himself.

They're so cute.

_____________________________________________________________________________________

Two more days passed like this. Cheesy flirting between you and Tony, annoying flirting from Thor, and… Loki. He complemented you in the hall every morning. You wanted have a conversation with him, he was so fascinating, so you woke up earlier. Hopefully you'd meet him in the kitchen.

When your alarm when off, you woke up immediately. Loki was probably the only good reason to do that. You hurriedly got ready, and rushed to the kitchen.

"Looks like somebody woke up early." The god of mischief was sitting on the counter, eating a waffle. There was a book by his side.

"Oh.. Yeah. I was hungry." He patted the counted beside him.

"You can share my food if you want."

"Oh.. Okay." You jumped up beside him and he passed you the plate. You took a bite and gestured to the book beside him. "The Silmarillion? I like that one." He smiled.

"Yes, it is rather interesting. I'm about halfway through."

"Has Feanor burnt the boats yet?"

"Pardon?"

"Never mind!" Loki laughed.

"Don't go around spoiling books for everyone love." Love? Did Loki just call you love? He chuckled, "You're blushing." You blushed more.

"Um.. No.. No I'm not! You're blushing." You were surprised to see that your statement was true when you looked at him. Now he was the flustered one.

"I.. I'm not blushing. It's just.. A bit warm in here, that's all." You laughed and pushed a stray hair from his face.

"Well, neither am I." You were looking right into his eyes. His beautiful eyes. You found a sudden burst of confidence within yourself. "You know Loki, you're.. Really handsome." He was blushing again. You had made Loki, the Loki, blush.

"You're not so bad yourself." You looked at his hand. How would he react if you held it. You could reach out, all you had to do was reach for it…

"Oh, just get a room you two"

You and Loki turned around to look at the newcomer. Sam sat with his legs propped on the table watching you.

"I - How long have you been here?" you asked. He shrugged.

"Around the boat burning part."

"Oh. Well, I guess I should go train now. Bye Loki." You hurried out of the room while Sam laughed at your awkwardness, leaving Loki looking slightly crestfallen behind you.

_____________________________________________________________________________________

It had been two months. Loki and you were something like a couple, but nothing official yet. You held hands, and kissed a couple times, but as of now there was no label.

"Hi Loki!" you ran to greet him in the hall. You wrapped your arms around his neck and he gave you a sweet kiss.

"Hello Darling." he smiled at you. "I was looking for you."

"What for?"

"Well, I need to ask you something." Your heart skipped a beat. What was it? Was it good or bad?

"Yes?" you asked, worried about the response.

"Would you.. Would you like to court me?" A slow smile grew on your lips.

"Yes! Yes, I'd love to!" He smiled and kissed you again.

"In that case, how about you meet me tonight for dinner? I'll take you somewhere fit for my Queen."

_____________________________________________________________________________________

"Hey (y/n), Loki told us you two were courting. Is that true?" Thor had stopped you in the hall two days later.

"Yes, it is." you smiled. However, Thor's and Tony's reaction was incredibly surprising.

"Damn it!" Tony slammed his glass on the table. "He won the bet!"

"Bet?" Thor laughed.

"But of course you wouldn't know! Tony, Loki and I made a bet on who was the best seducer at the last celebration. It appears Loki has won!" You stared at him in shock.

"I - Oh.. Okay." You rushed out of the room before they could see you cry.

_____________________________________________________________________________________

You ran upstairs and pounded on Loki's door. You didn't listen for an answer, you just waited for him to open the door.

"(Y/n)! What happened darling?" You pushed him back and slammed the door.

"Don’t call me Darling!"

"(y/n/n), what's the matter?"

"A bet! I was just a stupid bet!?" Loki's eyes widened in realization. He pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Oh no darling, no, you don't understand"

"I understand perfectly!" You slap him, the echo ringing through the room in a satisfying manner, "You think you can just mess with my feeling and get away with it don't you!"

"No no, that's not, no, I never meant to hurt you!" You let out something between aa laugh and a sob.

"You have a funny way of showing it!" You started to cry freely. You didn't want Loki to see it, but you couldn't hold it back. Of course he never loved you. Just when you thought he might, he didn't.

"Oh, my love, no, don't cry. You can hit me and punch me all you want, but I don't want to see your heart broken. Please."

"You should have thought about that earlier." He walked closer to you, then tentatively pushed your chin up to look at him.

"Listen to me, please." You were going to yell, but his eyes were filled with tears and sincerity. Maybe… Maybe he was bring honest

"It started as a bet, yes. Well, no. I was attracted to you beforehand, but the bet gave me a chance to speak to you and a safety net if you didn't react well. Then.. Well then I spoke to you. You were kind, and beautiful, and sweet. You're the most perfect person I've ever met. I should've told you. Please love, forgive me."

He looked at the floor and you hesitated. Both you and Loki were crying. After a few minutes, you took a deep breath and whispered a response.

"Okay." He looked up

"What?"

"I forgive you." Loki looked into your eyes, and you looked into his before kissing each other passionately. His lips tasted like tea, and a bit salty from your tears.

You never wanted to let go of him.

#loki x reader #loki x male reader #loki x fe #loki x female reader #loki fanfic #loki requests #loki #Loki Laufeyson #loki god of mischief #request #loki odinson #Loki Friggason #loki friggasdottir #loki laufey #loki la #loki laufeysdottir #loki mcu #loki x re #loki x reader gender neutral

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findrahil · 4 years

Note

001 + tolkien (silm, lotr, hobbit, whichever u’d like)

thank you! i’ll do the silm!

Favorite character: ah,,, fuck,,,,, probably finrod goddammit ALTHOUGH! i am having a fingolfin sad time rn Least Favorite character: uh..... *tries to remember all the characters* carcharoth. what a dick move, to just EAT the fucking rock 5 Favorite ships (canon or non-canon): feanor/nerdanel, glorthelion, angbang, celegorm/orome, silvergifting although i am not picky at all hahahaha Character I find most attractive: uh... fuck... *sweats* fingolfin? haleth? there’s too damn many of them (bi problems) Character I would marry: haleth or nerdanel definitely. Character I would be best friends with: idk i feel like i’d vibe with maglor and we could talk about classical music and the role of wagner’s ring cycle (which partially inspired lord of the rings too!) in opera as a genre OR the importance of german lieder as a national genre (sorry i got excited as soon as i typed classical music lmao) a random thought: periods are dumb. sorry, you asked for random, i said the first thing that came to mind. An unpopular opinion: finrod’s a fucking idiot for leaving orodreth in charge. like surely, SURELY, there was SOME advisor SOMEWHERE who could do the job My Canon OTP: i dont really have otps. but... here, feanor/nerdanel My Non-canon OTP: see above. but.... glorthelion! Most Badass Character: HALETH Most Epic Villain: annatar. like, dude shows up, fucks celebrimbor, falls in love with him, betrays him Pairing I am not a fan of: i... don’t... know... Character I feel the writers screwed up (in one way or another): MAEGLIN MAEGLIN MAEGLIN i am MAD at the coding and although i did find him kinda creepy tolkien did NOT need to use the brute trope any more Favourite Friendship: god i love finrod and edrahil’s friendship to hell and back Character I most identify with: feanor. know why? makes a bunch of bad decisions, gets to doing task (which i’ve been putting off for forever, but feanor didn’t do that) and DIES needless to say, i have none of feanor’s genius energy, just the dumbass lmao Character I wish I could be: HALETH

#the silmarillion #ask games #fingolfins #i sat here for most of it going hmmm..... no idea! XD

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sunflowersupremes · 4 years

Text

Thief

After years of solitude, Maglor is starving and hallucinating.

Characters: Maglor, Celeborn

Read on AO3

Look at you, Kanafinwe, said his father’s harsh voice in his mind, the last son of Feanor, reduced to petty thievery.

No better than Melkoro, agreed Curufin, ever the parrot of their father’s words.

Maglor pulled his hands through his dark hair in frustration, whining aloud, “Shut up! I have not eaten this week, and I see none of you doing anything to help it.”

You’re too noisy to be a thief, scolded Celegorm. Thieves must be like hunters, silent and blending in with their surroundings. You’re making enough noise to wake an orc pack.

“Shut up!”

Go on. There’s no shame if you must, came a quiet voice, his least favorite one to hear. Maedhros always sounded the most disappointed, never angry, never raising his voice. Not even when Maglor raged at him for abandoning his last brother. Somehow, Maedhros’ permission made it far worse.

But despite all that, he needed to eat.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten, but he knew it had been far too long. When the small group had set up camp beside the cave he called home, Maglor had seen it as a gift.

But sneaking into the camp proved to be more difficult than he’d thought. He sat in the entrance to his cave, watching them for hours and debating with himself on the best way to get inside. His brothers had offered no help, leaving him to devise a plan all by himself.

So when he’d seen the wagon at the edge of the camp, well out of the ring of firelight, he’d headed toward it.

As Celegorm had so helpfully pointed out, he was hardly quiet, but thankfully the elves in the camp hadn’t been expecting trouble, and their security was lax at best. It was far too easy to merely walk up to the wagon and dig through one of the crates.

He didn’t even notice the person walk up behind him.

-----------

He’d been aware that someone had been prowling around in the woods, but he hadn’t expected this.

Celeborn recognized him the moment he saw Maglor Feanorian. Even with ragged clothes and a too-thin frame, he was still every bit the prince he had once been.

But Maglor didn’t seem to recognize him.

He’d considered leaving the other, letting him steal whatever it was he wanted and then disappear off into the night. But curiosity had drawn him closer. Close enough that Maglor should have noticed, but he didn’t.

The Feanorian remained unaware of Celeborn until the other was right beside him, and then he just glanced at him out of the corner of his eye and muttered, “Not now Celegorm.”

For a long moment, he was almost able to convince himself that the other had said Celeborn, not Celegorm, but no, he knew he hadn’t misheard the other.

“Maglor-”

“I am not listening to you anymore.” Maglor’s face was flushed red, but his eyes were unfocused. Fever? Dehydration? Celeborn wasn’t sure (and he wasn’t sure why he cared). Even if Maglor was barely able to open the buckles on the bag he was attempting to rob, he was still a killer, Celeborn reminded himself sternly.

He also raised your son in law, said another voice in his head. It sounded far too much like his daughter for comfort, and although he knew she wasn’t communicating across distances as she occasionally did, it still left him with a pang of guilt.

“Let me help you.” He opened the bag, unhooking the buckles, and offered Maglor a piece of dried meat. The starving elf thanked his deceased brother and gulped it down.

Celeborn sighed, placing a hand on Maglor’s forehead. The other swatted him away, but not before he was able to confirm that he wasn’t feverish. A small victory.

Still unsure why he was doing what he was doing, Celeborn lifted himself into the wagon, rummaging through the boxes until he’d procured a fresh change of clothing for Maglor.

He threw them out of the wagon where they landed on Maglor’s head, then Celeborn swung himself out.

“I’m not stealing clothes,” Maglor said, shaking his head firmly. “I’ve stolen enough already.”

“It’s not stealing if they’re mine to give-”

“Your’s to-” Maglor trailed off, his confused mind seeming to have difficulty following Celeborn’s statements. Then he seemed to create a narrative he was content with and murmured, “Yes, yours. We- where are we?”

“Traveling to visit relatives.” It was true enough. Celeborn had been on the road, visiting with Cirdan in Lindon, and was currently on his way back to Lothlorien where Galadriel had elected to remain with their daughter.

Maglor seemed to buy the lie, nodding and pulling at his shirt, no doubt deciding to change into the far cleaner and warmer clothes Celeborn had offered him. “Yes, Timo. Timo was just-” he turned, looking behind him at the woods, as though expecting his elder brother to appear at any moment.

“He’ll be here soon,” he said, reasoning that it wasn’t exactly a lie. If Maglor wasn’t careful, he was going to be reuniting with all his brothers very soon.

As the other’s shirt fell away, Celeborn winced at what he saw. He’d been expecting scars - Maglor hadn’t led an easy or peaceful life, even before his self imposed exile - but he still found himself startled by how thin the other was. His mind was made up, he wasn’t going to let Maglor just wander off again in that state.

Helping Maglor into the shirt, not trusting the minstrel to manage it himself, he leaned farther into his lie. “You were separated from us, I stayed to look for you. The others are just ahead.”

“Yes. I did, didn’t I?”

“Hmm. You need to drink.” Celeborn lifted the waterskin from his belt and offered it to Maglor, who took it willingly.

As much as he was determined to help him, he also wasn’t about to take the elf back into his camp. He didn’t have an exact count off the top of his head, but he knew for a fact he wasn’t the only survivor of a kinslaying that was present.

Instead, he wrapped an arm around Maglor, grabbed a bag of supplies, and followed the elf’s footsteps back to where he’d come from.

He wasn’t surprised to find that Maglor’s tracks led back to a cave, but the fact that he’d clearly been there for a long time did. The last they’d heard, Maglor had been living on the shore, not in a dank cave in the woods. But he pushed his questions aside and helped Maglor to sit down.

“I hope I didn’t worry anyone,” Maglor said after a moment, tapping his foot against the ground. Celeborn sat a pair of boots in front of him, waiting for the other to put them on.

“We knew you could handle yourself.”

“But I didn’t,” Maglor said suddenly, thrusting his hand in front of Celeborn’s nose. “I- I burned myself on- I don’t remember what I burned myself on.”

He wasn’t prepared for that. Maglor’s hand, burned by the Silmaril, caused Celeborn to pull back in alarm. The other had wrapped bandages around it, but they did little to hide the smell of charred flesh. Fingers shaking, Celeborn couldn’t help but unwrap the bandages, baring the wound.

It could have been burned yesterday. There no no hint in his wound that it was several thousand years old, and he had no doubt that Maglor must be in great pain.

“A fire,” Celeborn lied, feeling slightly ill. “You burned your hand in a fire.” Maglor seemed to believe him.

A part of him wanted to treat it - seeing anyone in that much pain was horrific - but he had no doubt it wouldn’t make any difference. Instead, Celeborn pulled out fresh bandages and rewrapped the wound. “It will be better soon,” he said. Another lie, but it seemed kinder than the truth.

He offered Maglor more water which the other drank greedily and without comment. “This is for you,” Celeborn said, pushing the bag toward Maglor. “It has food and water.”

Maglor blinked at him. “I- I have to ride ahead,” Celeborn lied. “You’ll have to catch up with us.”

His men would be looking for him soon anyway. They hadn’t been stopping for the night, only for a short rest. He’d been gone far too long already. If he kept telling himself that Maglor would be fine, perhaps he’d believe it.

Maglor watched him walk away, then he softly said, “I’m not going with you.”

He turned, looking back over his shoulder at Maglor, one eyebrow raised.

Maglor met his gaze with far clearer eyes than when he’d found him. “You’re not Celegorm,” he said after a moment. “I know that. I don’t know who you are. But you’re not my brother.” His face twisted. “My brothers are dead. I’m not going with you.”

“I wasn’t going to suggest it,” he lied.

#tolkien one shot #celeborn #my writing #silmarillion #silmfic #maglor

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sweetteaanddragons · 5 years

Note

Oh god don't take risk assessments from Fingon, Gil-galad. I'm so glad the family claims him, and I'm curious to hear the author's theory on where this one is from. My dumb theory: since the Elves' Maia heritage is down to Elrond, his sons, and maybe Elured and Elurin, it would be nice if he turned out to be related to the missing twins. My actual theory: no one in particular, the world is built by the ones who show up to work.

It’s not a dumb theory! It’s not, however, what I went with. For that, see below.

Quick note: Maglor’s wife in this is the same as his wife in my alternate character interpretation snippet for her. This will probably make more sense if you read that first.

Maedhros is barely a shadow when he first gets there, but Fingon stubbornly sticks around.

When Maedhros is well enough to listen and, in his opinion, in need of some distraction, he finally asks.

“I’m trying to figure out Gil-Galad’s parentage. I don’t suppose you know?”

Maehros looks startled, which is at least better than horrifically depressed. “He’s not yours?”

Fingon’s heard that from others. A lot of others. He doesn’t know why everyone keeps assuming that.

“Not mine.”

He’ll have to try Maedhros’s brothers later. For now, he’s right where he needs to be.

“Fingon,” Curufin says from his place on the floor. He hasn’t bothered to open his eyes. Fingon never did learn the trick to that. “What do you want?”

Nice to see his time in Mandos hasn’t changed him. “To talk.”

“About?”

Fingon gives up and gets straight to the point. “Offspring.”

Curufin cracks one eye open and rolls over to face him. His face is shadowed through the bars. “I didn’t think you had any.”

“Yours,” he clarifies.

That catches Curufin’s attention completely. He rolls to his feet, face tense. “Has something happened to Celebrimbor? The tapestries here are useless.”

Whoever’s in charge of these things apparently decided Curufin would benefit from graphic scenes of Finrod’s imprisonment. Fingon’s been trying not to look at them.

“He’s fine,” he assures him. “Or at least he was fine the last time someone died, there hasn’t been nearly as much of that going around since the war ended. I wanted to ask about the potential for . . . other offspring.”

Curufin looks around the lonely confines his cell with grim amusement. The bars are set deep into the stone. If there’s hinges or a lock, they aren’t visible. “At the moment, I would say the potential was low.”

“Already produced offspring,” Fingon further clarifies.

Curufin frowns. “Why . . . ?” His face goes pale. “Has Nirivel . . . Is there a child she’s saying is mine?”

Judging by his face, if that was the case there’s no chance the child actually would be.

“No, no,” Fingon assures him. “Nothing like that. I’m just trying to figure out who Gil-Galad belongs to.”

Curufin rolls his eyes. It almost distracts from his slowly returning color. “And you couldn’t just say that? In case you’ve forgotten, Fingon, my wife stayed on these shores. Gil-Galad was born in Beleriand.”

That’s not actually technically a denial, so Fingon pushes on cautiously. “Under the circumstance, remarriage - “

Curufin stalks forward until he’s gripping the bars in a white knuckled rage. “I am no oathbreaker,” he hisses.

“The Valar know we all wish you were,” Fingon mutters without thinking.

Curufin steps away from the bars. The rage has disappeared into a blank pleasantness that makes Fingon far more uneasy. “Forgive me. I should not have been so surprised by the question. I shouldn’t have forgotten that you were of the line of Indis and have strange ideas of family fidelity.”

“Of the two of us, which of us actually - “ Fingon cuts himself off. “No. We’re not having this fight again. Or the other fight. Or any fights! I know what I need to know.” He hesitates before he heads back into the maze of winding tunnels. “Maedhros sends his love.”

Curufin actually looks relieved for a moment before the mask descends again. Fingon’s surprised he saw anything; solitary must have decayed Curufin’s skills at hiding considerably.

The relief brings to mind what had escaped him before. “You do know about - ?”

“How he died?” Curufin interrupts. He smiles bitterly. “You’re not my very first visitor. Nienna brings news sometimes.” His look turns puzzled. “How are you here? Namo sentenced me to solitary confinement.”

“I petitioned to visit Maedhros,” Fingon explains. “Repeatedly.”

Curufin makes a show of looking around. “Unless I’m very much mistaken, he’s not here.”

“Yes, well, by the time he gave in, he was far too frustrated to be careful with his word choice, and what he actually said was ‘Visit the kinslayer if you want to!’ Which as I view it, really gives me leave to visit just about everyone here.”

For the first time in centuries, he hears Curufin laugh.

He stumbles across Uncle Feanor next.

He’s . . . not entirely sure what he’s seeing at first when he does.

“Are you unravelling Vaire’s tapestry?” he chokes out.

Uncle Feanor leaps to his feet. “Findekano! What an unexpected pleasure. I’d been hoping for a chance to thank you for what you did for Maitimo.”

Fingon can’t tear his eyes away from the loose threads that once made up an entire wall of tapestry. Some of them have been laid out in complex patterns. “It’s Fingon now,” he manages. “And you’re definitely unravelling the tapestry. Why are you unravelling the tapestry? There’s a stone wall behind it, it’s not like it’ll get you out! Is it the scene?”

The scene is . . . Maedhros yielding the crown to Fingon’s father which strikes him as a little petty, but at least it explains why Uncle Feanor’s unravelling it.

Or not, because what Uncle Feanor actually says is, “Oh, no. I needed materials, and this was the best option.”

“Materials? What can you possible do with all that?”

Feanor eyes the mass of thread thoughtfully. “Well, it’s woven through with the essence of time and space, so I’m hoping for a form of transport through either.”

This terrifying image needs only a moment to sear through his brain. “Please don’t invent time travel, Uncle Feanor.” It comes out a little strangled.

“Why not? There’s a good deal that could be improved from what Nienna tells me. Anyway, that can’t be why you’ve come. Do you have news? Have you seen my sons?”

Fingon tears his eyes away from the threads. “Two of them. Curufin and Maedhros. Curufin’s well enough. Maedhros is . . . better.” That’s really the best he can say of that, so he hurries on. “I’ve been trying to discover Gil-Galad’s parentage. Unless he’s Galadriel’s, we’re pretty sure he had to come from your branch.”

“Another grandson!” Feanor sounds both surprised and delighted, which at least answers the question that Fingon had been trying not to think about having to ask - Namely, if Feanor had been responsible. The timeline had made it unlikely at best, but he’s trying to be thorough.

“I’d probably best delay testing this until you know more,” Feanor muses. “I’d hate to accidentally wipe a grandson out of existence.”

“Yes. Absolutely. Just - Hold off.” Please, please hold off on potentially destroying the very fabric of Arda. “I’ll let you know what I find out.”

Just maybe not until he’s figured out how to make sure Feanor’s focused on the geographical aspect of travel.

He has no idea how long it takes him to find Celegorm, but if anyone asks later, he’s going to tell them weeks. That’s certainly what it feels like. The tunnels here are far less open that most of Mandos’s Halls, and he’s starting to feel claustrophobic.

He can only imagine what it must be like in the cells.

Celegorm manages to get the first word in because Fingon is too busy gaping at the image on his walls. It’s Huan as he dies, in vivid enough detail that it makes Fingon want to cry out, and he barely knew the hound.

“I don’t know where Maedhros is,” Celegorm says. He’s sitting by Huan’s head. It’s possible that he was petting the cloth just before Fingon showed up; Fingon certainly isn’t going to judge him if he was.

“That’s alright,” Fingon tells him. “I do. He sends his love. I also saw your father, who was very eager for news of all of you.” Fingon leaves out the rest of what Feanor is currently very interested in. He’s not sure he can get through it without his terror showing through, and that could very well start a fight. “If I see any more of your brothers, is there a message I should carry along?”

“Tell them that with practice and application, it is actually possible to climb these walls.”

Fingon blinks. “And this will be . . . useful in an escape attempt?”

“It’ll be useful in not going out of our collective minds,” Celegorm snarls. “There’s no room to move in here.”

Fingon eyes the tiny space and remembers his own growing claustrophobia. “I see your point.” There’s really no way to gracefully segue into this next bit, so he just dives right in. “Remember Gil-Galad?”

Celegorm frowns. “Of course I do. Why? Is he dead?”

“No, thankfully.” Fingon watches him carefully for a reaction to this news, but Celegorm just shrugs.

“Good for him. What about him then?”

“Is he yours?”

Celegorm stares at him for a very long time. “You do remember the whole Luthien incident, don’t you?”

“I think everyone does.”

“Thank you,” he says through gritted teeth. “You might remember that part of that incident involved me trying to get married. So unless you’re suggesting that I succeeded, had him with Luthien, and then somehow invented time travel and sent him back - “

Fingon flinches at the words ‘time travel.’ Thankfully, Celegorm’s in full on ranting mode and doesn’t seem to notice.

His ears are still ringing when he finds his next cousin. “Amras!”

The twin looks up in desperate hope, but the light in his eyes fades quickly. “Amrod,” he corrects.

“Right. Sorry.” He should have just gone with Ambarussa.

At first glance, the walls in Amrod’s cell look fine. It’s just him and Amras eating a meal together, right after a hunting trip judging by the gear on their horses.

Then he realizes that Amrod’s backed himself up against the image of himself so that it looks like he’s sitting beside Amras, and he has to fight back a wince.

“If I find him, I’ll come back and let you know,” he promises. The corridors he hasn’t taken are still mysteries, but he’s keeping good track of the ones he has. The last thing he wants is to get lost here. He’ll be able to find his way back easily enough.

A bit of the life returns to Amrod’s face. “Would you? I just - It’s not that we were never apart. It’s just never been for this long before.” He looks down for a moment. “Have you seen any of the others? Are they alright?”

“About as well as can be expected,” Fingon says which Amrod, fairly, doesn’t seem to find all that reassuring. “Listen, I don’t suppose you ever - “

The answer, it turns out, is no.

“Amras!” he says with considerable confidence.

“Amrod,” the Feanorian corrects.

Fingon’s jaw dropped in horror. “I’ve circled back around? No, I can’t have, I - Wait a minute. Your wall hangings are a bit different. One of you’s lying,” he concludes triumphantly.

Amras - Amrod - whichever one he is has risen in the interim and crossed to the bars. “You’ve seen him? You’ve seen Amrod?”

“I knew you were Amras,” he mutters petulantly. “Yes, I’ve seen him. He misses you desperately and gave me about a hundred messages to give you. I’ll try to remember them in a minute, but first I’ve got a message of my own.”

“Of course,” Amras says and sets his jaw. “Doriath or the Havens?”

Fingon’s actually doing his best not to think about either of those messes. He’s not king anymore, it’s not his responsibility. “Neither. Gil-Galad.”

“What’d we ever do to him?” Amras protests.

“Created him, possibly. That’s what I’m trying to find out.”

“Creat- Like with gears? Because that’s really more along Curufin’s line.”

“Like with a woman,” he says in exasperation.

“Oh. No. I thought that would be a bad idea, what with the Doom and all.”

Fingon can’t exactly argue with that. “Maybe Celebrimbor managed to slip away from his father long enough to meet a girl.”

“Anything’s possible. Have you asked Caranthir yet?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?” Fingon wheedles. They’re not quite to the end of the line yet - there’s still Maglor and maybe Celebrimbor - but they’re getting close. He’d had a good feeling about Caranthir.

“We tried,” Caranthir says. His voice has an edge of anger, but what’s far stronger is the longing, mixed with grief. “Right up until she died.”

. . . That doesn’t actually rule it out. And if he’s any judge of his cousin, Caranthir would very much like to be a father.

Firien goes on his list of people to track down.

“Maybe he’s Maglor’s,” Caranthir suggests.

“Maglor’s not dead, though, so I can’t ask him.”

Caranthir looks at him like he’s being exceptionally stupid. “Have you tried asking his wife?”

Fingon feels exceptionally stupid.

“Did Aranel actually fight at Alqualonde, or was she just there?”

“She fought.”

“Right. Then she’s got to be around here somewhere.”

By the time he actually manages to track either of the wives down, Celebrimbor’s died. Despite what Curufin seems to think, Fingon retains enough tact to wait until he’s somewhat recovered to ask him if he’s responsible for Gil-Galad.

He’s not, but he is able to relay a series of increasingly improbable and hilarious theories that are apparently floating around the court.

Then in quick succession, he finds Aranel and Firien and Aredhel finds him.

Aranel’s locked in with the kinslayers and is the first person who’s been less than pleased to see Fingon.

“Come to lecture me on corrupting my husband?”

Fingon has to take nearly a minute to process this. Finally, the best he can come up with is “What?”

She looks up at him. Her face is set in hard lines of preemptive anger. “That’s what Atar said when Namo let him see me. He said my marring must have corrupted the prince. Maybe even his whole family.”

Maglor used to verbally eviscerate people for saying much, much less. Fingon wants no part of that minefield. He raises his hands in surrender. “I’m not here to blame you for your husband.”

Judging by the way her eyes shutter, that probably still wasn’t the right path to take. Some marriages shattered in the long war; apparently their’s did not.

“I just came to ask about any . . . children.”

“Children?” she repeats blankly. “You mean the Peredhel?”

He’s surprised she knows about that until he takes a closer look at the tapestry. He’d thought it was just Sirion burning, but no. It shows Maglor claiming the twins as well. Apparently someone’s given her context.

“I don’t know why everyone keeps thinking that’s the part I should be most upset about,” she says heatedly. “He defied his Oath when he let them go when it was safe. I’m proud of him, not concerned because he was raising children while I was gone!”

“Not those children,” he corrects, because he’s not about to get in the middle of that whole mess. “I meant any children you might have had with him. Together.”

“Why?” she asks with a slow edge of suspicion.

Fingon explains Gil-Galad.

“What happens if you don’t like the answer you get?”

Fingon honestly hasn’t considered this up to now. “What do you mean?”

“What if he is mine? Is he marred in your eyes? What if he’s not, and he’s not Firien’s either? Is he not worthy of the crown? Why does this matter so much to you?”

“Honestly?” Fingon takes a deep breath. “I’m curious. I don’t have any better reasons. I’m just dead and bored and curious.”

She doesn’t believe him. Fingon can’t quite blame her. She’s been judged her whole life for the circumstances thrust upon her at her birth, and that only worsened after true marring was revealed in Melkor; it’s little wonder she fears the same for Gil-Galad if it turns out he’s not quite as perfect as everyone thought.

“In that case, you can consider it settled. He’s mine. Mine and Maglor’s.”

Fingon . . . isn’t sure if he believes her. “Why send him to Nargothrond? Why keep him a secret?”

“He was stolen,” she says promptly. “We thought he was dead and had no words to share our grief. I have no idea what happened in his early life. I had no idea where he even was until you explained Gil-Galad’s circumstances. That’s not what I named him.” She reels this off matter of factly with no obvious sign of grief.

Fingon is particularly suspicious of the stolen child part of this story given what she’s been staring at for these past few centuries. “What did you name him?” he challenges her.

“Fingon,” she says instantly. “Because Maglor was so grateful for what you’d done for his brother.”

Fingon is . . . almost certain she’s lying. Almost.

On the other hand, it’s the best explanation anyone’s been able to hand him yet.

He’s still mulling it over in his mind when he emerges back into the Halls proper. Firien immediately comes flying into him. Only her tiny height keeps him from toppling. “You found him!”

“Found who - Oh, Caranthir, yes.”

“You found him too? Can you show me where? And what do you know about my baby?”

He’d forgotten how very little like Caranthir Firien is. Also -

“Your baby?”

According to Firien, she hadn’t realized their efforts had finally succeeded when she volunteered to go with the trading caravan. By the time she realized, it seemed safest just to continue on. All had been well until the return, when they’d been attacked only minutes after she had given birth. She had died shortly after hiding the baby as best she could.

Her telling is somewhat more convincing than Aranel’s. Then again, she also used to be a performer, so . . .

Fingon hates his life. Death. Whatever.

Naturally, that’s when Aredhel shows up and announces that Gil-Galad is actually hers.

Her grandson, that is.

According to her, Turgon had pressured Maeglin to marry someone to turn his mind away from Idril. He’d given in and married a girl who’d gotten tired of always coming in second place and run off, apparently while pregnant.

Fingon has no idea if any of that’s true and has no way to check it because Aredhel’s the only one who actually knows where to find Maeglin, he doesn’t have a name for the girl, and Turgon’s already gotten early release for good behavior.

Namo’s been hinting strongly about good behavior lately. Fingon, increasingly convinced that he’s the only reason that his Feanorian cousins are still sane and that his uncle hasn’t gone ahead with his plans to possibly erase them all from existence, cheerfully ignores him.

That’s the short list that at long last he’s able to present Gil-Galad with. If Gil-Galad is in fact part of Finwe’s family tree - and judging by his power and a certain resemblance, Fingon is inclined to think he is - than those are his most likely options.

“Firien’s story is remarkably similar to a theory Elrond came up with,” Gil-Galad says wistfully. “He has an uncanny knack for being right about things, you know.” He sighs.

“Cheer up,” Fingon tells him. “Like I said, we can always pester Namo into telling us eventually. Or you might feel something when you meet them! And really it’s only two options since we know Aranel has to be lying since she claimed to actually name you . . . Although Maglor probably wouldn’t mind claiming you, given his track record, so we could always just pretend you were and go with it.”

“No,” Gil-Galad says firmly. “I want to know the truth.”

“Let’s start with the ones we won’t have to sneak you in for then, and then I can introduce you to the rest of the family.”

Fingon’s money’s on Caranthir.

. . . Which means Feanor will now feel free to resume his experiments.

Oh, well. He hasn’t gotten this far by being cautious. How badly could it possibly go wrong?

Fingon shuts that thought down quickly and drags Gil-Galad through the Halls to Firien, who takes one look at Gil-Galad and throws herself at him, wrapping him in the tightest hug she can manage, even though her head barely comes up to his chin.

She’s crying. Gil-Galad, who’s holding her like she something fragile, looks like he might start.

Fingon feels a bit like crying too.

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elvesofnoldor · 5 years

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i do have to say maglor as a character is weirdly inspiring for fanfic/ fan comic ideas cause i literally have, like, three versions of who or what he becomes after supposedly throwing the simarli into the sea and wander the shores for centuries to come

version one: the ghost bound to the shore

(in this version, maglor has faded from grief so much that he essentially became a living ghost. His own guilt over the bad deeds he has committed and allowed, effect of unfulfilled oath aka “everlasting darkness” and doom/curse of Mandos that came with it trapped him on the shore and a state between life and death. it is implied that his dead brothers did not go to the halls of mandos and were drawn to the last living member of the dead house. )

Despite his complicated feelings toward his surrogate father figure, Maglor, he looked for him. And towards the end of second age, Elrond actually found him by the exact spot where he has supposedly thrown the simarli gem into the sea, and Elrond pleaded with him to come back and fight on the behalf of his kins to redeem himself of the crimes he committed. “cleanse your soul of guilt so that you may come home”, Elrond said. Maglor responded with a sad smile and said that it would not be possible. He said that whatever he does, he would not be able to wipe the blood from his hands; he said that he is damned and that eternal exile is the fate of his lot. Elrond didn’t understand him for he has not heard the cursed spoken by Mandos himself, and in much frustration, he left Maglor by the shore.

Then third age came and war of the ring passed, and Elrond knew it was time to go home. He has seen too much, and lost too much, his heart was weary and he only wanted to bring his family home. So he made another effort to search for Maglor, only to find him by the exact spot where he left him ages ago. This time, it was maglor’s singing that led Elrond to him in a seaside cave where maglor made a small home out of. He lit a fire inside the makeshift fireplace, yet the air remains cold and stale inside the cave. Elrond pleaded with him again--this time he pleaded maglor to come home with him to the west. Yet again, maglor said no to his request. “My brothers are here, this is home for me now.” Maglor said. But Elrond is at the end of his patience and he would not have the cryptic response for an answer, so he dragged Maglor by the sleeve in an attempt to get him to come with. Frightened, maglor cried out, “I told you--i CAN’T leave!” then elrond suddenly understood why maglor refused to leave the shores all these centuries, why he always found him in the same spot on the same shore, and why the air is cold and stale inside the cave he “lives” in. Then the fire went out and Maglor tearfully said his goodbye--the final goodbye--to the child that was not his. When Elrond, in great sorrow, finally mastered the strength to turn around and walk out of there, he swears that he saw, at the corner of his eyes, the six other sons of feanor--with blood streaming down their faces--standing in a circle around the poor maglor.

version two: the legend, the “mad witch”, basically inspired by a post i reblogged yesterday

(basically the same idea as above, except that maglor is almost definitely dead--by drowning or completely faded from grief--and has become “as shadows of regret before the younger race that cometh after” according to the doom of mandos. In this version, elrond never found maglor in his search and this version is supposed to highlight how maglor came to love the twins--to make up for being responsible for their abandonment in the first place, and to take care of their family, even if they are just distant relatives. It was out of his desire to take care of his family and also out of his guilt over what he has done, this should not be rocket science lol. I shouldn’t think it’d be too hard to use your brain cells and understand maglor’s motivation instead of downright demonizing him and think it makes no sense that maglor loved the twins lol like can some of you not understand basic texts?)

The remote towns near the shore all know of an urban legend. Fathers and mothers warned against their children--especially the twins with dark hair--to be wary of the mad witch that led away from their parents. legend has it that a ghost of a tall and slender woman with long raven dark hair haunts the shores in white frayed robe, carrying nothing with her but a lute. She sings in a strange tongue nobody recognizes, and with her beautiful yet sorrowful songs, she is capable of bewitching the hearts of children. They say the mad witch has either killed her own two children or has unintentionally led them to meet their untimely deaths, and after she drowned himself, her spirit is doomed to wander the shores in grief, desperate for her children to be back to her side. Some says they once saw the mad witch by the sea or by rivers and ponds near the sea, and flee at her terrifying and desperate cries as she tries to wash the blood on her hands that she can not wash away. Every once a while, the mad witch would come near the nearest seaside town. There, with her fair songs and even fairer voice, she’d lure to her side a pair of young twins with raven dark hair as black as hers. She would then disappear to raise the children as her own until they come of age, and by then the grown children would, without fail, miraculously re-appear at their parents’ doorsteps--unharmed and healthy yet they can only speak a strange dead tongue which no one knows the origin of, possessing knowledge they should not know of and old tales long forgotten by most and unheard of to mankind. When they were re-taught the modern tongue of men, the now grown children would claim they have no memories of where they have been--saved the sounds of a gentle voice and the many sweet songs it sings.

Men’s Imagination weaved a haunting tale of the mad witch, but nothing about the tale came close to the truth behind it all. While the mad witch is neither witch or woman, the ghost is real and has indeed perished on the very shores it wandered. The name Macalaurë--as the ghost was once called--belonged to an elven prince from a time long gone, he was once known as the greatest singer among the clan of noldor elves. Like his kind, he once bodied the light of the two trees. However, that light died within him a long time ago and his heart was sick and broken by the oath long before he perished. Gentle he may be in spirit, he was not strong-will enough to defy the desire of his brothers, and he was just as lost as all of them. In desperation to fulfill their dreadful oath and avoid the consequences in the breaking of the oath, they have damned all of their souls. Three kinslayings, with the last one being the worst of it all, and Macalaurë had a hand in all of them. He closed his heart to his would be victims and shut out his guilt to do what he thought must be done. Some’d call it cowardice, some’d call weakness, either way his soul is stained and his heart made wary. In the last kinslaying, Macalaurë found two children--a pair of twin from the house of fingolfin, abandoned by their mother. There was blood, so much blood on his armour, his clothes, even in his hair. He watched his brother cut down unarmed elves one by one and worst of all--he helped him. Maedhros was filled with rage as he committed the crime while Macalaurë simply lied to himself as he always does. “It has to be done, they asked for it, we have to fulfill the oath and they should have been smarter than to refuse us that” Macalaurë thought to himself, “they killed our brothers and called upon our oath, so death they shall have to accept.” When both of them came to their senses again--when he came to his senses again--Macalaurë saw two of their kins shivering in fear at the sight of them. Macalaurë thought to himself, no more, no more blood, no more senseless tragedies, and he took them in.

At first they were leverages, bargaining chips, defences against rightful anger from gil-galad. Then they...become his children. Was it because they reminded him so much of the twin brothers he lost? Was it because the guilt of being responsible for their abandonment eat him from the inside? Or was it out of desire to make up for even a fraction of his crimes? Was it the children woke the part of him that longed to be someone’s parent, someone’s guardian? Or maybe it was all of them at once? Either way, the elven prince with a sick heart raised them and loved them--and he still does, and that much he was sure of. There was so much blood and he could not wash them away, and part of him thought maybe in loving the children--he could. Even in death, as he was trapped in a purgatory where time itself bleeds into each other and the past becomes the present and the future at once, he still believed that raising the twins can wash away his sins and regrets. So he repeated the act of redemption, over and over again, even when the twins he raised are never the twins he raised he loved and raised thousands of years ago--it did not matter to him.

Stories are always simpler than the truth, and perhaps it was better that the men of seaside towns know of the ghost...simply as the mad witch who mourned for her lost children.

version three, the happier version: The wandering Bard. only partially inspired by the post i reblogged yesterday

(maglor is alive and relatively well, he’s forsaken his identity and lives as a bard that moves from taverns in one seaside town to taverns in another. in this one, he evaded elrond’s searches for he could not face him at rivendell. this version emphasizes on maglor’s role as a poet and storyteller. in this version, he has written the manuscript he’d later title Silmarillion and he’d given that manuscript to Sam when he encounter the hobbit after he could not find Elrond at a now abandon rivendell )

Later on in the ages of middle earth, the drunks of tavern would speak of a strange young bard with raven dark hair and a pair of eyes darker than the blackest night. Like all bards, he sings of past deeds of kings and princes, lords and ladies; different than other bards, this one sings of events so distant in the past that they become barely believable. He sings of the tragic fates of kings and princes of elven king, and a land in which fae-like beings live among Gods, as well as two mighty trees that shine before there was even sun and moon. “Tall tales of fairies,” the loud mouth patrons’d say, “you make them up just for a laugh, lad, anybody can tell!” The young bard only laughs at the accusation and offers no defence. Sometimes he would amusingly rebut that he is no lad, and when the patrons asks of his age, he’d smile and simply say that he is “old enough.”. The young bard is embodiment of walking contradictions--he is both mischievous and cheerful, yet wistful and weary; his eyes are the windows to a bottomless storm, at the same time, they are the colour of gentle cool summer nights. some says that he is an old soul wearing the face of a youth, little did they know, they weren’t so much further from the truth.

However, only the ones that threaten his well being would be able to see his true identity--the face of an elven prince who has killed in too many battle and a taste of the wrath of elvenkind. Bandits often gamble at the tables and the clever bard’d always manage to win the rounds and takes their coins--even when they are sure that the game is rigged to their favours. So the crude men would ask for their money back, thinking that he was but an unarmed lone traveller who would fall to their knees and gave them all that they are owned and more. They were wrong, of course, when the bard struck a chord on his lute and sent them flying, when he moved like a snake on the ground and evaded their clumsy attacks with ease and used their weapons against them. Dead man tell no tales, or those who can hear what they’d say would be terrify of the strange young bard. But if you hear it from the bard, he’d only say that it’s regrettable business--he shed too much blood and he wishes that he could stop doing so.

The bard fathered no children, and took no wives, but he has taken sindar lovers of many kind through his life. After all, his voice isn’t the only thing that is fair about him. Some were women--mostly those that tend to him at the taverns and steal shy glances at him as he sings his songs, and most were men--mostly rangers and sellswords that pass through the towns for a gig or two. Men were short-lived beings whose hearts are filled with yearn for violent and filthy delights, yet ironically, their simplicity let them forgive him in ways his kins can never do. There once was a sellsword with hairy chest and tanned muscles, who killed men for a living and once helped him to dispatch a gang of bandits. When he told him about his true identity--under the guise of “lie”, of course--the man only laughed, “kinslaying was your greatest crime? if that was the case, I have killed my kins for a living and i don’t see the big deal in that.” The bard does not how to respond to someone who could not even understand his sins, and their ignorance is a bliss and relief to him at the same time. it was not hard to captivate the hearts of men with his beauty, but it was hard when he has to say no to those who wanted more from him than one or few nights of passion. The same sellsword has accompanied him for a while, and when he asked why the man has taken such interest in him, the sellsword simply said that he wish to protect him. Maglor is no wise prince but even he could tell that the man wanted to be with him, that the man has fallen in love. “you life is too finite to waste on someone like me,” Maglor had told him. “your life isn’t?” The man threw the statement back at him and it ached Maglor that he could not tell him the truth.

#yolanda talks #god if i dont draw a maglor + ghost theme comic before the end of the mouth for inkotoper then i will just have to perish

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garden-ghoul · 7 years

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bloggbblog, part 8

“my GOAL for this one is to do 2 chapters since I have jack else to do. idk if I’m using jack correctly in this sentence.”

FLIES AND SPIDERS

Why is it my most vivid memories of this book are of the dwerrows getting captured in sacks/spider webbing. Is it just because it’s KIND OF WEIRD that this exact thing gets repeated. Wait shit the point is probably to contrast “Gandalf has to save everyone while Bilbo hides” and “Bilbo saves everyone because getting the Ring made him suddenly competent.” No uh why is he competent now? I like the bit where he’s the only one with eyes sharp enough to spot Beorn in chapter 7, and now he’s turning into a real hero. I think what might have done it was the moment when he steps out of the cave, finally free, and then realizes he’s going to have to go back into danger to save his friends. That bit was really good, like just understated enough that clearly Bilbo doesn’t even realize how much he’s changed.

Sorry. That’s what I got from the TITLE of the chapter. Uhh let’s start reading it. So far the first paragraph informs us in a very fun way that the forest is dark because it’s covered in trees. It’s also full of cobwebs bigger than any Bilbo has ever seen, though thankfully (but mysteriously) they don’t go across the Path. And at night many eyes come to stare at our heroes--the forest is completely zero-photon black, though, so honestly this just proves that Tolkien put all his points into mythology and none in biology. I’m pretty sure spiders don’t even have tapeta lucida, so what the fuck. Basically Tolkien spends a couple pages enumerating all the ways the forest sucks, and then the party stumbles upon the Lethe. They don’t want to wade it, for fear that forgetfulness is absorbed via skin contact, BUT there is a boat on the far bank that they are able to hook with their convenient grappling hook (it’s not a grappling hook it’s like one of those bungee hooks).

As they’re just barely across a hart runs over Bombur and knocks him into the water, causing him to fall asleep. In the distance: a horn, baying hounds. Maybe they were hunting the hart! Or maybe they were hunting these other deer that show up--the dwerrows use all of their remaining arrows trying in vain to shoot them, and now the bows are useless. Fools. Tolkien informs us that they are actually getting close to the eastern edge of the wood, but they don’t know this and are beginning to despair, because they’ve been carrying Bombur for four days. Um is he just. Asleep now, permanently. In time the trees start to thin, even as the party begins to hear strange eerie songs and laughter. I wonder if the elves also don’t want to live too deep in the forest. Bilbo is made to climb a tree to try and see the end, because he’s lightest; finds some spiders “after the butterflies.” Listen. Butterflies are a fool’s errand. They’re mostly wing and they destroy webs really easily. Don’t bother with them. I get that this is like a metaphor or something but I’m cheesed. Oh they’re cool butterflies, though, and tons of them. With velvet black wings. Bilbo sees no end to the forest, because he’s in a valley, and everyone is miserable.

Bombur wakes up. I’m not sure if this is of consequence yet, but he has dreamed of feasting with the elves. He sees torches and fires lit, a ways off the path, which is honestly very will-o-wisp and oh great there he goes. He’s trying to go over there. It is decided that a couple people should creep over and spy, but since they might get lost forever, uh, everyone decides to go, which is the opposite of what makes sense in this situation, but whatever. They smell roasting meat and all try to leap toward it, and the elves vanish. Orrrr possibly they were an illusion the whole time, unclear. Now everyone is lost, so good job. Should have! left someone! on the path!

The lights come on again. Thorin decides to send Bilbo, the least scary, to parley.

The lights go out, and Bilbo is lost. They find him asleep a while later (weak from hunger?)

"I was having such a lovely dream," he grumbled, "all about having a most gorgeous dinner."

"Good heavens! he has gone like Bombur," they said. "Don't tell us about dreams. Dream-dinners aren't any good, and we can't share them."

This is just cute dialogue. The dwerrows STILL haven’t learned their lesson, because the next time they see lights--a huuuuge feast--they go and try to crash it again. Look the elves are just trying to eat and they keep having to pick up all their stuff and sprint away while they’re trying to have a good time. Let them alone. Thorin steps out and everyone looks at him for a moment, and then they snuff the lights and kick ashes in the dwerrows’ eyes. All the dwerrows get lost, and Bilbo can’t find any of them. So he lies down against a tree and goes to sleep, the only reasonable course of action.

He wakes up and a spider is trying to wrap him up. He panics but manages to kill it with his sword, and then passes out again. When he wakes up there’s a dead spider and he’s still alone. But.

Somehow the killing of the giant spider, all alone by himself in the dark without the help of the wizard or the dwerrows or of anyone else, made a great difference to Mr. Baggins. He felt a different person, and much fiercer and bolder in spite of an empty stomach, as he wiped his sword on the grass and put it back into its sheath.

"I will give you a name," he said to it, "and I shall call you Sting."

Birth of a legend.

He uses his innate hobbit stealth and also the Ring to sneak up on some spiders. That is, he sneaks in a random direction and falls ass-backward into a rescue. Also I want to interject here that the cobwebs these spiders make, unlike normal cobwebs, are black. If their hugeness wasn’t enough, this is probably a Clue that they are descended from Ungoliant or her like. They digest the light and excrete the darkness that is left over! Maybe that’s why this forest is so dark! Hey hey did we ever get any good descriptions of Nan Dungortheb. I bet it’s like this.

Bilbo listens in on some spider conversation, which makes me really wonder if Shelob could talk and just didn’t feel like it. It’d make sense if she could talk, right? Anyway it’s really fun how all the Horrible Monsters in this book talk like average Toms, Dicks, and Harrys. Hang ‘em up for a couple days and they’ll be bee-autiful, says one of the spiders. I’m serious. One of the spiders goes up to inspect Bombur and almost gets kicked off the branch and everyone else laughs. It’s like. Every kind of sentient creature is essentially the same. Why does Tolkien keep making people relateable and humanizing them and then turning right around and having the heroes remorselessly kill them?? Johnald you might want to get that checked out???

Turns out Bilbo is a good shot with a stone, and always has been. This is one of those things where you just assume he has a lot of mundane skills and you can just make one up if it happens to be useful. Bilbo throws the stone at the spider that’s about to gank Bombur (?usage?) and it falls off the branch and lands flop with its legs all curled. I like how he sometimes puts onomatopoeias into sentences like that, it flows real nice.

The next stone went whizzing through a big web, snapping its cords, and taking off the spider sitting in the middle of it, whack, dead. After that there was a deal of commotion in the spider-colony, and they forgot the dwerrows for a bit, I can tell you.

Good diction thanks. AND THEN HE SINGS. I love these songs so I’m going to stick them right in for you to enjoy too.

Old fat spider spinning in a tree! Old fat spider can't see me! Attercop! Attercop! Won't you stop, Stop your spinning and look for me! Old Tomnoddy, all big body, Old Tomnoddy can't spy me! Attercop! Attercop! Down you drop! You'll never catch me up your tree!

I think I recall at one point looking this up and finding that ‘attercop’ and ‘cobweb’ have a common root that means spider in like Old English. Tomnoddy, from a cursory googling, means “hey dumbass.” Bilbo successfully leads the spiders away from his friends, but now they are weaving webs to fence him in. Tolkien doesn’t know how long it takes to make a web, either.

Lazy Lob and crazy Cob are weaving webs to wind me. I am far more sweet than other meat, but still they cannot find me!

Sounds like Shel Silverstein. Alsooo I’m very happy about both internal rhyme and alliteration. Bilbo is a great fight-for-your-life spur-of-the-moment poet. Bilbo books it back to where his friends are (impressive sense of direction) and starts freeing them. After killing another spider! And then half a dozen more when they start to return! He’s growing into quite the murderer, is our Bilbo! The dwerrows try and join in, but they uhh have all been poisoned, and aren’t doing too good. Eventually Bilbo decides in desperation to draw the spiders off so they rest can escape. It takes hours but finally they do.

Everyone is bone tired. They rest in the elf campsites, which are maybe protected? And Bilbo tells them the story of getting the Ring, and they all decides that he Knows Things and must have a way to get them out of their pickle (still starving to death). Oh also Thorin is just straight up missing, he was kidnapped by the elves. Tolkien hastens to assure us that even though wood elves are dangerous and have kidnapped Thorin, “still elves they were and remain, and that is Good People.” Fake. Don’t tell me every elf is good. You’re the one who came up with Eol and Maeglin. Feanor. Every one of Feanor’s dumb ass sons. Anyway the woodland king is questioning Thorin. This bit’s hilarious.

"Why did you and your folk three times try to attack my people at their merrymaking?" asked the king.

"We did not attack them," answered Thorin; "we came to beg, because we were starving."

"Where are your friends now, and what are they doing?"

"I don't know, but I expect starving in the forest."

"What were you doing in the forest?"

"Looking for food and drink, because we were starving."

At least Thorin gets fed in elf jail.

BARRELS OUT OF BOND

The party is sort of staggering along, hopefully in the direction of the path, when twilight falls. Twilight is Elf Time. The dwerrows are glad to be captured, though; Bilbo goes invisible and sneaks after them, so as to have a hope of rescuing them. None of the dwerrows is willing to talk when questioned by the elf king, so that’s good. Apparently he has a great liking for treasure and is probably trying to get gold out of them. How the tables have tabled! He gets angry at them for just being in his kingdom and throws them in prison with some food but no talking. And he doesn’t tell them he has Thorin.

Bilbo lives for a week off stolen food, creeping out the door after hunting parties occasionally but unable to find the way out of the wood. It’s absolutely miserable, he never takes off the Ring and hardly dares to sleep. He finds Thorin eventually and acts as a secret courier between him and the rest of the dwerrows. Guys I Fuckin Love the narrative where people are imprisoned and have only the slimmest hope of getting out, someone sneaking around in desperation for their own life. It’s such a specific thing but I Love It.

Bilbo does not love it. He doesn’t like the hypervigilant life, and he doesn’t like having fourteen lives on his shoulders. Eventually he puts the river delivery service and a lucky break of the guard getting drunk... into a Plan. Steals the keys and goes around unlocking dwerrows. They don’t like “escaping in barrels on the river” but what are you going to do? Unfortunately Bilbo packs everyone into barrels and then has no-one to pack him. He panics while the barrel-rollers sing a barrel-rolling song that is much more elvish than their dialogue, puzzlingly. Bilbo has to cling to an empty barrel “like a rat.” It’s hard, because of how it is Round. The rest of the chapter is basically more “barrels are hard and the dwerrows might be dead.”

#urgh teatime #there's just too much daylight in the summmer #and I'm very tired #blog of the rings

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beruthielthequeen · 7 years

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Little Muse Things

Tagged by: @cllgood

Tagging: gods, uh, i don’t know. everyone. you. right there. that’s right, YOU. Aaaand @piraticalwit @twisted-but-pretty @dipsomanes @graveycrd (or whatever muse you want, scout, idk) and @curufinwefeanaro (do it for feanor now i need it)

WHAT DOES YOUR MUSE SMELL LIKE? Depends on many factors, including what time in her life we’re talking about what what she’s recently been doing. In later years, when she spends time gardening, there might be a scent of damp earth or green things hanging around her. If she has been writing (which is often and always) she’d smell of iron gall ink and parchment, particularly around her hands of course. But one constant is the scent of honeysuckle. She buys or distills honeysuckle oil and uses it to scent her soap; she brushes the oil through her hair after washing it.

HOW OFTEN DOES YOUR MUSE BATHE/SHOWER? ANY HABITS? Every day, if possible. Her body, at least. Her hair, being thick and unruly at the best of times, she washes more seldom...perhaps once a week... and allows to air dry, after brushing oils through it to tame and condition it. Depending on her circumstances, she will either take a full-immersion bath (in Umbar, in Gondor, in any situation which allows for that luxury) in a tub or pool; or merely use a basin and cloth to wash herself piecemeal if there’s no soaking tub to hand.

DOES YOUR MUSE HAVE ANY TATTOOS OR PIERCINGS? She has a single piercing in each earlobe and one in her left nostril. When she was sent to Gondor, she removed the jewelry from all three and the piercings closed up eventually. Once she left, she found a piercer in the Haven of Umbar to recreate them. All she wears are thin, small rings of silver usually, even now. She does not have tattoos, though they are traditional in her mother’s culture. But she doesn’t feel she has a right to them, having not been raised in that culture.

ANY BODY MOVEMENT QUIRKS? (E.G. KNEE SHAKES?) She’s... well, feline. A lot of her movements are, fittingly, catlike. When angry or annoyed, her hands tend to clench and flex at her sides, like a cat’s claws sliding in and out. She alternates between slow, languid, slinky grace and sudden quick bursts of activity, or even playfulness.

WHAT DO THEY SLEEP IN? Naked, by preference. That being specifically at times when she lives alone, or is sleeping with a partner she’s chosen of her own enjoyment. (Her canonical husband Tarannon is not among these.) When traveling, whether she’s sleeping rough in a camp or in an inn bed, she’ll sleep in the underlayers of her clothing (or in all of it, depending on how cold it is out!) In her time in Gondor, while married to King Tarannon, she slept in a long chemise of undyed and unembroidered Harandorim linen.

WHAT’S THEIR FAVOURITE PIECE OF CLOTHING? Despite her general preference for black and silver, her favorite item is actually a shawl of very finely woven wool, dyed with indigo. The first of these was her mother’s. Eventually, it grew too fragile to wear and she folded it away for storage and replaced it with a similar item purchased in An Pharaz. Otherwise, she prefers silk in loose, draping shapes or in quite straight and simple cuts which skim her body; flexible and soft but durable leather; and linen. All in her signature black, of course, with silver accents.

WHAT DO THEY DO WHEN THEY WAKE UP? Depends greatly on verse and time in her life. At minimum, stretch and bathe. And then a very light breakfast, for preference. Toasted bread with butter and honey, perhaps fruit. Also Umbarim-style pancakes, if she is cooking for herself; whatever is traditionally eaten as a breakfast food where she happens to be, otherwise. Sweetened mint tea. Lots of it. And after breakfast, again this depends. In her youth in Umbar, schooling is likely. In Gondor, there might have been court functions to attend; or what few visits with her handmaidens she’d have bothered to make. She spent a lot of time in the gardens, in both Umbar and Gondor. In her own home later on, she would get started on the day’s chores. Oh, and... feed the cats!

HOW DO THEY SLEEP? POSITION? Alone? Curled on her side, knees toward her chest, with pillows piled behind and around her. She basically likes to make a little nest of cushions and blankets and sink down into it, with her cats tucking themselves in wherever there’s room. In company, she’d enjoy laying her head on her bedpartner’s chest, or being spooned. Or, depending on partner, spooning them. She’s very tactile, really, and as long as they’re touching, she’s happy.

WHAT DO THEIR HANDS FEEL LIKE? Very soft and smooth and warm. She uses scented balms and lotions on them to keep the skin soft and supple, even at times in her life when she uses her hands more for labor. During her years in the courts of her home city (An Karagmir, in Umbar) or in Gondor, of course she was seldom called upon to do things which roughened the skin, but even then she’d have used the same balms, preferring argan oil from Umbar over beeswax when she can find it. Her nails are generally quite long and sharp, but well kept and clean.

IF YOU KISSED THEM, WHAT WOULD THEY USUALLY TASTE LIKE? …Mint tea, probably. Or just... herself, if she’s not been eating or drinking recently. If kissing her skin, not her lips, she might taste of the oils she uses to condition her skin, or like the preserved lemons she uses in a lot of her own cooking for herself.

#jfc this one is long #i prevailed #and nobody to write her story down (headcanons)

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hopelessly-hailey · 7 years

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Fingon stood in the middle of his newly completed shop smiling he can’t believe all of this is actually real and his life now. He and his two partners Glorfindel Losgloriol and Finrod Felagund. They were both so very helpful in the proses of setting up the shop and he is glad that he decided to do this with them. Fingon walks to the front window and looks out on to Eru Street. He could see Mirkwood wine down the street next to the Dale fish market. There was a rumor going around that the owner of Mirkwood wines and the new owner of the Fish market were having a secret relationship. Well not really secret as their individual children didn’t really keep their mouths shut on the issue. Fingon chuckled and looked more down the street to see the Baggend Books and Erebor jewelry, now their owners were definitely dating and everyone knew it. Fingon smiles again and looks right across the street to the shop that would be what he opened the story to every day. The Sons of Silmarils, they were the best tattoo shop in the entire town maybe wider. It was owned by 5 sons and their father but there were 7 of them but the last two were too young but it was expected that they would follow in their father’s footsteps and join the family. Each one of the brothers had their own style that they were the best in. Curufin was the one that you went to if you wanted innovational pieces. Caranthir is known for his dark subjects and lack of bright colors. Celegorm is known for his realistic animal pieces they are said to be so realistic you would think you could pet them. Maglor was the best at technical pieces and the finer details. Maedhros, Fingon’s heart flutters remembering his face on the magazine that he hid in the back room of the shop, was known for not specializing in anything he did what was asked of him. Feanor, their father, was the best in the country for his jewel tones and knowing how to make tattoo’s sparkle. He was honored to think that he was across from them he knew their paths would never cross as professionals but maybe he would get a tattoo from them at some point. Fingon laughed at the thought knowing he could never do that and his father might explode it is bad enough he didn’t follow his father into investment banking like his younger brother Turgon would a tattoo on top of that he might kill his father then and there. Fingon sighed and flipped the sign to open and proceeded to do his normal tasks before his partners joined him for the day and they hopefully would have some applicants to work with them in the shop. He hummed as he worked and talked to the flowers he knew he looked crazy but it is shown to help them grow. He was talking to the Dalia’s when he heard the quite tinkling of the bell meaning someone had come in he popped up to see who it was and hoped that it wasn’t his partners or family.

Thorin walked into the shop and looked around. He didn’t go in flower shops ever but today he was making an exception as Bilbo had been dropping hints all week about the flower shop that just opened so he was doing this to appease the lovely man. The problem was he knew absolutely nothing about flowers but hey that’s what the owner is here for right? Where is the owner he thought as he looked around the shop. Fingon walked over to him so excited he couldn’t see straight and almost knocked the baby’s breath over.

“Welcome! What can I help you with today?” Fingon says in an overexcited tone and recognizes Thorin from when his brother bought the necklace for his fiancée and for their mother a few years back

“Hello? I am looking for flowers for my partner.” Thorin say and thinks “Why the hell else would I be here?”

“Alright! What does he like? I have everything here that you could imagine well except for the geraniums but they won’t be in season for a few more weeks. But I have most everything else you could be looking for” Fingon can’t seem to stop his mouth as he chatters on and on about the flowers.

Thorin looks at him and is overwhelmed “Ummm. He likes flowers and oak leaves?” Thorin says and looks at him hoping that might help in some way.

Fingon thinks for a moment “Does he have allergies because I have a few flowers that don’t give off pollen but they still have the smell or I can just go with sweet smelling things or I can make you something with meaning like care or love?” Fingon has called down and now he walks around and picks up a few flowers that he knows would fit with an oak leaf as a focal point in the center he even has a few fake acorns since he knows those are the embalm on the store.

Thorin watches him and says “No he has no allergies but if you can put something together with meaning that will be nice for him.” Thorin just watches and wonders what this will look like.

Fingon looks at him “Twine and paper or vase?”

“Um. Vase and can you cut them and put the water in” Thorin asks knowing that is all he ever sees Bilbo doing to them.

Fingon chuckles and nods “Of course.” Fingon keeps walking around and picking flowers that mean caring and love and throws in a few green roses just for a nice touch before going back and tallying everything up and arranging them in the best way. “Do you want to take it or have it delivered?” Fingon asks and knows that he would have to be the one that does that but still they should offer it.

“I will just take it I want to see the look on his face. He doesn’t think I can take hints so this will show him that I do listen to his yammering on” Thorin says with a chuckle.

Fingon smiles at him and finishes the arrangement putting the acorns as a focal point to the bow he ties around the vase. “Done!” Fingon smiles and slides it over to the register ringing him up as Thorin walks up and gets his wallet out and pays for it looking confused at the total as this is a large arrangement. “I gave you the first customer discount” Fingon explains at the confusion. Thorin looks at him surprised “Oh. Thank you?” Thorin takes the arrangement with a groan at first and walks to the door as Fingon rushes to open it for him quickly. Thorin nods to him and is on his way to the bookstore hoping Bilbo will like it.

Fingon stands in the shop for a moment before starting his happy dance that was his first sale!!! He smiles to himself and thinks that he should have some premade arrangements. Fingon finds himself looking up periodically as he makes flowers at the tattoo shop across the street. It’s not open yet as it is 9 am and that is a bit early for a tattoo artist to be awake. He wants to see if he can get a glimpse of any of the artists. But deep down he knows that the only one he really wants to get a look at is Maedhros…He was just so handsome and Fingon hadn’t had a crush this hard since freshman year of college and that had gone so very badly but he had met Glori out of the entire ordeal. Where was he anyway? Fingon looks at the clock and realizes he just spent 30 minutes staring at the shop across the way. He shook his head and made more arrangements and thinks about maybe taking on across the street but that feels so silly as who would want to see flowers when they walk into a tattoo parlor? He shook his head and waited for Glori he was running late but he had expected that so no need for him to worry just yet. He just hummed along till he heard the bell and the huffing of his friend. Fingon looks up to see Glorfindel looking like he was pulled backward through a hole.

“Woah! You look like hell” Fingon says with a chuckle at his friend.

Glorfindel looks at him and he did have twigs in his waist length blonde hair “Well I have been through hell and I tripped on my way out of the house this morning.” He puts three cups on the counter and the breakfast sandwiches he had brought anticipating that Fingon would have forgotten to eat and he was right in this assumption. “I also stopped and got sandwiches and tea for the three of us.” He looks around “Where is my blonde twin?” He asked pulling on his golden apron and picking the twigs out of his hair.

Fingon was focused on the smell of ham that he missed the question at first but after a moment he finally heard him. “No clue probably with his other-other best friend. He always likes to see Turgon in the morning and I’m sure he didn’t sleep last night” He unwraps the sandwich and starts to eat knowing that one was his as it had pepper jack on it as everyone knew he liked.

Glorfindel looked at him and chuckles pulling the hair up in a massive bun on the back if his neck “Well he needs to get his butt here. This is all of our baby and he needs to help take care of it. Have we had any people yet today?” He asks checking on the Marigolds and drinking his tea.

“Yes, we did! The jeweler down the street came in and was I have, to say the least, helpful in what he wanted in an arraignment for the book dealer. Whose name is Bilbo by the way so you call him the right name.” Fingon is smiling and rolls his eyes and Glori.

Glorfindel look up and smiles “We are on our way to greatness!”

Fingon laughs “It was one sale we are hardly on the way to greatness.” He finishes the sandwich and they keep chatting about the shop till he sees movement across the street at about 11 am. He looks up to see red hair walking into the shop following a much shorter man with dark hair tied back like Glori always does and he knows that can only be one person with red hair going into a tattoo shop this early and he smiles for no reason really as it was the back of his head but now he knows that they are at least in their shop now he needs a reason to go over there that isn’t creepy and weird. Glorfindel watches him and laughs “Really?? Are you still crushing on him!? You don’t know him!”

Fingon looks at him “Shut up and you have no stones to throw you were the one that was looking at fountain guy’s butt last week and we all saw you do it!”

“I was not! He was just across the street and I happened to look which happens when you are hanging the sign!” Glorfindel retorts “And go talk to him! He is our neighbor? Street mate? I don’t know what he is but he is right there!” Points across the street “Now don’t make me push you. And take some flowers advertise the shop while you flirt”

Fingon blushes but knows that Glori won’t shut up if he doesn’t go “Fine! But I’m not taking flowers they will be out of place in the shop”

“Yes you are and I swear to Yavanna you are even if I have to follow you myself!” Glorfindel says passionately.

“This is why fountain guy ignored you. You are pushy.” Fingon takes the flowers her has made thinking of them, mostly Maedhros, and walks over feeling his inside rolling around unhappily but he makes it to the door and opens it tentatively to hear a cruel voice shouting at him “If you can’t read the sign you can’t get a tattoo we open in an hour!”

Fingon responds “Oh! No, I just have flowers!”

“We don’t want any pansy ass flowers in this shop!” The cruel voice says.

“Wait!! No, I will take them they can stay in my station!” A nicer voice answers.

“Mag’s you can barely keep yourself alive how on this green earth will you keep flowers alive??” Another voice answers.

“Someone just get the damn things before he faints!” yet another voice answers before he sees a man with dark hair walk to the front with his full sleeves on display and Fingon can see that one is full of music and the other has portraits of his brothers all in very different styles and it hits Fingon maybe all of his brothers did their own pictures and he can see a woman that looks like she is sculpted in marble on the top of his hand she is beautiful and looks like she could be right out of art history books but he finds himself a bit disappointed because it wasn’t who he had wanted to see.

“Hello! I’m Maglor!” He says standing at the front desk and smiling “Those are beautiful! Are you the new florist across the street? My brother won’t shut up about your shop.”

“Shut your mouth Mags!!” Comes a voice from the front station

Fingon chuckles “Yes I am one of the owners. I am Fingon. Nice to meet you and this arrangement is all done by me and I wasn’t sure what you would want so I just made a mixture so you could see what we did.” He rambles again.

“Make him shut up!” Feanor walks out and looks at the two of them. He is covered in tattoos but you can see that the one he is proudest of is right in the middle of his chest as it is the only one that he is constantly showing and it looks like it is glowing. He gives off a scary aura. “I told you. We don’t need any pansy flowers in this shop. We defiantly don’t need a pansy carrying them.”

Fingon looks at him he is used to the comments on his sexuality and the fact that the shop is owned by two gay men and a bisexual man won’t help his case right now so he is frozen not saying anything.

“Get off it dad. You don’t know anything about him.” Maedhros said standing up from his station and looking over to them. Fingon thought his heart might stop his was even more beautiful up close and defending him was just the cherry on his happiness cupcake. Maedhros walked over to them and Fingon got the chance to see all of him. He was taller than he had anticipated. Fingon looked at the sparse tattoos that he had showing and thought that all the ones he had were so beautifully crafted for his body. The one on his forearm was the one that he got entranced in. It was a stained glass window with what looked like Prometheus in it. He looked at it and how tragically beautiful it was he got so caught in it he didn’t notice Maedhros was talking to him. Fin looked up at him “Hm?”

Maedhros chuckled “I asked your name and how much for the flowers”

“Oh! Fingon and they are free. It was my reverse shop warming gift.” Fingon smiles at him finally getting to look into his clear eyes.

Maedhros smiles back at him and chuckles “Well thank you. I’m sure the clients will enjoy the flowers as much as we will… Some of us at least.”

“As long as they are enjoyed I am happy and if you need any references the shop is open to any of you.” Fingon looks at the three of them to see Maglor’s smiling face, Feanor’s grumpy one and Maedhros’s smiling one still looking at Fingon.

“We will take you up on that Fingon you can be sure of that.” Maglor says before he turns back to his station and takes a few of the flowers to put in his station giving Maedhros the vase.

Feanor looks him up and down “Tell us if we can ever put some ink in your pale flesh it would look good with a dark piece on it and would make you look less like a fag.” He walks away after paying that very odd compliment or at least that is how Fingon is going to take it.

Maedhros rolls his eyes “Thank you for this Fingon.” He pats Fingon’s shoulder and smiles

Fingon smiles back “No need. Have a good day” He turns to leave as the blush swells up on his face not seeing Maedhros smelling the flowers and smiling to himself going back to his station with the flowers and making the perfect place for them on his shelf. Fingon walks back to his shop and the jokes Glori and Finrod will make about his blush because he was happy and might just have to make an appointment with Maedhros.

#fingon #maedhros #soulmates #russingon #maglor #tolkien #feanor

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blankdblank · 5 years

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My Pearl Pt 10

…

Pt 1 - Pt 2 - Pt 3 - Pt 4 - Pt 5 - Pt 6 - Pt 7 - Pt 8 - Pt 9 -

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…

Empty bowl aside you sat between Thorin’s legs with your legs up on the cushioned footrest and draped your arms back behind Thorin’s neck gently stroking the skin there under his braid making him smirk as you asked, “Was it that unusual for me to be going off to the meeting alone?”

Thorin lowly hummed as his fingers trailed across the tops of your thighs, “Did they give you a hard time?”

You shook your head, “No. Dain commented that I looked exquisite, and wondered how you let me out of your sights alone. And the twins brought up me coming alone and then the trussing question came up. Is it that quick?”

Thorin chuckled about your comment on Dain then he wet his lips and rumbled back, “Seeing as that was the, what, second time to speak to them properly and fifth time you had seen one another, perhaps in their minds. We weren’t Pear and Patron long, though I’ve known you were talented for quite some time. Being able to see from the sink how we moved, what we needed, no doubt memorizing our recipes, not many can do that. They know you from a distance, they’ll see soon enough if they haven’t already from your meeting.” His lips met your cheek and he purred, “Don’t mind the stubbornness of Dwarves who know the work put into building a legacy. They’ll see you have one of your own.”

With a chuckle you turned kissing his cheek resting your forehead against his cheek, “I had a thought.”

“Hmm?” His arms shifted to curl around your middle as he stroked his cheek against your forehead.

“I know there’s a lot of interest in my Gran’s food, I thought about making my ugly cook book.” He chuckled deeply making you giggle to yourself, “What? I think it would sell. The Feanoreans would love it.”

Thorin nodded, “I don’t doubt that. I suppose that means you’ll be keeping the more appealing dishes to yourself then?”

“For now. Echo and Glori agree it would be a good start.”

He chuckled again, “I think it would be an excellent start. Thought of a publisher?”

You nodded, “Feanor has a younger sister, Irime, she is the head of the top Elven food genre publishers. She hounded Gran for centuries.”

Thorin tilted his head moving his hand to wipe the tear trail from the drop that landed on his arm, “If you don’t think she would approve-,”

You shook your head, “No, she always said she wanted me to make them. She knew she was getting sick. Took a trip and somebody infected her with a morgul blade. Slow and deadly. She started the recipes, had the initial spark, but she always said her recipes blossomed with me. Wanted me to keep them, and help them grow. To make them better than anyone could manage to. That’s part of why she gave me her name, used to have these dreams like most Elven mothers do, of who we’d be, what we’d achieve.”

Another tear fell to his arm, “You know, she used to tell me, Jay’s dream was a small forest, in the middle of a scorched desert, and mine, was so simple, she was standing in the water at the ocean around Doriath and, if you’ve never seen it, the waters are a silvery blue almost transparent. Reflecting the stars and moon, but when the sun rises, it’s endless waves of golden fire. And the sun rises in the sky, and she sees, a small boat in the distance,” you let out a weak giggle, “And it starts raining feathers.”

Thorin couldn’t help but smirk in confusion, “Feathers?”

You giggled again, “Owl feathers, meaning-,”

Lowly he added, “You would be under Mahal’s care.”

“That’s why she wrote to Orcarni about me, why she gave me a Dwarven Godfather.”

“So she knew you’d cross the ocean to us?”

You nodded, “Usually in the dreams it’s just someone swimming in the distance, a ship, well it’s hard to explain, it’s a continuation of the person watching, so to speak.”

“Hmm. You have this Irime’s number?”

You shook your head, “No, but last I heard Feanor paid a visit to Lindon last month, had planned on visiting his great, great? Grandchildren, can’t remember if it’s two or three greats. Out in Rivendell. No doubt he’ll be along eventually. I’ll talk to him about it.”

“You really respect him.”

You nodded, “He’s the one who took us off the Ring scales. I used to hear him say my Gran was his anchor. One of his few great supporters.”

“Did your Gran earn any rings?”

You shook your head, “No. Men exclusive. That’s why Feanor was so upset, his Naneth was an amazing baker and was cast out of all recognition for all she achieved. If you didn’t have a ring you had nothing. You were no one. And they always played favorites.”

“How did they meet, Feanor and your Gran?”

“Gran was best friends with his Naneth.”

“Is she still alive?”

You shook your head, “No. She was part of the Bakers Dozen,” Thorin shrugged and you wet your lips drawing an unsteady breath, “The Baker’s Dozen was a group of thirteen female chefs and bakers who were infected and killed for supporting Feanor in starting up his system. They gathered up Elleths to influence where they could, pop up cooking shows of just women, competitions and petitions to force the great culinary schools into accepting us.”

“They were killed?”

You nodded, “Trail got cold on who exactly killed who, but it all led back to Sauron.”

Thorin rumbled, “Who our forces killed along with his followers in the raids at Mordor and Angbad.”

“After the Baker’s Dozen Elleths were freely accepted. Still held at arms length, but it was a start.”

“I’m so sorry.”

You shook your head, “Funny thing is, they all had daughters or nieces or granddaughters named after them that carried it on.” Making Thorin smirk, “Feanor’s been looking for all of them for centuries. According to Glori, I’m the last.”

Thorin wet his lips, “Have the others done much since being found?”

“I believe I’m the oldest, most are still in culinary courses. Working on the side in their family shops. But they’re expected to do great things.”

“What about you?”

With a smirk you tilted your head to peer up at him, “My Gran is the only one to ever get five Sils. I am expected to be unreachable.” Making him smirk and kiss your lips firmly.

Purring lowly against your lips he responded, “No doubt you will be.”

“What about you? Any new books you’re putting out?”

He grinned, “Still working on the final draft.”

“If I distract you-,” His lips planted on yours again making you hum contently against his lips.

“You don’t distract me. You inspire me in fact. A few of my best ideas are ones we’ve talked about. Ones I’ve made for you.”

“Ooh, like the roast?” He nodded. “Ooh. Like a simple and easy book?”

He shook his head, “More for hearty tastes, for those with, how do I word it, Elven rules for the meat. When I first started at the Stone Frerin was dating an Elleth, who had two places she could eat out. We started going through our recipes, adjusting the sauces so we could cook them fully, bring in more clients. She spread the word at work and we posted it online. It’s been slow, but picking up lately.” His lips met your cheek again, “With your help. I’m not going to let the stone wither by forcing non Dwarfs out anymore. All it does is hurt the ones we love,” his voice dropped to a purr after kissing just below your ear, “And keep my Dearest One from a proper meal.”

You giggled at his lips pressing to your neck, “I hope you won’t be too hard on that chef.”

“He should have known better. I booked that table.” You giggled again as his lips trailed along your jaw, “But for you. I’ll let him squirm a bit then let him off with a warning.” Your giggle was muffled when his lips folded over yours in a fiery kiss that quickly led to him lifting you in his arms to go back to his bed for the night, showing you just how much he was dedicated to ensuring your every desire was fulfilled.

Though after his day of rushing around the night ended only after your second round, so as soon as you woke across his chest a shift of your leg brought the steadily hardening muscle resting under it to your attention. Nipping at your lip you slipped out of his arm stirring an irritated grumble from the Dwarf making him shift his legs, easing your slipping between them to trail your lips and tongue down to his navel making his chest rise higher in his waking peeks for where you were. A smirk eased onto his lips at your next teasing lick landing along the dripping tip stirring a low growl from him.

“Come here, Dearest.”

A moan came from him at your lips sinking around him muffling your, “Nuh-uh.”

His next chuckle melted into another moan lasting until the sudden pop of your lips leaving him just on the end of his climax, expecting him to lay back for a time to rest. However when you had reached his hips he sat up making you squeak at his gripping under your thighs resting each on his shoulders making you grip his hair then gasp at his tongue flicking out against your slick folds and purr, “I got you.”

He licked you again and you replied in a whining moan, “Thorin.”

Easing you closer to his mouth he rumbled against you, “Hmm?”

Through a giggle you asked, “Why your shoulders?” You didn’t get an answer just inhaled sharply gripping his hair tighter through his chuckles while his tongue circled your clit. Rolling your head back you moaned feeling him guiding your hips to rock easing his game, the nearer you got to your peak you didn’t notice one of his arms moving to help him ease back until you were on your knees while your legs were pinned under his back. Holding you right were he wanted you for your final moan in your forward lean against the headboard. A few steadying breaths later he lifted up freeing your legs and smirked at your straddling his hips and finger wag to sit up.

Chuckling lowly he sat up locking his eyes with yours as you asked, “I didn’t pull your hair too hard?”

He shook his head, “Nope.” Easing his hands over your thighs to your ass groaning as you sank around him, “Tug all you like.” A moan from your through your eyes rolling back made his smirk grow and hands to grip your ass firmer keeping your bouncing pattern, “Right there?”

A whimpering moan was all he got for an answer as your head drooped to his shoulder in his harder thrusts into you until you gasped and clutched him tighter trailing your fingers through his hair tugging his braid a bit making him chuckle as he held you close while you steadied again.

The ding of his phone made him grumble, “Oh not now..” Reaching over he grabbed his phone, reading the message from Bilbo reminding him of his coming over in half an hour. Lowly Thorin huffed and set the phone aside, gripping your thighs to lift you and flip you over onto your back making you giggle, “I’m sorry, we don’t have a lot of time. I’ll make it up to you later.”

A tug on his beard brought his lips to yours for the start to his deliberate ploy to tip you both over the edge again ending with his carrying you into the shower. Shifting the shower head so your hair would stay dry and free him to steal another chance to soap you up and rinse you off himself between his knee weakening lip locks. All while you struggled to return the favor in time to dry off and giggle as he eased one of his shirts over your head after you had secured your bra matching the panties he had picked for you. After, you eased your arms through the holes he helped you into the shorts he’d picked and passed you a pair of your favorite knee high socks. Then tugged on a fresh pair of briefs and the pajama pants you’d gifted him in time to grab your discarded clothes and toss them in the hamper while you went to answer the door.

With a grin Bilbo came in seeing your new ring and earrings in place then paused smirking when he saw Thorin shirtless in his new pants. Quickly he pulled out his phone and snapped a picture of him he chuckled at typing something before sending it off, “I see somebody got another gift.”

Thorin chuckled and nodded his head guiding Bilbo into the dining room to the table where you were read the dissolution terms while Dwalin groggily came in through the front door to sit as your witness while Thorin passed Bilbo the revised terms you had edited the night before. A weak chuckle left the Hobbit reading over the changes earning an approving nod as he said, “I will have these drawn up by tomorrow.” Adding them to his bag along with your signed papers while Dwalin watched you walk into the kitchen after giving him a quizzical once over in his sweats and tank top over his moccasin slippers.

“I’m making waffles, how many do you want?”

Dwalin shook his head, “Oh, you don’t have-,”

“Nuh, nuh, nuh, no escaping waffles.”

Dwalin’s lips pursed curiously in his glance at Thorin who smirked at the pair and settled in his chair while you mixed up the batter and poured the first helping into the waffle iron. The trio chatted and Thorin beamed sharing your plan with the two making Dwalin turn to ask, “You’re planning an ugly cook book?”

Your giggle carried into the dining room as you finished the second helping of waffles after drawing out the eggs and cheese to scramble, “Thinking about it. Still have to finalize a few dishes to decide on including or not.” Carrying the food in you set it down as Bilbo came back after darting up to get the plates and utensils while Thorin handled the drinks and glasses.

Dwalin thanked you for breakfast and said when you sat across from him, “Well, I’m certain we could plan a weekly family tasting if you like. We mix up a few dishes a week and we can share out thoughts on them. What we’ve done with Thorin before and Dis’ nibbler book.”

After tilting your head to accept Thorin’s kiss on your cheek while taking his seat and passing you your drink. “Sounds good.”

Making him smirk until his hum sounded at the first bite of his waffles. “We need to eat here more.”

Eventually you were back at work again after your giggling path back to bed with Thorin stealing what time you could alone before having to face the world again. By weeks end the Stone had picked up but word had rippled around if you were working through the Celebration of Starlight the following night, in which all Elves were meant to stay home and celebrate the stars with their kin. With your Cousins already planning on coming back out again you had been given the night off, but what you didn’t expect was for the entire Stone to be shut down for the night so all the Durins could share in the tradition out of respect for their newest member. Neither did the customers, who spread the word quicker than you had expected even triggering a few more eateries in the area to do the same.

But steadily the people flowed in through the doors and until Tauriel walked in with a furrowed brow to Thorin side saying, “An Elf asked for a meal by Jaqi,” Her brows furrowed more as she slowly repeated in Doriathian, “and don’t skimp on the walrus.”

Her hands moved by her sides confused on the meaning as you grinned at Thorin, who had looked to you for an explanation. Your grin held and you asked Tauriel through a giggle, “Red hair, bright blue eyes?”

She nodded and Thorin wet his lips asking, “Wait, catch phrase, Feanor?”

You giggled and nodded and he nodded his head letting you take over his station after handing over his last helping of chicken breast while the men around you grinned giddily after Thorin had shared the food critic was here to test you.

In the lull of dishes they all watched passing you what you needed curiously inspecting the average looking rice dish topped with a few boiled cucumber and squash slices wrapped in bacon.

The left over portions were sampled while you started on the second all too repugnant looking chicken and steamed veggie mix under a disturbingly gray shade of sauce so much worse than the ‘Don’t look, Chicken’ dish from the other day. As it was scooted over Kili leaned closer to Thorin saying, “That is sooo much worse than the other one.”

Dwalin couldn’t help but snort as Tauriel came back in with a replay of the disturbed scowl on his face when she set it down and thanked her for it. After their own tasting of your second dish nearly having them on the ground from withholding the noises it tried to stir from them.

Across the room they eyed you taking the molten cakes you had just pulled out of the oven you were now covering with the sauce and toppings you had chosen turning it into an odd paint splattered mountain that made Tauriel shrug and carry it out only to return with a stunned expression and the cleaned second plate.

They all circled her as Kili took the dish asking, “What? What happened?”

Tauriel, “I, think, he was crying…” She glanced at you only to watch as you kept one of the cakes yourself to sample with the others waiting for them to taste while you leaned against the counter cleaning your fork and filling it again to offer Thorin now at your side.

Thorin asked, “Should he be crying?”

Wetting your lips as he tasted the bite you had offered, listening as you said, “It’s the last meal my Gran made him back in Doriath, that might be why.”

Thorin let out a low moan and Diaa came in to confirm the other customers had paid and headed out to their cars. Just leaving Feanor making you giggle and wink at Thorin then walk through carrying the rest of your plate to the private section he had been shown to finding him seated with fork raised eyeing the dish tearfully. With your foot you eased the chair across from him back and asked him, “Am I going to have to tie you down to taste it?”

Lifting his gaze he let out a relieved chuckle and lowered his fork for a tentative slice then tasted the dish as you settled into your chair. Quietly he cleaned his plate and you finished yours waiting for him to write down his notes into his phone, then stand as you did to fold around you in a tight hug making his dress shirt bunch up under your arms while he held you tightly through the Durins all peering through the propped open kitchen doors. Behind them Frerin and his crew joined the mix asking what he had missed before they prepped to pick up their late shift as a few more of the cleaning crew tidied up the dining halls stealing glances at you while they did.

When you pulled apart he glanced around chuckling as he wiped his cheeks saying, “I’m so glad to see you’re safe.” He claimed your hands inspecting your rings, focusing on your memorial ring identical to his, then met your eyes again, “I am so sorry I could not find you sooner.”

You shook your head with a comforting giggle, “No worries. Pirates are meant to be hard to find you know.” With a nod of your head you said while Kili slipped behind you awkwardly grazing your back on one foot to do so to collect your plates you giggled asking, “They have to switch over the shifts, you can come back to ours if you like, I’ll make some caramel cider.” You asked with a nip at your lip making him chuckle and nod, pocketing his journal in is move to join you into the kitchen to meet the anxious Durins. The ones on your shift eager to join you back to your place as you hung up your jacket and apron joining Thorin to his car while Feanor pulled his around to follow you.

Peering through the back window on his walk back from the guest bath he asked, “Why am I not surprised there is a pirate ship in the back yard?”

You giggled and said, “I was not informed of the pirate ship until about a week ago.”

You gave a playful glare at Thorin who chuckled saying, “I was not aware I was in a relationship with a Pirate. Pirate ship, usually a deal breaker.”

Feanor chuckled then moved closer to sit by you at the table smiling wider at the albums you had brought out. After both laughing and crying at a few of them he got a text message and stood, “I should get back to the hotel, Fingolfin said he’d be sending a search party if I didn’t get back to give him my report.”

Fili sat up asking, “How’d she do?!”

Feanor chuckled replying, “That, will be announced in three days on our weekly edition of our magazine. Full cover story.” He wet his lips and turned to you, “I have something for you.” Instantly you drew in a sharp breath seeing the crystal box he held up from inside his jacket pocket, “I know it was just announced you two are in a relationship, but she would want you to have this.” Your eyes landed on the solid black opal wedding band inside the clear box. A tear rolled down your cheek and he folded your hand around it, “It’s one of a kind. You are the only person that should ever wear it again.”

You peered up at him while his thumb eased over the solid fire quartz band on his hand, “This is-,”

He locked his eyes with yours, “I love her, and I promised her I would find you and look after you. I intend to keep that promise. We might not have had the chance for the wedding she deserved-,”

Your brows furrowed, “You actually got married?” He chuckled as you asked, “I thought Finarfin just used to tease you on not actually ever having the service. When did you get married?”

Feanor wet his lips, “You were still a baby. We took you two off to the butterfly springs. Eloped. My family was pissed. Though we weren’t actually engaged at that point.” Making your brow inch up and him chuckle again, “It was hard, and I was always traveling, and there was all the drama with the Sils. Well, we got a bit carried away on the wine and woke up married. Thing is, I hadn’t told her how much I loved her yet. So we didn’t broadcast it, but eventually I got the courage, and I bought her that ring.” Switching languages he added, “If you hold it up to a light it has a picture of our service, coated in butterflies.”

Again you crashed into his chest and he hugged you tightly in return catching Thorin’s eye to say, “If you don’t mind, I moved to Greenwood, conveniently down the road from Echo and Glori. Hope you don’t mind me dropping by.”

Thorin grinned at him, “You’re welcome any time. How long are you in town for?”

Feanor, “Till Tuesday.”

Thorin nodded wetting his lips then said, “Jaqi said you used to hang out in the kitchen while her Gran worked, you’re welcome to settle at her station and join us for this weeks taping if you wish to. And we’re closed tomorrow night, full Celebration of Stars with Glori, Echo and their little ones, you and your kin are welcome to that too.”

Feanor’s smile grew with tears threatening to fill his eyes, “I would love that.” When you released him he followed you to the door where he added your number to his phone and he wiped your cheeks sweetly smiling at you after pecking you on the forehead, “I will see you tomorrow my little Pirate.”

“See you tomorrow. Gramps.” The last word making his smile grow as he let out a weak chuckle turning with a wave then went to his car. Wiping his cheeks and stealing one last glimpse of you as he backed out of the driveway losing sight of you when you stepped back inside to be folded directly in Thorin’s waiting arms to be carried back to the couch covered in Durins for the film they had chosen. All thrilled to know you had so many more relatives to possibly join in the Celebration of Starlight.

When everyone had left you and Thorin cleaned up and he followed you into your closet where he watched you ease your glowing fingers around the ring casting out the image of them smiling in each other’s arms smiling widely in a sea of shimmering butterflies. Around your back Thorin wrapped his arms purring, “They looked happy.”

You nodded saying softly, “I can’t believe they were really married.”

Thorin, “Is that why you weren’t sent to live with him?” You nodded folding the box closed and set it with your other jewelry. “Well, this, is a big if, if we were to get to the point of getting engaged, it would be a perfect wedding band. Unless you would rather choose another.”

Turning around in his arms you hugged him tightly, “I’m sorry I keep having these surprises popping up left and right on you.”

He chuckled leaning down to kiss your forehead making you peer up at him and his sweet smile, “I hope till the day I turn to stone you never stop surprising me. And I will never grow tired of you and your mysteries. It is perfect, and it would be used as a token from your father’s kin in the hypothetical service you are most definitely not expected to be heading for in the possible distant future.”

Your raised a brow giggling, “Smooth save.”

Making him chuckle as you smoothed your hands over his chest, “I try.”

Chuckling again his eyes locked on yours lovingly as you said, “Thank you, for the invite for Feanor at the Stone and the celebration tomorrow.”

He grinned wider purring, “I think we’re all a bit more curious to see if he’s going to wait till the week is through to say how you did.”

You giggled again, “Oh, I will not be getting any favoritism.”

“I have never tasted anything like what you served him before. You have to have at least, two, minimum.”

You let out a giggle and said, “We will see.” Wiggling out of your jeans.

Turning to set your jeans aside to grab a pair of shorts before he wrapped you in his arms saying, “I know just the shirt I want you in.” Making you giggle and rest your head against his shoulder until he set you down freeing you to pull the shorts on then swap your blouse for the baggy black tank top he offered you showing most of your sides. As he changed into a pair of sweats you climbed on the bed settling back under the covers turning on the tv to pick a film to watch.

Eagerly Thorin slipped out of the room making you smirk curiously and get out of bed until he poked his head back in saying, “Don’t move.” Making you giggle as he darted back out of sight again only to return with bowls of diced fruit and dipping sauces he set on a folding tray over your lap then climbed in to settle under the covers with you chuckling at your playful smirk when he offered you the first piece.

Nipping at it you chewed it keeping your eyes on his seeing his deepening grin, “What?”

He chuckled lowly shaking his head, “My mom had a dream for me.”

“Really? What of?”

“Just that my One would be raised by fire and a mirror.”

Your brows rose and you giggled repeating, “Fire and a mirror. Not bad, all I got was a mountain goat in mine. Just stood there, watching me.”

His smirk deepened and he purred, “Wouldn’t happen to be a battle ram, would it?” You raised a brow, “Thorin, Battle-ram Durin.”

A blush struggled to cover your cheeks and you asked, “You don’t have your own One dreams?”

He nodded, “Mine is a garden of gemstones.”

“Blooming jewels?” He raised a brow with a hopeful glint in his eyes, “My name, it means blooming jewel.”

Without word or warning his lips were on yours for a firm kiss and when he pulled back you giggled again making him raise a brow until you giggled out, “Battle-ram.” He rolled his eyes, “I’m picturing you as a little kid bouncing around,” you curled your hand miming four legs making him smirk, “Just a little Battle-billy bouncing around, bleet, bleet, bleet.” He couldn’t help but chuckle as you actually made the goat sound and added, “You do have the disposition of a goat up front.” He chuckled again after you kissed him on the lips, “A very very handsome goat.”

“And you are the most gorgeous gemstone I’ve ever seen.”

You giggled through a blush saying, “Thank you. I wish my name was something cute like goat.”

He chuckled again, “Trust me, there are Dwarves that would love to have a name like yours. Precious gem is an adorable pet name.” He fed you another piece of fruit purring, “My Darling gemstone.” Kissing you again after you fed him a piece in return.

Pt 11

#Thorin x Reader OC #Hobbit #lotr

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sweetteaanddragons · 6 years

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Thingol Doesn’t Get a Silmaril. Now What?

Thingol is smart enough not to ask for a Silmaril. Instead, he pulls something of a King Saul and tells Beren he wants him to kill a hundred orcs and bring back proof that he’s done so. He says this is to prove that Beren will be able to protect Luthien. Luthien’s pretty sure he’s really hoping that Beren won’t come back.

Beren, whose sense of what’s reasonable has become somewhat skewed due to what his life has consisted of so far, is completely fine with this. His only real concern is the proof - he could cut off ears, he supposes, but then they’ll rot. Still. He’s good at killing orcs! He can do this!

Except he’s in desperate need of supplies, having left Doriath with the bare minimum of what Thingol felt like he could in courtesy give him. He thinks he can make it to Nargothrond, though, and this is a reasonable thing to ask for as a favor, right?

Finrod is happy to give him all the supplies he could need, but he sees that as hospitality, not repaying the debt. No, he’ll get some men and go with Beren. They might not be able to help him get the count he needs, but they can watch his back, and Finrod’s past ready to make a strike at the enemy again anyway.

Curufin and Celegorm don’t really get involved. If Finrod wants to go chase some orcs for a few months, that’s his business. They don’t care. They do make a few snide remarks about the situation, but that doesn’t really surprise anyone, least of all anyone who’s related to them.

Luthien is worried, but Beren has done this sort of thing before, and it’s not as if he’s going up against Morgoth himself. Even if she did go after him, she wouldn’t know where to start; out orc-hunting doesn’t exactly give her a direction to head in.

So Luthien’s not happy but no one sees the slightest need to lock her up. She doesn’t leave Doriath. Celegorm and Curufin never see her.

Beren racks up that kill count impressively fast. Finrod and the party of people he brought with him definitely see where all those stories came from, and the lands around Nargothrond are now a lot safer.

Beren gets his last kill and prepares to head back to Doriath. He offers Finrod his ring back, but Finrod feels incredibly guilty about nearly all of Beren’s people getting wiped out, and he still feels the shadow of doom lurking. He tells Beren to keep it.

Beren goes back to Thingol with both hands intact and overturns a backpack full of half rotted orc ears at his feet. He invites Thingol to count them.

(He’s included about a dozen extras, just in case.)

Thingol is reluctant, but a deal is a deal, and Melian seems to approve, and Luthian is finally smiling again …

So Beren and Luthian get married.

The Union of Maedhros takes longer to pull together without the hope the Silmaril represents. In the interim, Luthian and Beren have Dior, who grows faster than an elf would and is now in his adolescence.

When it does form, Nargothrond is fully committed. Doriath is … less enthusiastic … but with his daughter, son-in-law, and his best warriors all arguing for participation, and with no recent offenses from the sons of Feanor, he gives in and leads his armies from Doriath. He insists on calling it the Union of Fingon, though.

The Union is stronger than ever, but the question comes: Is it strong enough?

There are infinite ways the battle could go, losses that could cause fractures in a thousand different ways, victories that could herald a hundred coming shadows, but all outcomes fall into three categories: they lose, they win, or they fight to a stalemate but get the Silmarils.

Let’s say they win.

Finrod keeps control of Gwindor, and the line doesn’t break early. Some of the Men are still treacherous, but with greater numbers they overcome this. Luthien faces Sauron on the field, and her song defeats him so thoroughly, he flees wounded. Morgoth is forced to come out himself. He faces the combined songs of Luthien, Daeron, and Maglor, and the swords of Fingon and Maedhros.

They should not win. They cannot win.

Then Maglor is wounded in the midst of signing a song of power, and his power, called higher through pain, calls to the piece of his father embedded in the silmarils. They blaze hotter, furious, and Morgoth falters.

The others leap on the opening.

And Morgoth … falls.

It’s just his physical body, of course. They know he’ll form another eventually, but hopefully he’s wounded enough that it’ll take awhile.

In the meantime, Maedhros grabs hold of that awful crown, and it’s over, it’s done, all around the battlefield his brothers can feel their oath being lifted.

There’s a huge shockwave when Morgoth falls. A lot of his beasts turn in confusion, and their armies seize hold of the opportunity.

The day is not without losses. Beren fights a Balrog, and while he is still an impressive warrior, he’s not as young as he used to be, and it’s a Balrog. When Finrod sees him fighting it, he knows Beren needs help, and he goes to fulfill his oath.

The Balrog falls. Beren lives.

Finrod doesn’t.

Beren decimates everything around them that tries to touch the fallen king.

Azaghal still falls.

Huan falls taking out the greatest of wolves.

And there are others. So many others.

But they’ve won.

They care for their wounded. They do what they can for their dead. Then they go home triumphant and laugh at the Doom of the Noldor.

Or. Well. Most of them do.

“He’s going to come back,” Maedhros says flatly.

“Of course he is,” Fingon agrees, “but you try telling them that. We’ll stay watchful. At least the Oath’s handled, though. That’s one worry gone.”

Dior grows up and marries Nimloth. They have three beautiful children. Beren dies shortly after the last of his grandchildren are born. Luthian fades from grief and then talks Mandos into letting her share her husband’s fate.

Hurin, naturally, wasn’t captured. He goes home to his wife. So does Huor. There are still remnants of Morgoth’s armies hanging around, so it’s not quite a peaceful life, but they’re making progress. Turin grows up protective of his little sister and good friends with his cousin. Both he and Tuor make a name for themselves protecting their lands.

Tuor is captured by a band of Easterlings. Turin goes after him.

Unfortunately, Turin is intercepted by a certain dragon.

Glaurung has no particular idea who Turin is and no real desire to lay any sort of complicated trap. He just wants to eat him.

Unfortunately for Glaurung, Turin’s as skilled as he would be in a certain other life, and he’s not cursed this go round. Turin wins.

Unfortunately for Turin, he’s lost his cousin’s trail, and he has responsibilities he can’t abandon any longer. He’s forced to turn back, much against his will.

Tuor’s a long way from home by the time some elves attack the Easterlings, and he has a chance to fight loose. He does. He has rather a stroke of luck actually - The Easterlings had been sheltering in these ruins and right when he needs a weapon, he sees some of old Elvish make just lying there.

They defeat the Easterlings. When Voronwe sees just what weapon Tuor picked up, he looks grim and tells the confused Man that they have to go to Gondolin.

Tuor’s not totally sold on this idea since he’s heard that those who go to Gondolin can never leave if they know the way there, but Voronwe assures him that those rules have been much relaxed since Morgoth’s defeat, and a dream from Ulmo seals the matter.

They go to Gondolin as Ulmo prophesied with the warning that it will soon fall.

But the question is - Why?

Rewind to the last battle. Sauron flees, wounded.

A few years later, Annatar appears, announcing that the Valar are very pleased by what the Noldor have accomplished and that he has been sent to reward them with great knowledge.

Fingon is uncertain what to make of this. Maedhros is visiting him at the time, and he’s not uncertain at all. Feanor’s mistrust of the Valar has been passed down to his sons. Maedhros is not at all convinced that Mandos’s reaction to them at least delaying his Doom is pleased.

Also, something about him feels familiar in a way that makes Maedhros uneasy.

Annatar thinks about trying Maglor, but Maglor has combined his people with Maedhros’s, so that’s unlikely to work out well. The mostly nomadic Amrod and Amras have little to offer him. He could try Caranthir, but first he tries Nargothrond. The political situation is edgy, and that suits him very well. Orodreth is nominally in charge, but Curufin and Celegorm are far more influential than he is.

Celegorm follows his brother’s lead. Curufin is not interested in learning from anyone who is not his father.

Celebrimbor is a bit disappointed, and he’s a bit on edge by the whole situation in Nargothrond, but he still trusts his father. He says nothing.

Annatar doesn’t even try to get past Melian’s girdle.

Instead, he seeks out Gondolin.

He finds it.

Turgon’s not quite sure what to make of him, but it’s still fairly close to Morgoth’s defeat. He’s not yet as relaxed about Gondolin’s boundaries as he’ll become. He’s in no hurry to rush the Maia out.

And besides, his nephew is so enjoying learning from him, and the fruits of their collaboration have been quite beneficial.

Maeglin is just happy to have someone who understands, who doesn’t seem to judge Maeglin for his parentage, who teaches him things about smith work that even his father hadn’t known, who sees the way Maeglin is uncomfortable under the sun at noon and who quietly confesses that, while he’s sure it’s not quite the same, he often has a hard time adjusting to various stimulus when he’s incarnate himself.

Annatar listens. He doesn’t judge Maeglin for sometimes still missing his father or sometimes feeling a reflexive wariness around his uncle. He doesn’t judge him when his looks linger on Idril too long. Maeglin feels comfortable around him in a way he never has with anyone else.

And the magic rings they create are fascinating.

Maybe. Maybe if he makes one incredible enough, Idril will accept it?

Idril does not accept it. Idril is disgusted by him.

Annatar finds him and tells him it doesn’t have to be this way. Annatar says he can help him achieve all that he desires. Annatar says -

Annatar says a bit too much, reveals a bit too much, and Annatar, Maeglin realizes, is Sauron.

Here’s the thing: Tuor’s not here yet, making Maeglin jealous. Earendil’s not born yet, taking Maeglin’s place in the succession. Maeglin hasn’t been dragged along by orcs for weeks and taken to the embodiment of evil power and been forced to stare into its eyes at the heart of its power.

Maeglin is afraid, but even in a world where he betrays Gondolin, not even the bitterest of survivors is able to claim he was a coward. Maeglin is hurt and rejected, but he is not yet bitter, and he still wants Idril’s love, not a twisted mockery of it.

Maeglin will not join Sauron.

But Maeglin is also clever, and the twisting ways of his father’s forest were the paths he grew up on. He does not tell Annatar what he has realized. He pretends to be comforted, and then he gets to work.

He forges more rings.

And he sets them into the hilts of swords.

Idril grows unsettled. She builds her escape route.

When he has his weapons and feels he has a prayer of forcing Sauron out of the city, Maeglin tells Turgon all.

Sauron, betrayed, is forced out.

He makes the One Ring. He intends to use it to build his strength, take over Gondolin, take the other rings, and use all their strength together to resurrect his master.

Turgon thinks Maeglin’s rings will be able to defend the city indefinitely. Idril is less sure. Maeglin keeps grimly making more weapons, pouring more and more of himself into them.

Tuor shows up. His warning is … not ignored, but they don’t leave either. He joins the attempts to prepare the city. He marries Idril. She gets pregnant with Earendil.

Turgon sends a messenger to High King Fingon.

Maeglin makes one last ring and puts it on. He sees, then, what Sauron has done.

And he knows his won’t stand against it.

He gives all of his work that he can to Idril and warns her. When Sauron’s army comes, she flees with her husband, her son, all the civilians who will follow her, and ten ring forged swords. One for her, one for the High King, one for Doriath, and one for each of the sons of Feanor.

Turgon and Maeglin still hold one each.

It’s not enough. The city falls.

Sauron tries to take Maeglin alive, but Maeglin is fighting on the walls. On a very particular part of the walls that he chose carefully.

A Maia’s will against an elf’s will prevail nearly every time. But a Maia’s will against a dying curse, a Doom if you will …

A dragon’s tail flings him off the walls.

He falls.

Falls to the rocks below where his father long ago had been felled.

Glorfindel howls and attacks the dragon.

The city falls. The survivors flee to Doriath. Thingol is not entirely pleased, but he lets them in and is very pleased to accept the offered sword.

Little Earendil grows up alongside Elwing. Someday, Idril thinks, they would make a good match.

Messengers send the swords out to those they should go to. Most of them make it. Some of them don’t.

Of the twelve swords Maeglin made, Sauron has five.

Curufin hears the news of who Annatar was and feels vindicated. Celebrimbor hears the news and is horrified. He had been increasingly uncomfortable with Curufin’s growing power in Nargothrond, but clearly, he can’t trust his own judgement. His father is far more likely to know what he’s doing.

Fingon listens to both of the messengers he receives, and he tries not to show how hard his brother’s death hits him. He accepts his sword dubiously. He looks down at the ring set into the hilt.

Maedhros, once again visiting his cousin, looks down at his own. He does not look impressed.

“So what I’m hearing is,” Fingon says to the messenger, “we are once again going to war over jewelry. Magical, powerful jewelry, but jewelry nonetheless.”

“ … Yes, your majesty?”

Fingon waits until the messenger is dismissed before he buries his head in his hands. “I hate everything.”

“Cheer up,” Maedhros says. If Fingon won’t be optimistic, he’ll have to be the cheerful one for once. “At least no one’s sworn any oaths this time.”

“That we know of. Yet. Maybe this is the real Doom of Mandos. We’ll defeat Morgoth and get our treasure back, we make more treasure, he rises to steal it, and it’ll continue in an endless cycle until we’re all dead.”

“Fingon.”

“Oh, alright.” He sighs. “Morgoth hasn’t been resurrected yet. It’s just Sauron this time. How hard could it be?”

#fic #silmarillion #maedhros #beren #luthien #fingon #maeglin #thingol #finrod #sauron #annatar #alternate universe #au #nirnaeth arnoediad #turin #tuor #fix-it fic #sort of

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