zealouswerewolfcollector

[zealouswerewolfcollector]

Purification

Character study results are in. Initial thesis confirmed: Thingol is a monsterfucker.

Uh, yeah. I've de-anoned on Ao3. Might as well post this on tumblr.

Maedhros/Thingol, 1160 words, E

Warnings: some blood

On Ao3

Several thoughts pass through Elu Thingol's mind when he throws his head back on the throne. At first he is awed as always before the beauty of Menegroth, taking in its high ceilings that shimmer as the sky above Cuiviénen did in the early days of the Quendi. Then he decides that the throne could use some padding for the neck and back exactly for situations such as this. And lastly, it occurs to him that Maedhros Fëanorion's cock feels quite different from Melian's.

"Do I bore you, Your Grace?" the Fëanorion asks, fixing Elu with his bright gaze - Finwë's gaze, his scarred lips twisted in a smile, which would seem innocent enough if Elu couldn't see through him.

Before Elu can spit back something acerbic, Maedhros changes the angle of his thrusts, and Elu's retort is stuck in his throat, buried under a moan that finds its way out as Elu twists and hits his head against his throne again. 

Pain sparks behind his eyes. The star-studded ceiling blurs, its crisp beauty marred by the sheen of Elu's lust. His cock twitches, clear beads dropping on his skin like the Falathrim-gifted pearls that are scattered now on the ground.

"I thought not," Maedhros says, self-satisfied. 

Elu yanks at his hair to wipe that smug smirk off his face. It's not as pleasurable when the hair is so unnaturally short. Maedhros grins, showing sharp, gleaming canines - fangs dripping with the venom of his smile. After Elu's tender treatment, Maedhros's hair curls in all directions like snakes crawling out of a cracked egg. 

He is an interesting type of beast, Maedhros Fëanorion. Wild. Untamed by years of captivity yet changed by them, reforged, made something other than an elf. 

He doesn't fuck like an elf either. It is not about the blood his sharp teeth draw from Elu's neck, nor about the way his short nails split his skin open. It is not even about the rough scars on his cock that Elu feels scraping against his insides in pain-pleasure that grips him at his core and shakes him like a beast with its prey between its jaws. 

No, it is something within Maedhros that makes him different. Something rotten, something born of decay. 

Olwë's grandchildren spoke of him in whispers reserved for secrets better hidden and forgotten about. He burns, they said. Elu cautioned them against trusting their cousin, told them of thralls who escaped from Angband but were never freed. They assured him that Maedhros was not enthralled but changed. Like a fell Maia, they said of him, and something stirred within Elu.

"Always so curious," Melian said, indulgent. "Invite your beast to us and let him satisfy your curiosity."

Maedhros doesn't fuck like Melian. After lying with her, Elu is purified. No matter how gentle or how violent they are in bed, a part of her essence still permeates his fëa, and for a moment, he contains the vastness of Eä within himself, he connects with it in a way not reservrd for the Quendi. He is made different. He is made greater.

The white flames in Maedhros's gaze aren't purifying. They will engulf everything on their way and turn them into dark ashes. And when nothing else remains, they will set Maedhros himself ablaze. Elu drowns in the liquid smoke of his gaze, struggles for breath in the fiery dome of his arms. 

"Is she watching?" Maedhros asks. "Your queen."

"Would it please you?" Elu asks in his turn. "Someone as great and pure as she is to watch you at your most depraved."

"It matters not to me. She is not the one I have taken an interest in. But I believe it would please you."

Maedhros's claw leaves bright red stripes on Elu's pale thigh as he pushes his knees farther up until they hit the back of the throne, until Elu is bent in half, long legs dangling over the armrests. 

Elu's cock jumps. Something like a sob makes its way out of his throat. He can see Maedhros's hardness moving, sliding out of him smoothly, then disappearing inside him with violence with which wild beasts rut. He shudders as the cloying, sick pleasure builds and builds in his gut.

"You will have to forgive me, Your Grace," Maedhros says, "seeing as I have one hand only, you must attend to your pleasure yourself. Or perhaps the King wishes to have his release without a helping hand."

At worst, it is banter, but Elu hears the sneering behind the words. Mocking, always mocking, hiding his barbs under a polite veneer. Such is the way of Maedhros Fëanorion. Much he has learned from the Deciever. 

He knew what Elu wanted from the moment their eyes met. Elu didn't have to tell him to stay after the feast. Maedhros waited until every last person had left the hall and approached the throne with slow but steady steps.

He bowed slightly, but the smile that pulled at the scars on his unlovely face didn't change. Elu beckoned him to come closer. Maedhros rose until he was face to face with Elu on his high throne.

"At your service, Your Grace," he said.

Elu raised a hand and slid his fingers across the hideous scar that split Maedhros's face in half. He didn't bother to stop his lips from curling in disgust. 

In response, Maedhros stroked the lines of pearls adorning Eru's throat and pulled them carelessly together with Elu's robe. The delicate cloth tore, and the pearls clattered in a mournful song.

Maedhros didn't stop smiling.

"What shall it be, Your Grace?" he asks, still smiling.

Elu digs his heels into the Fëanorion's uneven shoulders and sees with satisfaction how he winces in pain. He has hung from the Thangorodrim for so long that his body is alien to the Quendi now. A grotesque thing, not an orc, not an elf, nor something in-between. 

Elu pushes Maedhros closer, deeper inside himself. They both gasp at the same time. Maedhros moves - faster, faster, faster. No elf can move like that. No elf can feel like this. Elu is close, so close. The sounds spilling from his lips are incomprehensible, but Maedhros understands.

He raises his only hand and slashes Elu across the face, knife-sharp - a deep gash to match Maedhros's scar.

Elu screams and comes, white pearls replacing the Falathrim ones on his neck. 

Blood drips from the cut. It will not scar like Maedhros's because Elu is not like him. His slowly licks a drop of blood, his tongue painting his lips scarlet. Maedhros fills him.

He steps back a moment later, looks at Elu sprawled on his throne, reaches out and adjusts the crown that was askew. Then he curtly bows and leaves the hall.

Elu closes his eyes, lets the blood drip and mix with his release.

In a moment, he will seek out Melian, so that she purifies him. But for now, he stays.

#forgot to reblog this before unpinning #nsft

[zealouswerewolfcollector]

A Tale That Wasn't Right

Belated entry for @silmarillionepistolary

2406 words, M, Maedhros/Fingon

Warnings: violence but not very graphic

On Ao3

NOLDÓRAN ARCHIVES PROJECT

MANUSCRIPT 26328-lambe

Records of the Hearing Convened by Finwë Noldóran Concerning the Incident Occurred Between Two Highborn Eldar

Editor’s note: Perhaps one of the most fascinating manuscripts among the royal records, 26328-lambe has been classified for Ages. Only now, well into the Fifth Age, it has finally been released to the public. 

Certainly, the reluctance to publicize these records must be due to the scandalous subject matter and the involvement of highly recognizable figures of the Years of the Trees. We shall refrain from speculations as to the identity of the involved parties and redact or change several identifying details as per the request of King Arafinwë.

The manuscript is also distinguished because of the considerably biased notes of the unnamed scribe, possibly one who did not continue their service for long. Despite their unconventional approach to their role, we have this scribe to thank for the preservation of the very first draft of the records.

Without further ado, we invite the reader to peruse the records and draw their own conclusions.  

At the second hour of the Mingling of [precise date omitted], the Noldóran convened a private hearing, concerning an altercation between two highborn Eldar that has been brought to the Noldóran’s attention. 

Present at the meeting

Finwë Noldóran

[redacted], tavernkeeper of the tavern [redacted] in Tirion

Finwë Noldóran’s humble scribe

Noldóran: Let us begin. Tavernkeeper, I would hear all that occurred between [title omitted] N and [title omitted] F.

Tavernkeeper: Where should I begin, lord?

Noldóran: When did you first notice their presence at your tavern?

Tavernkeeper: Immediately, lord. It was the first time such highborn lords visited my establishment. [Title omitted] F was the first to arrive. He sat in a corner and ordered [drink name omitted to avoid identification]. I did not know how to make it. He kindly explained it to me. He was three cups in when [title omitted] N joined him.

Editor’s note: Henceforth, the omission of the titles will not be mentioned. Let it be noted that the involved parties were addressed appropriately throughout the hearing.

Noldóran: Did you notice any enmity between them when N arrived?

Tavernkeeper: Not at all! F did look ill-pleased at seeing N, but I assumed it was due to N’s tardiness. N whispered something into F’s ear, which seemed to appease him.

Noldóran: How so?

Tavernkeeper: After, well, the whispering, F smiled and ordered more drinks. [Drink name omitted] for himself again and simple mead for N.

Scribe’s note: Only a son of [redacted] would drink such an abomination. 

Noldóran: Could you perhaps hear parts of their conversation?

Tavernkeeper: I would not presume to eavesdrop on a conversation between such highborn lords.

Noldóran: Not even if it was to the benefit of your king?

Tavernkeeper: Alas, the tavern was busy, lord, and they spoke in very low voices, so I missed the beginning of their discussion.

Noldóran: So you mean to say you heard the ending, the part before the incident.

Scribe’s note: If this tavernkeeper does not hurry up and tell the interesting  parts, I may die of boredom in front of the King and embarrass myself and my entire family.

Tavernkeeper: They stayed long after the tavern emptied. I must say, lord, they had drunk quite a lot, so their voices were raised. I did not eavesdrop on purpose.

Noldóran: I do not fault you, tavernkeeper. Do recount the argument arising between N and F.

Editor’s note: To make for easier reading, the argument is relayed here directly. Readers must trust that they shall miss only a great amount of hesitation by the tavernkeeper to report to the King the exact details of the conversation and the number of drinks N and F consumed meanwhile, which is high.

F: It has always been your greatest fault! N: Loyalty? F: Loyalty to the wrong person. N: Who would the right person be then? [long silence] N: It is not in your nature to avoid a question. F: Why speak if you know the answer well? N: You cannot fathom what you demand of me. F: Only to do the right thing. Is it too much to ask for? N: Ever you have shown nothing but contempt to my father. You do not know him as I do. F: You are blind to his faults. N: I am not. But, unlike you, I am familiar with his virtues, too. F: Any virtue he possesses pales before his vices. N: Is it not unfair to speak so when you have made no attempt to understand him? F: He deserves none. N: Do I? Do it for my sake. I would do it for you. I have done it for you. F: It was not for me. You had taken a liking to my father long before I was born. He is easy to love. N: How naive for someone who claims to know others with no effort. You say I am blind to my father’s faults, yet you see none in yours. F: He has none. N: I can name one. Just now, he made you lie to me and to yourself. F: My father is blameless in this! N: Of course, only mine is to blame for everything. F: What is the use of seeing his faults if you do nothing about them? N: What do you expect me to do? F: I told you. The right thing. N: Why did you summon me here? We are only repeating ourselves again and again. We shall never agree. F: If only you were less stubborn. N: I am no more stubborn than you. Why should I be the one to relent? What will you sacrifice? F: Have I not sacrificed enough? Have I not endured your father’s scorn without protest? Have I not stayed by your side through all of it? N: What a great sacrifice it must be for you to stay by my side! Have you overlooked that I did the same? Or perhaps you believe it is easier for me? F: If it is not, then we both know who to blame. I suppose I must be grateful you have gathered enough courage to even agree to speak with me. Have you told your father where you will be? N: Have you told yours? F: You give me no answer as expected, but I shall answer you. I have not only because my father has no perverse need to keep watch over his children’s every move. He is not cowardly enough to look for betrayal where there is none. N: You will not call my father a coward! Have I ever treated your father with such disdain? F: Why would you? He does not deserve it. N: But mine does? F: Doesn’t someone who belittles others to hide his own weakness, who is craven enough to forge weapons in secret, deserve to be treated with contempt? N: Do not speak so, I warn you. F: What will you do? Leave and shun me as always? Disregard my letters and flee when I try to visit? Run to your father to assure him of your loyalty, so you can stave off his bitterness and suspicion for a while longer? 

Noldóran: Do go on! What happened then?

Tavernkeeper: I hesitate, lord, for even now, I can scarcely believe it.

Noldóran: Nevertheless, I would hear it.

Tavernkeeper: After those words, N, well, he struck F.

Noldóran: Struck him?

Tavernkeeper: He did. A mighty fist against F’s jaw.

Noldóran: Are you certain that it was N who struck first?

Tavernkeeper: Quite certain, lord. I must say I had lost count of the cups they had both drunk by that point.

Scribe’s note: Liar! It does not sound like N. Although, the son of [redacted] would have deserved it.

Noldóran: Please continue. Spare no detail.

Tavernkeeper: The blow was strong enough that F fell from his chair. They both looked as astounded as I was. I thought N wished to offer a hand to F, but instead, he turned back and moved to the door. That was when F pounced on him and brought him down. They tumbled together, grappled, and shoved each other against the walls. They damaged five chairs and two tables during their brawl as well as all the cups and plates that were on them. F twisted N’s wrist in an attempt to restrain him, but N wrapped F’s braids around his other hand and wrenched him away. They were on the floor once again by then. N tried to rise, but F took a broken chair leg and hurled it towards N. It hit the mark rather painfully. In response, N threw a half-empty goblet at F, which missed his head but drenched his hair in ale.

Editor’s note: The sketch of King Finwë with his head in his hands is presumably drawn by the scribe.

Noldóran: What then?

Tavernkeeper: They must have exhausted themselves because they remained lying on the floor for a while. I was afraid to approach them, but I also hesitated to leave in case they resumed their fight.

Noldóran: Did they?

Tavernkeeper: No… They did something else.

Noldóran: …what was it?

Tavernkeeper: F sat and helped N up. N said something to F in a very low voice. F answered. I could not hear the words. And then they… They kissed, lord.

Noldóran: A kiss between friends?

Tavernkeeper: I would not say so.

Scribe’s note: This does sound like N.

Noldóran: Did you see what happened after the so-called kiss?

Tavernkeeper: No, lord. I hurried to leave. That was all I saw, I swear.

Noldóran: Thank you, tavernkeeper. I believe it goes without saying that what we have spoken about must remain within the walls of this hall. Of course, you shall be compensated generously for your losses. Scribe, there is no need to record this part.

Scribe: As you command, Noldóran.

Tavernkeeper: No word shall leave my lips, lord.

Noldóran: You have my gratitude.

Scribe’s note: Future generations of the Noldor, I shall have your gratitude for making and preserving these records. Glory to the House of [redacted]!

***

Fingers run between disheveled braids, smoothing them with gentleness in stark contrast with the violence they had yanked at them. Inhale. The faint perfume of almond oil wafts through the heavy scent of ale. They do not mix well. Maitimo says so.

“Who could have guessed?” Findekáno says dryly.

Maitimo’s fingers continue their tender way through Findekáno’s braids. Findekáno closes his eyes, his head turning where Maitimo guides him, willingly this time.

Languidly, he raises a hand and runs it – feather-light – across Maitimo’s face, across his left cheekbone where a hideous bruise is already forming.

“Does it hurt?” he asks.

“Yes.”

Findekáno leans forward and retraces the path of his fingers with his lips, leaving a faint trail of red across Maitimo’s cheekbone. Maitimo’s eyes fall shut, his breath stutters. Findekáno takes Maitimo’s hand – the same one that split his lip open – and kisses the bloodied knuckles. Maitimo’s fingers entwine with Findekáno’s – a movement so familiar and practiced that it is almost an instinct.

Findekáno raises his head and presses his lips to Maitimo’s, but the moment Maitimo deepens the kiss, Findekáno pulls back with a hiss.

“It is bleeding again,” Maitimo says with dismay.

He takes a dampened rag and taps it tenderly against Findekáno’s lip, careful to avoid touching his bruised jaw. But Findekáno leans into his hand, his eyelids fluttering in something between pain and relief.

Maitimo undresses him, runs his fingers along his shoulders, caresses his chest, strokes his hips. Bruises are late to bloom and hard to find on Findekáno’s skin, unlike Maitimo, who is already painted red and purple. But Maitimo knows exactly where he had hurt Findekáno – an elbow to the sternum, a closed fist beneath the ribs, shoulders slammed against the edge of a table too many times.

Maitimo explores Findekáno’s body with hesitant touches, soothes his aches, brushes his fingers against the bruises. Does not apologize. The sound of Findekáno’s harsh breathing grows louder and louder until he grabs Maitimo’s hands and turns in his arms.

He bares Maitimo from the waist up in pained, hurried movements as if there is no time left. Maitimo winces when he raises his arms to allow Findekáno to disrobe him.

“Oh!” Findekáno exclaims, staring at the fresh bruise that covers most of Maitimo’s lower rib cage.

“Even inebriated, your aim is true,” Maitimo says.

Findekáno sinks down. Raises a hand to the bruise, then lets it fall. Leans forward and traces the uneven edges of the bruise with his lips, warms it up with his breath, soothes it with his tongue. Does not apologize.

Findekáno begins the work of relieving Maitimo of the rest of his clothing. Maitimo’s hands shake, then his knees, then his shoulders. Findekáno’s lips slide lower, ghost over Maitimo’s groin.

“You did not hurt me there,” Maitimo says, his voice coming out as bruised as his body is.

“How fortunate I still had some sense left,” Findekáno says.

Maitimo laughs, and for the briefest of moments, all pieces fall into their places – Findekáno before him, teasing him gently, making him laugh – so familiar and so right. But the tremors of laughter reach every aching place, reminding him sharply of what they did.

“Wait,” he says.

“Hush,” Findekáno says, holding Maitimo by his unhurt hip.

Maitimo looks down at Findekáno, kneeling on his bruised knees, looks at Findekáno’s swollen lip and beaten face.

“Who would do this?” he asks.

Findekáno draws back.

“Who hurts someone he loves and cherishes in such a cruel way?” Maitimo asks.

“You do,” Findekáno says. His gaze slowly passes over all the angry red marks he has left on Maitimo’s body. “And I.”

Maitimo sits before him.

“Will you swear it will never happen again?” he asks. “Can you give me your word that you will not do it again?”

Findekáno is silent for a moment.

“You cannot either,” he says then.

“No.”

“It is not right.”

“No.”

Findekáno leans his forehead against Maitimo’s. There is a small but painful bump on it from hitting it against a chair. It aches.

“You should leave,” Findekáno says.

“I should.”

“So should I.”

“Yes.”

They sit before each other, bare and bruised, hand in hand, skin to skin, amid the broken cups and chairs, amid the destruction they caused. None moves. 

#silmarillion #finwe #maedhros #fingon #russingon #silm fic #zwc fic

[zealouswerewolfcollector]

galadriel, lady of the golden wood 💫

#gorgeous #galadriel #tolkien art

[zealouswerewolfcollector]

WIP Not Wednesday

Thank you @leucisticpuffin and @zealouswerewolfcollector for tagging me!

Here is a bit from my Seven Flowers for Seven Sons WIP, in which involves: Mahtan and Nerdanel and a mysterious silver-haired elf-lady visitor, healing through gardening, a million flower descriptions, Yavanna meddling with her husband's ex-student, lots of grief and rebuilding fractured relationships, and love.

Feanor looked at the cottage, at the barren, scarred land that surrounded it. “This is to be my place of exile, then?”

Yavanna laughed. “Such dramatics! Yes, oh poor Prince, this is to be where you will live until your task is complete. Whether it stays like this or blooms into something else is up to you. But do not fear, you will not be alone forever. There are certain visitors we will allow you, those who have volunteered to help with this task.” 

“I see.” Feanor rolled up his sleeves. “I will take my leave of you now, Lady Yavanna. The sooner I begin, the sooner this will be done.” And then I can find a better task for my second life.

“True,” said Yavana, still laughing at him. “But a garden is not a simple thing, nor will it be rushed. Not that I expect you to listen to me. You’ll learn better through your own mistakes than my warnings. You always have.”

Tagging: @dreamingthroughthenoise @lordgrimwing @dovewifes @chthonion @sweetteaanddragons and @thelordofgifs and anyone else who wants to join. No pressure, of course!

#ooh this sounds interesting! #yavanna #feanor #silm fic #tag game

[zealouswerewolfcollector]

Russingon as a warmup sketch that got out of hand :) hope the boys are cute enough, this is probably still in Blessed Valinor where nothing bad ever crossed their way. And if, Maitimo would just pick his tiny cuz up to carry him away :3

#i love their hair #this is so cute #maedhros #fingon #russingon #tolkien art

[zealouswerewolfcollector]

i'm still not sure which i like more

#yessssssss #i love him #*_* #maedhros #tolkien art

[zealouswerewolfcollector]

Hi hi, may I ask for number 5 of the prompt list for Maedhros and Fingon please? 👀

hi hi hi! thank you for the prompt. slight gore tw for this one. 5: where it does not hurt.

Findekáno checks the ties of the makeshift tourniquet. It is slippery with blood, tiny fragments of bone clinging to the cloth as bits of broken china. Russandol trembles against his chest, insensate; his lips move, bubbles of bloodied spit forming between them, but he can muster no sound, no word. Even his scalp bleeds, crimson mingling with his red-brown hair where he must have pulled at the roots. There is nowhere Findekáno can touch that would not hurt. 

Except for one place. Findekáno fumbles with the dark chain, but it will not give, buried too deeply under the skin of his right hand. Some part of him thinks to take up again his knife and carve it out, to leave as little to the enemy as he might. 

But there is no reason, no time. He leans forward and presses his lips against the dead fingers in goodbye, and calls to Thorondor to depart. 

#AAAAAAAAAA #this killed me #;_________; #fuck what an image #fingon #maedhros #russingon #silm fic #tw gore

[zealouswerewolfcollector]

For the kiss prompt, if the fancy strikes.

Fingon/Maglor... on a scar. The scar is Fingon's

hi hi melesta!! have this quick little thing! <3

“I am writing a ballad,” Maglor says, tracing Fingon’s palm with his index finger, “since I have found no such works, or at least none particularly inspired. Of things left behind, I should say, in the ice and fire.” 

“I would not imagine five fingerbreadths of skin to have much of a poetic ring,” Fingon says, “as a phrase.” 

They sit together on the hastily-built pier, watching the huge dark catfish of Lake Mithrim pass beneath them. The lake is cold, far too cold to swim in, but Fingon has kicked off his boots, and dangles his feet into the water. Maglor shivers looking at it for too long. But the sun is warm, overhead, and he lets his mink cloak drop down to the wood below him, pooling by their hips. 

“Ah, but it may be that sort of ballad, bloody, visceral,” Maglor says, “a bear, you say?” 

“Ice-bear,” Fingon says, “as a regular bear, but worse. It caught a flap of my skin under its claw, yanked down, and tore. It hung off for some time and I think we tried to put it back on, but my whole hand swelled twice its size, and the skin turned black and smelled of rot. How is that, for poetry?” 

“It is pretty now,” Maglor says, tracing the shape of the scar, raised and pale against Fingon’s dark skin, “quite as a flower-petal, or a dew-drop. Certainly there is poetry in that.” 

Before he can think better of it he takes up Fingon’s hand, and brings it to his mouth, pressing his lips against the edges of the scar. Breathes in deeply the scent of magnolia flowers, dabbed onto Fingon’s wrists. 

Fingon’s hand jerks, ticklish. There is laughter in his voice. “What now?” 

“I study my subject, as any scholar ought,” Maglor says, “I see here your skin tastes no different, healed over.” 

“Shameless,” Fingon says, “bold as fire, cousin.” But he does not draw away, not as Maglor closes his lips around his fingers and sucks. Not even after that. 

#*_* #no notes #love it #fingon #maglor #finglor #silm fic

[zealouswerewolfcollector]

Asphodel

On AO3

The field upon which their last great blow against Morgoth had been turned aside was a barren expanse of sunbaked mud. Dust blew up from the cracks in the earth and whipped through the air in a thousand tiny storms; heaps of remains, of armor, of weapons, dotted the landscape, and reigning over all, the putrid Haudh-en-Nirnaeth.

Daeron had heard already of the fate of the high king of the Noldor, and he knew this wasteland had nothing for him, yet he came, unable to sever the cord of destiny around his throat. He trudged across the desolate land and each rusting trinket he passed stabbed at his heart, for it seemed to him that the fate of Middle-earth was now written, and no hope remained to them.

Because there was nothing to find, there was nowhere to stop; he only came as close as he dared to the Hill and sank down onto his knees, the gritty breeze stinging his dark cheeks. Had it been here, he wondered? Was this his resting place? It might as well have been.

Daeron had never seen a skull split with a single blow, but his imagination worked wonders in this regard: of splintered bones and rent muscles and ruptured organs, of blood pouring forth onto thirsty soil, of the obliteration of a person.

Daeron bent forward until his forehead touched the desecrated ground and a low moan trailed from his throat; he tried to subordinate these thoughts to the memory of Fingon as he had been at the Mereth Aderthad, how he had allowed Daeron to coax smiles and laughter from a heart wearied of tragedy, but he could not do it. The only other thing on which his mind would focus was his own desperate pleading just before battle: at the edge of the woods he had relinquished any remaining shreds of dignity to grasp at Fingon’s doublet, begging him to forget it, to forget his kingship and his kin and Morgoth most of all, and come into the wood with Daeron, and leave the rest behind.

In a tiny pocket Daeron had sewn inside his tunic, over the left side of his breast, was a loop of wavy black hair which Fingon had given him when he said goodbye in favor of his duty. This Daeron could still remember: How Fingon had smiled when he pressed it into Daeron’s hand, assuring him that all would be well, and when they met again, it would be under a sun which shone not upon the Enemy, and then Fingon would take Daeron to Hithlum that he might partake in the grand celebrations of the Noldor.

Seeing that Fingon could not be turned from his course, Daeron had said no more of it, and allowed Fingon to make his promises and embrace him that he might go to his end at least assured of Daeron’s affections. Now was come the shadow Daeron had foreseen, and there was nothing left over which he might mourn; there was not even a suggestion of the final resting place of Fingon Fingolfinion, prince from across the great wide sea. Once again, Daeron found himself merely tangential to another’s tale, sitting in the ruins of all that had been at the start of the tale and now was no more.

Sitting back on his heels, Daeron turned his face up to the sky, and his tears ran back into his braids.

“What I have done to make you so despise me, I repent of it,” he said to the merciless sky. “I would that you might tell me my proper penance, for I cannot bear this endless sorrow. You made me not with such strength to endure.”

The battlefield was silent; not even the buzzards lingered there.

There was nothing for Daeron in the Anfauglith, it was true: but it was the last place he had hoped to find something. In absence of meaning, of purpose, of comfort, he tore a strip of one of the banners of the Noldor, and told himself it had been the one Fingon had carried, and tucked the scrap into his pocket with the hair.

Where Daeron went when he drifted from Anfauglith none could say, for he vanished then into complete obscurity and the tales tell no more of the loremaster of Doriath and his silent flute, nor does his name cross the memorials of Fingon son of Fingolfin, the shortest-reigning of the high kings of the Noldor.

#goddamn #i'm convinced #this is a heartbreaking ship #love this #daeron #fingon #tolkien art

[zealouswerewolfcollector]

messy maglor sketch. i feel like im getting closer to how i'd like his design.

#oh he's so beautiful #maglor #tolkien art

[zealouswerewolfcollector]

originally this was pretty nice,but for some reason the app deleted like four capes of the drawing😩... So,this is what remains,and I doesnt have any intention of finished it😔👋.

Anyways here's Mae and Finno after a party in Tirion,in the good times.

Bonos mini comic

#:D #they are adorable #maedhros #fingon #feanor #russingon #tolkien art

[zealouswerewolfcollector]

- Подержи

Неосторожный жест Маглора

- Hold it

Maglor's careless gesture

#ahhh your work is always so moving #love this #maglor #maedhros #celegorm #curufin #tolkien art

[zealouswerewolfcollector]

Firstborn women is fascinating. How exactly does it change the dynamics or the canon events? And more importantly, lesbian Russingon?

lesbian russingon yess!! here is. a tiny little fraction of the dynamics in that verse, namely the finwe-feanor-fingolfin-turgon-fingon mess

okay so. for the sake of this au, we are swapping every single firstborn son to a firstborn daughter. for those who wed (which is just fëanor), their spouses also swap to fit most easily into the au

also for the take of this post i'm not swapping anyone's name around. but i DO know they are gendered and would swap them if i actually wrote this

so, finwe's beloved baby from his first marriage is a daughter. his first child from his second marriage a son. this creates a very natural dynamic of intense jealousy between them, where feanor expects that fingolfin is going to get everything as the first-born son and she will get nothing

she is also the clear favorite, an extremely controversial figure in court, and a genius. usual feanor stuff, but take it up to eleven with the tendency to break social norms + inheritance angst

eventually finwe announces that he is changing the law to make a one-time exception to allow his eldest daughter to be crown prince rather than his son. no this will not apply to any other woman in valinor. this is the special princess law for his specialest princess

you can imagine fingolfin's feelings re: this. he says nothing but deep down is extremely frustrated at the blatant favoritism, and feels his father would never do something like that for him

[time passes i am skipping over a lot of stuff to get to the point]

cut to: fingolfin's own family. in this case, eldest daughter fingon, middle child and only boy turgon, little aredhel.

fingon is very much fingolfin's favorite kid, as i believe is true for usual canonverse also

but he's raged!! a million times over!! about how unfair it is to show special favor to the eldest. he will not be his father in this. he will stick to his own ideas of fairness & the law. he is very much raising turgon to be the heir (even as he secretly wants to give fingon everything) and he's weirdly resentful of turgon re: this.

fingon is also kinda resentful of turgon re: this. if they had all been daughters, there would be no problem and she'd just be the heir presumptive, but he has to go and be a boy. fucking ugh

you can imagine why turgon fucks off to gondolin

#i loooooove this #so good #house of finwe #silm fic

[zealouswerewolfcollector]

Throwback Thursday!

I've been in a Maglor mood this week, so here's a little one-two tragedy-comedy punch of him from September 2022.

From 4'33":

His great works are lost to him, after the fall, after his long, dreamlike submersion. For what felt an endless time, he floated like waterweed at Ossë’s whim, his body just one more strange calcified structure in Uinen’s halls. But the sea spat him out, eventually, the cool depths fundamentally unwelcoming to one who has touched fire.

And the B side (Avant Garde):

“I’m here, if here is anywhere, really.” Makalaurë is puddled on the floor in a shadowy alcove off the main walkway, blinking miserably up at Findaráto from within a welter of scarlet robes. His jeweled circlet is askew, and his braids have begun to unravel. The smoky eyes he affects for triumphant premieres have made their way damply down to his chin, and he reeks of 100-proof despair.

Something for everyone! Enjoy :)

@a-tehta @thescrapwitch @starspray @melestasflight @tilion-writes feel like sharing something from your dustier old parchment piles? Show a little love for those fics that are old.

#ahhhhh this is so good #maglor #silm fic #tag game

[zealouswerewolfcollector]

WIP Whateverday

@welcomingdisaster, thank you for tagging me <3

Here are a few sentences from a fic that's almost done.

F: It has always been your greatest fault! N: Loyalty? F: Loyalty to the wrong person. N: Who would the right person be then? [long silence] N: It is not in your nature to avoid a question. F: Why speak if you know the answer well? N: You cannot fathom what you demand of me. F: Only to do the right thing. Is it too much to ask for? N: Ever you have shown nothing but loathing to my father. You do not know him as I do. F: You are blind to his faults. N: I am not. But, unlike you, I am familiar with his virtues, too.

Tagging @thescrapwitch, @shoelace-eating-gopher, @ettelene, @spiritofwhitefire, @swanmaids

#silmarillion #tag game #silm fic #zwc fic

[zealouswerewolfcollector]

WIP Whatever Day

thanks for the tag @thelordofgifs we're clawing our way back through the ongoing Thing

When the heavy doors finally close behind them, there are no words. They do not speak, they do not move, eyes only fixed at each other. The music from the reception hall can still be heard distantly, its merry notes finding their way between the stone hallways of Barad Eithel and bouncing from wall to wall all the way to the king’s chambers. The king has no thought for the music, no mind for anything at all other than the elf who now stands before him. It is somewhat bizarre to see Maedhros like this, here. The years are not so long since they last saw one another, yet so much has changed, things that they held true for centuries are now uprooted from the depths of the earth, never to be the same again no matter how great the labor in replanting them and growing them anew.

@sallysavestheday @queerofthedagger @dalliansss care to share what you're up to?

#ahhhhh #this is already killing me #;_____; #fingon #maedhros #silm fic #tag game

[zealouswerewolfcollector]

WIP Wthursday!

tagged by @melestasflight a little bit ago, thank you for the tag! <3 have a self indulgent whole-ass scene from ch. 4 of sparrowhawk, haha.

It is only when Maglor’s eyes focus, and his bearing seems quite returned to him, that Maedhros breathes in deeply and demands, not bothering to lighten the anger in his voice, “What was that, Káno? Is there something you’d like to share with the rest of us?” 

Maglor swallows. Maedhros steels himself to feel no pity for his torn voice, for his obvious exhaustion—it is easier than it ought to be, and part of Maedhros regrets that. 

“I left my body,” he says softly, “just for a little bit. Mind—mind touch. Ósanwë.” 

“Quite plainly,” Maedhros says, his voice flat. “What did you call on us, Maglor? How did you know? Why? What sort of—what sort of gamble, what sort of risk—”

He reaches to grab Maglor by the shoulder, shaking him against the wood.  “I,” Maglor says, “I heard, I. I had a feeling.” 

Maedhros waits for further explanation, feeling his anger soar as nothing comes. He drops his hand, sinking his fingernails into his palm. “Had a feeling? That thing—oh, I do not even know, some ghastly spirit, some dead wizard, some ghost—you know it and you speak to it and you call it upon us and you say naught, you say naught to me—! You hide your thoughts from me, you sing sad songs you haven’t thought of in an age, you know something and you do not tell me!” 

“The pale wizard,” Maglor says, his voice barely above a whisper. 

Maedhros blinks, the wind taken temporarily out of his sails. “What?” 

“The pale wizard,” Maglor repeats, “not the dead one.” 

Maedhros feels his whole body flash hot, coiled tight as though preparing for another fight. Fingon catches him hand before he can grab Maglor’s shoulder again, tugging him away sharply. 

“Ros,” he says, “Ros, let him breathe.” 

Maedhros turns, and grips instead Fingon’s arm. Knows his grip is bruising, knows that his anger rises beyond what is right, what is proper. But he can no more swallow it down than he can stop the tide, or beat the moon down into the seawater. 

“He doesn’t keep things from me,” he cries, “I am his brother, I am his lord, I—you do not keep things from me, Káno—”   

But plainly he has. Maedhros chokes on the betrayal of it. Imagines peeling away Maglor’s skin and seeing the traitor hiding underneath, imagines listening ears and prying eyes, images— 

“Ai,” Fingon cries, his voice sharper, “Elbreth, let go of my arm before you break it.” He pries Maedhros’ fingers off him, catching his hand in both of his. Squeezes, none too gently. “You are going for a smoke, ‘Ros.” 

Maedhros hesitates, feeling the waves of anger pulse shake through his body, bringing him to the verge of tears. But Fingon pushes him, and he rises to his feet. Fingon lingers just a moment, running his hand over the back of Maglor’s head, where he had hit the tree as Maedhros had shaken him—Maedhros flashes hot at that, with guilt and with anger—then squeezes Maglor’s shoulder and stands. 

i'll tag... @theghostinthemargins @zealouswerewolfcollector @eilinelsghost @searchingforserendipity25 @that-angry-noldo @polutrope @meadowlarkx @grey-gazania & anyone else who desires!

#ahhhhhh #holy shit #can't wait to see what's going on here #love how you write angry maedhros #silm fic #thank you for tagging me #tag game