#Fingon: why not just lie

[queerofthedagger]

i love fingon so much just. he's so good and so reckless and he loves so fiercely it makes him do the most stupid shit, and in turn no one ever quite puts him first. I'm going to eat glass

#*mine #tolkien #the silmarillion #silm #fingon #turgon and gondolin. fingolfin and his despair. maedhros and his oath. aredhel and turgon. and so on and so FORTH. and YET #god. godddd #i'm fine it's fine I just need to lie down in traffic for a hot second #not even FINGON puts fingon first. he survives the helcaraxe and goes rescue maedhros #and i don't even mean he handles it gracefully i LOVE the idea of a fingon with a bit of an edge. who jumps head-first into danger #/because/ of all this. no one quite cares all that much cleary so why should he. he just wants to feel something so he might as well do som #unhinged fucking shit. move move move then at least you don't have to think so much #just. do you GET IT #screaming crying pls ignore me #these tags are a mess but this is what my brain has been like for a week straight so. yk #just. my guy :((

[thelordofgifs]

the fairest stars: post vi

Beren and Lúthien steal two Silmarils, everything spins out of control, et cetera: we are 78k words and 30 parts into this monster bullet point AU now! Masterpost with links to all previous parts on tumblr and AO3 here.

Part 31: on saving people.

Lúthien finds Maglor in the rose garden.

"I came as soon as I heard," she says, sitting down beside him.

(It isn't a lie – she knows Maglor needs a friend right now. But it is true, also, that Barad Eithel is easier at the moment than thinking of the dull unhappy look in Beren's eyes as they departed Morwen's house, and begged shelter like outlaws with others of the Hadorians.)

Maglor does not look at her. He is staring at his lap, very still.

"Maglor," says Lúthien. She dares to put an arm around him, and then tenses, thinking of Morwen's blank and silent grief, and how she rebuffed all Lúthien’s attempts at comfort.

But Maglor shivers, when she touches him, and then leans against her gratefully.

"I didn't know," Lúthien says. "I'm sorry – I would have stopped him, had I known—"

"How could you have known?" Maglor asks, very heavily. Maglor does not wear his grief gracefully: it is an awful frozen thing, numbing his tongue and coarsening his tuneful voice.

Lúthien thinks of those dreadful days after Beren died, and her heart twists again with pity.

"I did not know, either," Maglor says. "You would think – you would think I would have known, if anyone had."

"I am sorry," Lúthien breathes. "I am so, so sorry."

Maglor manages the faintest of smiles for her, but says nothing else.

They sit in silence for a while.

Lúthien does not want to ask the question burning on her tongue, but ask it she must. "Have you any idea where he might have gone?"

"Do you think I would be here, if I did?" Maglor asks, wearily.

He and Fingon have spent hour upon hour pacing around Fingon's study, fruitlessly turning over the same half-questions: why and how and could we have— before returning, inevitably, to the most pressing of the lot: Where is he, where is he, where is he?

They do not know. They have no idea what Maedhros was thinking in the hours before he disappeared, which frightens them almost more than the rest of it.

Lúthien takes a breath. "Do you think – is there any chance – might he have gone to Doriath? My father still has the Silmaril he took from you."

Maglor barely flinches at the reminder of that past failure. "It's possible," he says. "What makes you think of it?"

"He spoke to me," says Lúthien, "just before I left. He asked me if I might not try to persuade my father to relinquish that Silmaril – for your sake."

"For my sake!" Maglor says. He laughs, bitterly. "For my sake! How very considerate of him. What did you answer him?"

Lúthien meets his gaze unhappily. "That I would not try," she says. "If I had only spoken differently..."

“If only, if only, if only,” Maglor says. “Do not blame yourself, Lúthien. Fingon and I have gone down that path too many times already – but the truth is that I do not think anything could have stopped Maedhros, once he had made up his mind.” He shrugs. “Or perhaps I did not know him as well as I thought.”

“You speak of him as though he is dead,” Lúthien breathes.

“He could be,” Maglor says, matter-of-factly.

“You are very angry,” Lúthien murmurs, “are you not?”

Maglor is quiet for a moment. “This is the third time Maedhros has left me to go after a Silmaril,” he says. “In Mithrim, when Morgoth made his false offer of parley. In Menegroth, when he went hunting for Carcharoth. And now this! Yes – yes, I am very angry. It is the Oath – were it not for the damned Oath—”

“I asked you once before,” Lúthien murmurs, “if you would un-swear it, if you could.”

Maglor looks at her with anguished eyes. “I would,” he says. “In an instant, if only I knew how – look what it has taken from me!”

His breath catches. Lúthien puts her arms around him again.

“Maedhros loves you,” she says quietly, after a moment. “He was – I do not think he was very well, when I spoke to him – but even so it was clear to me how well he loved you. You must not doubt that.”

Maglor thinks of Maedhros whispering, What would it take, to make you hate me? and his own low voice answering, If you left me.

How much easier it would be, he thinks sometimes, not to understand! How comforting bewilderment would feel, to say, I know not why he has done this – what a burden, to know Maedhros as he does, to know what drove him to leave and know that it is, at least in part, Maglor's own fault, that Maglor, utterly trusting, handed his brother the very weapon he turned against him.

Useless, all useless: for all that matters is where Maedhros is now, and he does not know that.

"If he did go to Doriath," he says, attempting to return to Lúthien's question, "he would not have been able to get through your mother's Girdle, anyway." He means to explain, He left the Silmaril with me, but his voice catches halfway through the sentence – he who has always claimed such mastery of words – and all that comes out is, "He left – me, he left me, he left me."

"Oh, Maglor!" Lúthien exclaims. She flings her arms around him again, and Maglor hides his face in her shoulder until he has recovered some of his composure.

(Important, these days, to be composed, to show Fingon's shocked and doubting court that the sons of Fëanor can yet be relied upon – and Maglor's world might have fallen to pieces around him, but he is still good at performing.)

“You must not lose hope,” Lúthien says. She squeezes his hand. "He lives yet, does he not?"

"We cannot tell," Maglor says dully. "He has closed his mind – to me and Fingon both."

It is an awful, suffocating thing, to reach instinctively for the part of his heart that belongs to Maedhros and come up every time against nothing but a smooth impenetrable wall – to cry out, again and again, Where are you? Come back to me, and receive only endless uncaring silence in response.

"I am sure he lives," Lúthien says resolutely, "and you will see him again."

"I have thought him dead once before," says Maglor, "for thirty years, I thought him dead. He was not – and yet—"

Fingon, his voice flat and strange, said once, Makalaurë, is there any chance – he could have – there is a Silmaril in Angband still—

Don't say that, Maglor cried, quicker than thought, don't say that, Finno!

Neither of them have mentioned the possibility since; and so it has lingered, as unspoken things tend to, lurking just beneath the surface of every frantic circular conversation.

"It was not a happy homecoming," he says, "when he was returned to me."

"But he was returned!" Lúthien says. "And he will be again – I am certain of it."

Maglor says, his voice very dreamy, "Celegorm used to shout at me, in those years Maedhros was lost. He said I was a coward, for not attempting a rescue." He shrugs. "He was not wrong – and perhaps little has changed. Am I – am I always to be left behind, waiting for him to return to me?"

"You do not have to be," Lúthien murmurs. She thinks of Hírilorn, and pacing helplessly between its great boughs while Beren lay suffering in Sauron's dungeons.

"Perhaps," Maglor says, "that is the way the story goes, after all – and there is nothing I can do about it. Perhaps unshackling the chains of doom are not as easy as you made it appear, for us."

Lúthien looks at him. "I do not think you really believe that," she says softly.

Maglor meets her gaze, his eyes bright with despair. "I do not believe anything, any more," he says; and when Lúthien, her heart aching, presses a kiss to his cheek she tastes salt.

Meanwhile in the Halls of Mandos:

Withdrawn into the depths of the Halls, where he can nurse this new hurt in peace, Finrod is surprised to sense another approaching him.

For a moment he thinks Celegorm has come to apologise for his harsh speech; but the resemblance between the two spirits is merely superficial.

"You are hard to find, cousin," says Amrod. "I began to think you had taken Mandos up on his offer, and returned to life after all."

Finrod laughs hollowly. "I swore to remain here," he says, "and so I shall – until the breaking of the world, should your brother have his way."

"Is forever always forever?" Amrod asks, dreamily. "Queen Míriel once swore that she would never leave these halls; but she had taken up her body again by the time I arrived here."

"The line of Míriel," says Finrod, "is rather more prone to faithlessness than I."

He regrets the words as soon as he speaks them; barbed, unkind things, more suited to Celegorm than himself.

But Amrod looks at him with pity. "Don't let him make you cruel, Ingoldo," he says. "He did not win when he forced you from your kingdom – nor when he threw all your mercy in your face – but he will, if you grow to imitate him."

Finrod makes an effort to follow this advice. "I would have thought you would be on his side," he says.

"I am," says Amrod. "Why else do you think I want you to save him?"

"I am not sure that is possible, anymore," Finrod says bitterly.

"Neither am I," says Amrod, with a shrug, "but you did swear to try."

Finrod hesitates.

Amrod's story has always horrified him. How bitter a monument to the folly of the sons of Fëanor – how incriminating, that they did not realise after their brother's death that their Oath was pointless, their project Doomed before it could begin!

But Amrod was not just a morality tale: he was Finrod's little cousin, too.

And they have both suffered at Fëanorian hands.

"Why did you stay on the ship?" he asks. "Did you think the Valar would show you mercy, if you returned to these shores?"

"No," Amrod says neutrally. He offers Finrod the edge of a smile. "Only that I had to try."

"I didn't," Finrod says quietly. "I could have turned back with my father, after Alqualondë. I think it would have been better if I had."

"Beren would have died, then," says Amrod, "in the darkness in Tol-in-Gaurhoth. To say nothing of what other good you wrought in Middle-earth."

Finrod thinks of Lúthien, who thanked him for his sacrifice.

"To evil end shall all things turn that they begin well," Amrod muses. "I knew what I was facing, when I decided not to set foot on the beach at Losgar! Not – not that my father was already so consumed by madness – but I did not expect any mercy from the Valar, no." He laughs slightly. "And now here I am. Tyelko tells me it was all for nothing."

"He might not be the best judge of that," says Finrod.

"The brother I remember was kinder than this," Amrod says, thoughtful. He worries at his fingernails as he talks. Sometimes the light, such as it is, shifts and his form becomes that of a charred corpse, his skin crumbling away to reveal the blackened bones beneath. "Was it the Oath that made him so, do you think?"

"The Oath was his own folly," says Finrod. "You do not need to delve so deeply for his motivations: he told me himself that he cast me out of my kingdom because he wanted to, and he does not regret any of it."

“Yes,” Amrod says with a sigh, “it was our own folly, was it not? I was afraid of it, in truth. Afraid of what it might make me become – what it had already made me become, in Alqualondë. And poor Tyelko has gone much further down that dark and lonely path.”

“He killed you,” says Finrod, “and yet you pity him.”

“He killed you, too,” says Amrod, “or as good as – and you pity him too, I think.”

“I do,” Finrod admits. "But he will not accept any pity from me."

Amrod looks at him carefully, and then says, "You ask me why I was willing to turn away from my Oath. Why are you not willing to turn from yours?"

Finrod bristles. "What?"

"You didn't have to go with Beren," says Amrod. "And you didn't have to vow not to leave Mandos until Tyelko can. What made you do it, then? Is it naught but pride – let them add more verses to their songs about Finrod the Faithful, so pure of heart that he forgave his own usurper?"

"No!" Finrod says. "No."

"A hard thing," says Amrod, "to pity someone who does not want or deserve it."

"Quite," Finrod murmurs. "Perhaps that is why I pity him."

"It is a difficult task you have chosen," Amrod warns, "and a thankless one, with little hope of success: even I his brother can tell you that."

"So was the path you chose, when you stayed aboard the ship," says Finrod. "All the same – I have to try. For my sake, perhaps, as much as his." He looks at his cousin again. Amrod's spirit is a pale, flickering thing. "And yours."

"Mine?" says Amrod, sounding truly surprised for the first time.

"It matters, does it not?" Finrod says softly. "That you grieved your deeds – that you were willing to turn back, and face the consequences for them."

"It didn't do anything," says Amrod. "It didn't save anyone."

O for the solidity of a body! Finrod would clasp that small unhappy form to his own, if he could, and squeeze his shoulder comfortingly.

"Then let me save you," he says instead.

Amrod's smile is sad. "I don't think it's that easy," he says.

Back in Barad Eithel:

Before she leaves, Lúthien seeks out the High King.

Fingon is expecting to find one of his lords at the study door, ready to harry him some more about his terrible life choices; so seeing Lúthien is something of a relief.

Even so, he is very tired.

"Is there something I might help you with, lady?" he asks.

"I rather thought I might help you," says Lúthien, tilting her head and offering him a winning smile as she sits down. "But first I owe you my thanks."

Fingon thinks, absurdly, of his abortive promise to behead Curufin. "For what?"

"We have never really spoken, you and I," Lúthien says slowly. "And yet we have rather a lot in common, I think." She smiles at him again. "It was the story of Thangorodrim I was thinking of, when I saved Beren in Tol-in-Gaurhoth."

"I am glad some good came of it, then," Fingon answers bitterly.

Lúthien's eyes on him are sad. "I thought you might say that."

Fingon forces a smile. "Do not mistake me!" he says. "I was pleased indeed to hear how you saved Beren: and pleased, too, that you avenged Finrod my cousin in doing so."

He breaks off. Lúthien's face has filled with sudden pain, hearing Finrod's name.

"I mourn him, too," she says simply, noticing the question in his eyes. "I wish I could have saved him."

At some point you will have to learn that you cannot save everyone, Maglor told Fingon, during the fall of Himring.

Afterwards Fingon thought it mere Fëanorian dramatics; Maedhros had survived the battle, and against all odds so had Maglor, and even Curufin's head was still attached, after all.

Now he thinks perhaps there was a grain of truth to his cousin's words.

Maedhros' distant half-smile and his wide bright eyes and the little tremble in his mouth when Fingon kissed him that last evening—

How did Fingon not see it? How could he have been so blind?

"It is all very well," he says wearily, "to go into the dark armed only with a song, and free one you love from his chains."

Lúthien shudders. She can smell the blood – can feel it, warm and sticky, lapping about her ankles.

"But what can I do," Fingon continues, "if he goes back to the shackles? Am I to break them anyway, against his will?"

"Do you think he has?" Lúthien asks. "Do you think he went to Angband?"

"I don't know!" Fingon exclaims. "How can I not know? I have told myself – I have told him that we are as good as wed – but it is not true! I don't know where he is. How am I to find him, if I don't know where he is – if he has hidden himself from me, deliberately?"

"You can," says Lúthien. "You will. You found him on Thangorodrim, after all. Oh, you of all people must not lose hope!"

"No," Fingon says hollowly. "A High King must not be allowed to despair, after all."

Easier, these days, to understand what drove his father to the breaking point.

"Believe me," says Lúthien, "I know what it is to give your heart to one set on his own destruction." She offers him a faint, comradely sort of smile, but Fingon cannot bring himself to return it. "But is not love about following whether you are wanted or not – about saving them, as many times as it takes?"

Fingon looks at her carefully. Maglor speaks highly of Lúthien, and so did Finrod, but Fingon thinks he would take a liking to her even were it not so: beneath all her ethereal loveliness it seems to him there is a spirit rather akin to his own, both cheerful and practical.

"You do not understand," he says, and closes his eyes.

How is it that this dull defeated voice is his own? Look what you have done to me, he might tell Maedhros; look what you made of me. But the truth is that he left bruises on Maedhros too, with his grasping, over-eager fingers.

"It is not," he says, "it is not merely that I do not know where to follow him this time. It is that – how can I even know whether he wishes me to find him? How do you save someone who does not want to be saved?"

Lúthien thinks of Beren, who heard her singing outside Sauron's tower, and lifted his own voice in response.

She thinks of Maglor telling her that perhaps he need not be bound forever.

"I don't know," she admits.

Fingon tries to master himself. Lúthien may be trustworthy, but all the same he cannot afford to grieve too openly these days.

Is this Maedhros' vengeance on him, to make Fingon's proud and foolish declaration of love into a public stain – to have branded on his cheek, The High King is bound to a traitor?

(There are very few people in Barad Eithel who view Maedhros' disappearance without suspicion.)

"Your story is a happy one, and I am glad of it," he tells Lúthien. "But in truth I know not if its like will be told again – and not of the Noldor, certainly."

Lúthien looks at him unhappily. "Yours is not over yet, either," she says. "Maedhros told me once that I had brought hope to all Elvenkind with my deeds. But you did that long before I."

Fingon smiles at her, practised and kingly, without meeting her gaze.

(to be continued)

#silmarillion #my fic #bullet point fic #the fairest stars #maglor #luthien #finrod #amrod #fingon #yes I left you on a cliffhanger for 2 months and then gave you an update that does not resolve the cliffhanger. sorry #have some sadguys being sad

[annoyinglandmagazine]

Turgon: Hey Maedhros, did you get my report?

Maedhros: Yeah, I looked it over. Nice work. 

Turgon: Good. Thanks, dad. 

Maedhros: ...

Fingon: ...

Celegorm: ...

Aeredhel: ...

Turgon: Why is everyone staring at me?

Fingon: You just called Maedhros ‘Dad’. You said, ‘Thanks, dad.’

Turgon: What? No, I didn’t. I said, ‘Thanks, man.’

Maedhros: Do you see me as a father figure?

Turgon: No. If anything, I see you as a bother figure ‘cause you’re always bothering me. 

Aredhel: Hey! Show your father some respect.

Turgon: I didn’t call him dad!

Maedhros: No, no-no-no. I take it as a compliment. 

Finrod: It’s not a big deal. I called my ex ‘mom’ once.  

Turgon: Guys, jump on that. Finrod has psycho-sexual issues. 

Aredhel: Old news. But you calling Maedhros ‘daddy’-

Turgon: Hey, ‘daddy’ is not on the table here. 

Celegorm : But you did call him ‘dad’, dude.

Turgon: You shut up, you’ve done nothing but lie since you got here. 

Celegorm: Alright, alright, I was lying about the hold-up, but that thing... that happened. 

Turgon: Aha! He admitted that his alibi was a lie. It was a trap. All part of my crazy, devious plan.

Maedhros: I believe you.

Turgon: Thank you.

Maedhros : ...kid

Turgon: ...

Maedhros: You wanna talk about it later, over a... game of catch?

Turgon ...I’d like that... 

#Maedhros has a lot of parent energy #I think a lot of the finweans have called him dad at some point #silmarillion #incorrect quotes #maedhros #celegorm #fingon #turgon #aredhel

[tar-maitime]

if you stay by my side

Rating: T Characters: Maedhros | Maitimo, Fingon | Findekano Relationships: Maedhros/Fingon, fem!Maedhros/Fingon Additional: War of Wrath, reunions, major character injury, angst, indefinite but hopeful ending WC: 1k

Direct follow up to the last part of "talking to the air"

Fingon has been fighting to get back to Russandol for years, decades now - in some ways since the moment he died, and actively since word came through the tapestries that a fresh army was being sent to Beleriand. The news of two new kinslayings, though they horrified him, did not stop him. The incredulity of his family, dead and living, once he made his course known to them, did not stop him. Nor did Námo’s remonstrations, nor his uncle Arafinwë’s attempts to keep him from the host, nor the slews of orcs and worse monsters that he’s been battling his way through since he landed.

None of it will stop him getting back to her.

And now - now - he happens to glance over at the second force that’s pinned the current batch of orcs in place for his people to finish off, and he sees crimson banners and cloaks and hair like flame, and he nearly freezes. Gray eyes lock with his across the battlefield in disbelieving recognition. He can almost feel the embers of a familiar fire in the back of his mind where the remains of their bond lie, shattered upon his death.

Then an orc chieftain comes up behind Russandol while she’s distracted by him, and plunges a black spear into a gap at the side of her armor.

(It’s at a place that is difficult to manage with one hand, an obvious weakness. She used to have him or Maglor or a trusted aide help her with it. How long has she been letting this slide, why has she been letting this slide...)

(He doesn’t have time to think about any of this in the moment, but later - later, he will.)

He doesn’t even think before cutting his way to her, fighting so fiercely that he’s there before her knees even start to buckle. His sword rams through the throat of the orc who dared touch her, and then Fingon isn’t paying attention to the battle anymore, because Russandol is staggering and falling and he moves to catch her and follows her to the ground, cradling her in his arms.

(Their respective troops have little to no idea what is going on, but they do their work well anyway, fighting past them and driving the orcs back, leaving the two of them relatively safe.)

Russandol’s breathing is shallow and shaky, but she still gazes up at him like he’s the greatest wonder of the world. “Finno,” she murmurs. “It’s you. You’re really here.”

“It’s me,” Fingon chokes out, his hands shaking as he fumbles with his free hand at his cloak. It’s filthy, and the spear probably did damage that staunching the blood flow won’t help, but he presses the fabric against Russandol’s side anyway. “I’m here, Russë, it’s okay, it’s going to be okay. You’ll be all right.”

“How...”

“Ssh, save your strength, all right? I’ll tell you all about it once the healers have fixed you up. We’ll have time.” He can’t lose her. Not now. Not when he’s just found her again.

Russandol laughs weakly. “Again with the...trying to bribe me to...see a healer.”

“Well, this time you will,” Fingon says firmly, then twists to look back towards the support lines and yell, “Medic! We need a medic!” Someone will hear. Someone has to. “The healers will get you taken care of and you’ll be fine. And we’ll be together again.”

“Now I know...you’re making things up,” Russandol says softly. “You wouldn’t want me. Not anymore. Not after...”

“I do,” Fingon says, absolute as granite. “Always. There is nothing you could do that would make me stop loving you.” That had taken some working through in the Halls, but all of his agonizing seems very far away now. “I love you and I want you and I will get you help - medic! - and when you’re better and this is over we’ll--” He searches frantically for something to keep her eyes open and on him. “We’ll finally have a home together. Like we used to talk about. Just stay with me, Russë.”

Her eyes flutter. She reaches her hand up shakily to cup his face. “Tell me more, Finno,” she whispers. “Can we have Gil visit us there? He’s king now...wouldn’ be able to stay all the time.”

“Of course he’ll visit,” Fingon promises. He’s seen their son since arriving on these shores, gotten to talk with him some. Gil-galad is deeply conflicted about his mother’s kinslayings, but they can reconcile. It just needs time. “He’ll visit all the time. And so will Maglor, he’ll drive us mad...”

“And the twins,” Russandol says, and for a moment Fingon thinks she means Ambarussa, now dead, but no - “Elrond. Elros. Adopted them without you - ‘m sorry.”

“They’ll be there, too. I already know I’ll love them, Russë. You’ll have to introduce us - they’re my niece’s grandsons, too, aren’t they?”

Russandol nods weakly. “You’ll take good care of them.”

“We both will,” Fingon says desperately, holding her just a bit tighter. “Russë, please, stay with me, hang on--” He thinks he can hear running footsteps in the distance, prays to anyone listening that they’re healers. “Please, I came for you, I was looking for you for so long, through this whole stinking war; you can’t go now when I’ve just found you.”

“Finno.” There are tears spilling out of the corners of Russandol’s eyes, but she tries to smile. “Finnonya. It’s okay. You’re here with me. I got to see you one more time. It’s enough.”

“It is not,” Fingon says, forcing back a sob and turning it into stubborn fury instead. “You don’t get to leave me alone, Russë, it’s not fair, I don’t care if you want to get me back for the Nirnaeth or whatever this is, pick something else.”

It’s telling, he thinks with a sinking feeling, that she doesn’t argue about the Nirnaeth. She just settles herself in his arms like she would settle into a bed at the end of a long day. “Love you,” she murmurs. “You don’t have to wait for me. If you don’t want. Or if I go to the Void. Can find an Indis. You should be happy.”

“I should,” Fingon agrees sharply, “and I need you, so stay with me, Russë, so help me, if you die I will come and drag you back from Mandos or wherever else they throw you. Don’t make me do it, Russë, meldanya, please, just hang on.”

Her hand against his cheek goes limp, and Fingon has time for a single second of bright, pure panic before a trio of healers with Fëanorian red armbands descends on them and pulls Russandol out of his arms, working over her and bundling her onto a stretcher to carry away. It all happens so fast that for long moments he simply kneels there, staring after them as they run with the stretcher. He doesn’t know what happens now. He doesn’t know what to do.

They didn’t cover her face. They were still trying to help her; when they took her away, they were hurrying. There’s still hope.

Fingon picks himself up and takes off running after them. Whatever comes next, he needs to be there for her.

#silmarillion #russingon #maedhros x fingon #maedhros #fingon #reunions #war of wrath #i promised a follow-up to that cliffhanger and i delivered #although the new cliffhanger might arguably be worse... #roots of my tree #my stories #female Maedhros

[zealouswerewolfcollector]

I wanted to finish an old fic for Maedhros and Maglor week but procrastinated so hard on it that I wrote a different one. Well, a snippet actually. This one is a little less angsty than the first one.

792 words, G

Warnings: Some self-harm

On Ao3

Maedhros lay wide awake․ One by one, he pried his fingers off from the cover they were gripping with bone-crushing force. He took deep, measured breaths and tried to focus on the way the hilt of his sword glinted under the moonlight. He ran his stiff fingers over the ruby and the eight rays adorning it. When it didn’t help, he tried to think about something else, something happy, but he found nothing.

The small ball of panic sat heavily in his stomach and began to grow no matter how much he fought it. It crept through his veins like poison from an orc arrow, wrapped its tendrils around his heart and blocked his throat, choking him. 

He sat up. He was losing this fight. If only he knew what exactly had agitated him so, then he might have stopped it. But his frantic mind could find no reason. Sometimes, there wasn’t one. It just happened.

He looked around. He was alone. If he failed to control himself, panic would overwhelm him, and there was no knowing what he would do. 

Findekáno, he thought, I have to find Findekáno.

He had asked Maedhros to come to him if this happened. He knew how to help. In the worst case, he would restrain Maedhros before he could do something terrible.

In his confusion, he lost precious minutes trying to find the door. The corridors were empty, which was strange but lucky. It would not do to have his people see him in this state. But on the other hand, Maedhros would appreciate it if there were someone to tell him where Fingon was. 

He walked along the corridor, his anxiety only growing until he heard his name called from behind. He had the time to panic about forgetting to take his sword with him before recognizing his brother. 

“Where are you going?” Maglor asked, approaching him warily.

“I have to find Findekáno,” Maedhros said. He didn’t know how to explain the urgency to his brother. “Do you know where he is?”

“Findekáno?”

 “Yes. I need his help.”

Maglor slowly nodded. “How about you return to your chamber?” he said. “I will send for Findekáno.”

Maedhros hesitated. “I cannot be alone,” he confessed.

“You will not be. I will join you in a minute.”

Maedhros was reassured by his brother’s words, but the moment he was alone, he felt the bitter taste of panic in the back of his throat again. He sat on the windowsill and ran his nails along his forearm to ground himself. But there was still that wretched sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, the sense of foreboding he could not stifle, the conviction that something terrible was going to happen. He wished he could cut those feelings out of his body, be rid of them once and for all. He glanced at his sword. His hand was already reaching for it when Maglor pushed the door open. 

“How are you doing?” he asked. 

“Have you sent for Findekáno?”

“Yes… But it will take him a while to arrive, so why don’t I play something for you?”

He didn’t wait for an answer. He sat by Maedhros, harp in hand, and started a simple melody. It was comforting, Maedhros could not deny it. He was finally able to breathe again. He closed his eyes and concentrated on the music, but a stubborn part of him was still on alert. 

There came suddenly a patter of someone’s light feet. Maedhros’s eyes snapped open.

“Did you hear that?” he asked Maglor.

“No. What—”

Maedhros shushed him. 

“Someone is watching us,” he whispered.

The door had been left ajar, and Maedhros could feel the intense look fixed at him. He reached for his sword, but Maglor snatched it away. 

“I will check,” he said.

He slipped outside and returned before Maedhros could follow him.

“No one is there,” he said.

Maedhros let out a breath. It must have been his mind playing tricks on him. The thought only heightened his panic. He jumped when Maglor took his trembling hand.

“Why don’t you lie down?” he asked softly. “I will sing you to sleep.”

“What if Findekáno comes?”

“I will wake you then,” Maglor promised.

Grateful, Maedhros smiled at him. He was relieved that it came easily. He looked at the night sky out of the window.

“The Silmaril shines brighter today, don’t you think?” he asked.

“Yes,” Maglor said. “Lie down.”

Maedhros did. His brother’s soothing voice carried him far away, and the sweet sounds of his harp quelled his fears. He surrendered to the spell of Maglor’s music and fell into a peaceful sleep. 

Maglor sat on the windowsill and sang for him until the sun rose over Amon Ereb.

#maedhros #maglor #silmarillion #silm fic #zwc fic

[erynalasse]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Maglor told me you stood aside.”

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

“—it matters to me—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

[tolkieen]

DIALOQUE BETWEEN FINGOLFIN & FINGON

Fingon sat on the floor against the bed, facing his long dark brown hair to his father. Normally he would entrust anyone from the staff to braid his hair. But this was different, tonight was a new feast, and his love for Maedhros was in bloom. So, he wanted something new to draw Maedhros to his attention. It always has been Maedhros, for as long as he can remember.

Fingolfin loved his children, and even more so to braid their hair. Most of the time it would be Anarie for this task. But this was his excuse to have a more private conversation with them.

He ordered very special golden laces for Fingon’s hair, thin and golden to reflect the light of the Trees. He made sure the they were hand delivered directly to him all the way from Alqualondë.

Fingon smiled as he admired one of the braided locks with the gold shimmering with the reflection of the light from the Trees from the window.

“Do you think he will like it?”

Fingolfin smiled – he could sense his son being so anxious and excited to impress Maedhros, as he focused on braiding carefully, “Why wouldn’t he?”

“I suppose he will, it’s just what if ...what if he doesn’t?”

Fingolfin stopped and leaned in to hug him from behind tightly, the way that would embarrass his children in front of others, especially when they now have grown older.

“From the way he looks at you every time you are near him, I can tell he only has eyes for you” he said, ensuring his son. He continued braiding the laces into his son’s hair, fascinated how it almost glowed through his hair

“Like the way uncle Feanor look at you?” Fingon winced, his words gotten out too quick – too late to stop it. His shoulders were tense, and he held his breath waiting for a response. Fingolfin didn’t expect his son to know about Feanor, not that it was a secret.

Fingolfin froze, his smile died right away, but only his eyes looked up at the back of Fingon, he swallowed thickly.

“That is long over and forgotten” he said as he slowly continued braiding - he felt a void in his heart, a place Anarie were never able to heal or replace.

Fingon opened his mouth, but were unable to find the words – how do anyone respond to answer like that?

But his curiosity was pushing, and it didn’t stop him from asking more questions,

“What about mother?”

Fingolfin sighed “what about her?”

“Did she ever knew about you two?”

“Not entirely, like I said it is in the past” Fingolfin held a long breath - his heart betrayed him in whatever he felt that moment.

“Right”

“Don’t you miss him though?” Fingon said with a careful tone

“It does not matter now does it?” Fingolfin felt his own words hurt more than expected.

Fingon could hear the bitterness in his fathers tone, he turned slowly looking up directly into his father’s eyes worried

Fingolfin could not avoid his son’s eyes, as much they mirrored his – There was a long pause of silence that lingered in the air. A moment with unspoken words.

Tonight, was too important for Fingon. So, he faked a smile. Pretended that everything was alright, everything turned out to the better. Everything beside his longing for Feanor.

“It’s alright – it’s in the past. Beside I have your mother now – I couldn’t be happier” As he turned Fingon to finish the last braiding. He prayed to Eru that his son would be far more fortunate with Maedhros than he ever was with Feanor. That he would not face heartbreak like he did.

None of them were convinced by what Fingolfin said, they both knew, they had to believe this little white lie.

#silmarillion #the silmarillion #fingolfin #feanor #feanorians #sons of feanor #fingon #findekano #nolofinweans #nolofinwe #maedhros #curufinwe #silm au #silm fic #silmart #valinor #tirion #alqualondë #russingon #maglor #curufin #feanor meme #finarfin #feanorion #noldor elves #noldor

[novemberthecatadmirer]

Just Another Silm Rant

I think the reason I get so suddenly ADHD-obsessed-hyperfocused with Silmarillion world, aside from the lore is grand but also loose filled with delicious openings for reinterpretations and headcanons, aside from the concept being focused on kindness and being good despite all the disastrous tragedies Noldor style happened in the story is that it’s filled with people with problems. And each of them suffered from their problems in different way ARTISTICALLY. Which I find very realistic and compelling.

Like, there is Feanor. I haven’t thought enough about him. I feel he kind of made his problem everyone’s problem. Like, Not exactly, his problem was already part of everyone’s problems, with his father being murdered, the Trees thing, and the whole Silmarils matter. However he was getting too damned (understandably) attached to his finished art project. Like, when think about him, as a person in creative industry myself I want to scream at him “Each good artwork you do is part of you and you will not be able to remake them again and destroying them will absolutely breaks your heart but that’s the FUCKING POINT of being an artist, you just forget your past work, let them go, tape your fucking heart back together and keep creating new things because that’s how artist grow. What a disaster it is if we make something nice and that is it, that is the peak of our life as artist and we just cannot make anything better? Okay probably you got an artist block but you are IMMORTAL go get some inspirations move on with your life instead of go fighting with a bunch of fire monsters and fucking end your artist career.”

There is Maedhros. Nothing to say about him, I love him, good hair, TRAGIC FALLEN HERO that fell so hard, directly into a glory shiny lava pit. Got a load of awful stuff (including being turned into a fucking piece of art installation) happened to him, pulled himself together, kept going, tried really hard, survived, tried again and again. Then realized that all his struggling had cause suffers and deaths of other people including his own family, everything was in vain, and finally broke and had a dramatical suicide like THAT.  (Why are you even surprised boi you have been trying so damned hard in the wrong direction for the wrong reasons.)

There is Maglor. Went with the flow EACH AND EVERY TIME. Participated at all of the crime parties. Felt SORRY but kept doing it anyway. SERIOUSLY WHAT’S WRONG WITH YOU. Somehow people still feel he’s the softy of the group. (Really that’s impressive.) (Maybe because his music is nice.) Good hair No.2. 

There is Finrod everyone’s favorite hot boi. Rap-battled Sauron of all people, failed because of logical inconsistency. His story keeps making me think about how easy it is to point at someone who is good and declare “okay they are not really good.” It is almost like, it’s very, VERY hard to be GOOD. And the Evil says, hey you cannot be actually fighting me if you are not PURE and GOOD, because you are already tainted by me thus everything you do is serving me. IMO that’s probably the most successful lie of the evil side. Just think about it, how many time in history and at present have we been divided by being misled to point at and attack each other for being “not really good and probably helping the bad guys,” while the big bad guys just sit there in their comfy sofa sipping our blood from beautiful gold goblets, watching us breaking apart ourselves with our broken faith in humanity?

There is Fingon. Not much to say. Possibly one of the most gruesome death. The most brave one had to be killed in most brutal way. Fuck Morgoth. Didn’t have a lot of problems himself, damned mostly because of association.

There is Turgon the Dumb. I like his story. Very, very interesting, complex character. I HATE HIM. Sorry I know his is probably hot but WTF. So traumatized by all his family just fucking dying here and there, ended up building this secluded beautiful city, a wonderful bubble of dream of the wonderous past, and sit in it mourning his loss while THE WORLD WAS FUCKING BURNING AROUND HIM. The “nope you are not allowed to leave my very secret city why do you even want to leave can’t you see how wonderful this city I built is” sucks as well. 

Push people down the fucking wall of your fucking city in rage, well, also not good. And apparently it was A SPECIAL LOCATION that is black and so contrary to the city’s pretty white color palette. I’m like what is this WHAT DOES THIS EVEN IMPLY? Is this the first time you do it? Better it be the first and last time you do it or I have SO FUCKING MANY questions. I am not surprised at all casting people down a fucking cliff would doom your beautiful city of pure light and joy so damned hard. 

Then Ulmo warned him and he just DID. NOT. LISTEN. It is very interesting, that in House of Finwe he of all people ended up being the one replicated Feanor’s problem. “Yeah this city I created is so good and I am not going to give it up and move on and rebuild a better one somewhere else so that my people can survive and live.” DO YOU KNOW IN ARCHITECTURE SCHOOL THEY HAVE TO DESTROY THEIR MODELS BUILT WITH MONEY AND HARD WORK THEMSELVES EACH AND EVERY SEMESTER? 

Also when Hurin came for him for help... He did that. Not good. Not WISE. Your friend who got captured and tortured by the dark enemy of the world for 20+ years just showed up at your door and you hesitated. Also he happened to know the damned location of your fucking city, yeah there was an oath, but don’t you wonder why suddenly he got released? If you choose to be a king instead of a friend at least take him in to investigate what the fuck actually happened? 

And in the end he just... Climbed onto the very tip of the highest tower, complained aloud and fell with his city. Narratively compelling. It just seems like He was trying to be a good king, but always at the worst time.

Turin. I think he needed so, SO MANY therapies. The thing is, aside from the problems with traumas and mental illness he just did not even try to fucking have some awareness/control of his own emotions. Instead he just chose to be dramatic and drown in his self-pity and rage (who the fuck call themselves “the Black Sword.”) Like, it didn’t even feel like he was trying.

Also there is the HUGE issue that Morgoth was very, VERY motivated to make his life a fucking piece of performance art demonstrating loss, suffering, and death.

Finduilas. Had no problems. Problems found her anyway. Got turned into a fucking art installation to escalate Turin’s problems.

Eol. Chilled in his very dark, very morbid forest. Got on well with dwarves, but when Noldor tried to trap him and his family indefinitely in their wonderful city reacted very badly. We don’t know much about him. The narrative was against him. And the narrative was probably racist. So we don’t know much about him.

Maeglin. Got so many problems shoved at him. Had so many problems. Everyone thought he was the problem. 

Probably would not be any problem if Turgon dealt with Turgon’s own problems. Like, the whole matter with his parents’ death was messy, understandable. But if Turgon listened to Ulmo and left early? If Turgon took Hurin in before he shouted out aloud in despair? If Turgon fucking reconsidered and listened to Ulmo, he actually got so many fucking years?

Also THE NARRATIVE WAS AGAINST HIM AND WAS RACIST. (WTF with the “some whispered he had Orc’s blood in his veins.”)

(Still not over my “I love everything about Gondolin so damned much but the city sucks and must burn and was a metaphor of the problem of Valinor and I think Tolkien discarded his draft for Dagor Dagorath because he realized that Morgoth would win that damned war if people just lock themselves in Valinor and wait in inaction for the great system reset with the rest of world burning right over there all the time.”) 

(Seriously, healing is a fucking PROCESS. If the Valar, the elves do not start to work with mortals to heal Arda NOW AT THE MOMENT and just passively waiting for some magical reset, there will never be an Arda Healed. The world will end first in fire then in ice.)

#the silmarillion #silm #silmarillion #tolkien #lotr #silm meta #silmarillion meta #feanorians #feanor #maedhros #maglor #fingon #finrod #turgon #hurin #turin #finduilas #eol #maeglin #gondolin #morgoth #melkor #valinor

[fuckingfinwions]

Amnesiac Fingon at Sirion

He gave his name at the gate as "a kinsman of Lady Idril," and asked to be directed to her house. It was true (unless he'd been lied to for the last fifty years), and would cause a lot less panic about lost spirits and ghosts than his name. Being Idril's kinsman was also the reason why he had come, rather than one of his law-brothers or a random messenger from their army.

That someone would come to Sirion from the Feanorian host was inevitable. He only hoped that he could be the only one, rather than returning in a year with an army.

Idril's house was easy enough to find, not as grand as the palace but only a short walk away. A servant ushered him in to a sitting room, taking his bag and cloak so politely that he almost missed them carrying off his sword and short-bow as well. He let them, as this meeting would no go any better if Idril thought he was threatening her personal safety. The threat to her people was one he could not avoid.

Once he had no cloak with it's shadowy hood, he turned his face to the paintings on the wall. He was not trying to hide his identity from Idril, but she was the one he wanted to recognize him first. She was the one who had known him as family and mourned his death, and he owed it to her to tell her first of his resurrection, even if he did not remember her. So he had not braided his hair with ribbons as in his the great painting that adorned Maedhros's sitting room, but only pulled it back so it was a mountain of curls on top his head. He looked rather like Anaire, or at least like the wedding portrait that had been in his father's personal effects.

When he heard footsteps enter the room, he turned. First was a man, in middle age perhaps but still hale, blond with a beard trimmed in the Hadorian style. Behind him was an elven lady with skin only a shade darker than Fingon's own, but hair as bright and golden as buttercups.

"Lady Idril," he said as he gave a half-bow, as their respective ranks were hard to calculate given his apparent death and her father's, with none to his knowledge currently claiming the title of King.

"What - but it can't be, you died! My father saw your head cleft in two!"

"I'm sure Turgon thought he did, and indeed Gothmog struck a heavy blow. But I survived, and with the skill of the healers and the grace of Este have recovered. I would have told Turgon, but unfortunately I couldn't reach him."

The man - Tuor - spoke up. "Dear, who is this? I was under the impression all your relatives had either died in battles of renown, or else never set foot in Beleriand."

"I know who he's claiming, but not why someone would make such a bold lie."

"Because it's not a lie. I am Fingon the Valiant, son of Fingolfin Arakano, former high king of the Noldor."

"You say former high king, but I would expect that title to still be yours if you never formally yielded it or died."

"I did yield the throne, due to ill health, and told the largest group of Noldor I could find. I know I cannot claim it again after years away like a discarded instrument."

"Gondolin was the last remaining kingdom of the Noldor. Everyone else died in the Braggollach or the Nirnaeth, save only Nargothrond which fell to dragon fire years ago. I would have heard if you had come to any of them, the great high king alive at last."

"The last kingdom, but not the last fortress. The sons of Feanor still dwell at Amon Ereb along with their followers, and my husband's kin has been very welcoming."

"Your husband?!"

"Maedhros son of Feanor. We were married even before you left for Gondolin, though I'm not surprised your father didn't mention it."

"He did, but I thought it was just because he was angry at his brother. If you're really my uncle, tell me a story about my mother."

"I'm sorry. I know Elenwe died when you were young, and I wish I could share memories of her with you. But the injury that everyone though killed me was a blow to the head, and I recall nothing before it."

"How can you be sure you're Fingon then, rather than a convenient decoy for the throne?"

"If someone wanted to be the power behind the throne, why I have I never acted to take it? But for more concrete proof, I look just as I ever have, and I was already married to Maedhros when I woke up with the healers. If you've heard any rumors of Maedhros having a spouse, or close friend who could have been a secret paramour, who was not Fingon the Valiant, I am very interested."

Idril looked carefully at Fingon as if she could see a lie in his face, but he held his head proud and steady. After a moment, she sighed. "I'm sorry uncle Fingon, it's just been a trying time. I am glad you are alive, truly."

"Thank you."

"If you're not here to claim the kingship, is this a social call then? We have a lot to catch up on, though I suppose you don't know where we left off."

"Well, not really. I would love to get to know you, and your family, whenever you have time! But I didn't think either of us would get much joy out of it, with no common reference to speak of."

The blond man - Tuor - spoke up then. "I suppose you can't tell me about my father then?"

"I know he helped a lot with readying Dor-Lomin for the battle, but Maedhros would be the one to go to for details."

"I don't think Maedhros is welcome in the city."

"Which brings me to the reason I'm here. I would like to speak with your daughter-in-law."

Idril said, "Speak with? Like Maedhros spoke with Dior?"

"Dior never answered any letters we sent - I'm not sure he knew we were serious. Elwing at least knows the stakes, and I'm hopeful negotiation can help everyone."

"I don't think Sirion needs any help from the Feanorians other than them staying out of the way."

"We're not the only threat out there. There are hordes of orcs in Angband."

"And do they listen to you then? Is this another case like Maeglin; has Maedhros been promised the Silmaril if he brings in the last of Doriath and Gondolin?"

"No! Maedhros is no thrall, and hates Morgoth as much as any. But he could help design defenses for the city, like those that protected Himring. The army of Feanor would provide a great number of soldiers to aid you as well, if we were only allowed within the walls."

"You keep saying 'we', but you are the son of my grandfather Nolofinwe, not Feanor."

"My husband's kin are mine as well; you should know this from your own marriage."

"I've never killed an innocent because my husband said to."

"I wasn't at Doriath. I stayed and manned the keep, and my husband came back to say that half his brothers died. I want to keep all my family alive this time."

"And you don't want the burden of shedding more blood, so you come as if it's not a threat."

"It's not! I came alone, I let your servants take my weapons. If Elwing will not see me, or you will not introduce us, or she spends the whole time spewing insults at my husband, I will leave the city peacefully. We will send more letters, and messengers if there's anyone who the Iathrim won't shoot."

"And if the letters fail? If there is nothing that will convince Elwing to give up her birthright to the ones who killed her people?"

"Than the Feanorians will attempt to get it back directly. But warning of an oncoming storm is not a threat, though your ship may be broken all the same if you take no heed."

"Are you really going to make metaphors about ships after what the Feanorians did at Losgar, and what you did at Alqualonde?"

Fingon winced a moment. "Right, I forgot about that. I know the facts, but they don't feel as important as keeping anyone from dying right now."

#not archived yet #amnesiac fingon au #spoiler alert but Fingon negotiating doesn't work and the third kinslaying still happens #on the plus side he'll be so excited to meet his great-great-nephews!

[thelordofgifs]

A Completely Objective Rating of Gil-galad Origin Theories

So! My Research(tm) has informed me that Tolkien conceived of at least four potential parentages for Gil-galad, last High King of the Noldor, at various points. This plothole/controversy/mystery is deeply, deeply funny to me, so I decided to make a post arbitrarily rating various Gil-galad theories and providing examples of fics where they appear.

Some disclaimers:

I am very very new to the silm fandom and also tumblr and don't actually know anything! so there is a very high chance something will go wrong here

in compiling this I was very much indebted to this post by @sweetteaanddragons and this one by @tanoraqui

your headcanons, of course, are extremely valid! no shade at all to anyone who likes one of the theories I’ve rated a bit lower, and thank you for doing your bit to deepen the controversy. the more Gil-galad theories the better

Unsurprisingly, this turned out LONG. I split the parentages into four sections: Part 1 covers supposedly canon/canon-adjacent Gil-galad theories; Part 2, popular fanon theories that I've seen in a variety of places; Part 3 will cover rare fanon theories that I've only seen basically once, and ideas I literally just made up myself.

Baseline assumptions I'm using:

The "historical record", in-universe, is primarily the Quenta Silmarillion which states that Ereinion Gil-galad was the son of Fingon; and other documents variously suggesting that he was the son of Orodreth or Finrod, or a descendant of Fëanor. Sources give him the additional names Finellach and Artanáro/Rodnor.

It's fairly widely agreed-upon that Gil-galad was an adult and the High King by the time of the Third Kinslaying, when he was based on Balar and came too late to Elwing's aid.

(This means I won't further consider some rather fun, cracky theories that are based on the argument that Gil-galad only became the High King after the War of Wrath. That seems like a slightly excessive amount of historical revisionism for my taste, when he's named as the High King well before the WoW.)

So, with those established, what makes for a good Gil-galad parentage theory?

It has to make the confusion in the historical record, in-universe, make some sort of sense. Would someone with this parentage have a claim to the crown? If not, do they have a solid motivation to lie about it? Providing a neat explanation for other aspects of Gil-galad's characterisation and the way he rules would also be a bonus.

A storytelling concept I call weird questions must have weird answers. Neat origin theories that "make sense" tend to score low on this metric. The Gil-galad controversy is funny and needs to be kept that way.

How narratively satisfying is the theory? Does it ruin anyone else's arc, or fanon I personally like? Then it's scoring low.

This is already so long-

Time for looking at the four canon-ish Gil-galad parentages!

Gil-galad son of Fingon and, presumably, some unnamed wife. This is rubbish. Makes no sense. Not a fan. No. Primarily, it is boring, the death knell to any Gil-galad theory. Also, Fingon is never actually mentioned to have a wife because he's married to Maedhros and, while textual ghosts are obviously common in the Silm, I find it slightly harder to believe that a High Queen of the Noldor managed to escape being named anywhere. You could, I suppose, argue that she died before Fingon became King, but I don't want to. The confusion in the historical record also seems unnecessary here, because Fingon's son would presumably have a pretty ironclad claim to the crown after his death and certainly after Turgon's. No fic recs here, I don't like this theory. 2/10.

Gil-galad son of Orodreth and brother of Finduilas. Even more boring, and also makes less sense. Was Gil-galad in Nargothrond during Leithian and up to its fall? In that case, why wasn't he mentioned at any point, and if he survived the fall of Nargothrond and escaped, why didn't he go after Finduilas? If he wasn't in Nargothrond by the time of Turin, we can at least forgive his failure to rescue his sister, but why was he sent away from Nargothrond when, prior to the building of the bridge, everyone believed it was safe - and why wasn't Finduilas sent away with him? Again, there's no particular reason for obfuscating this parentage, so it fails on that metric too. At least Artanáro/Rodnor is a good Finarfinion name. Fics which use this theory: What is Wrought Between Us by @nikosheba, which voids all these objections of mine quite nicely - Gil-galad son of Orodreth, adopted by Fingon and Maedhros! Also it's one of the most heart-breaking, beautiful, canon-compliant Russingon series around, go and read it. That excellent example aside, 3/10.

Gil-galad son of Finrod and (iirc) a wife called Meril. An earlier version of the legendarium discarded when Finrod was made childless. This is potentially my least favourite of the four canon-esque theories, because Finrod's childlessness is imo a fairly important part of his arc, and Meril was replaced by Amarië, to whom Finrod was very much not married at the time of his death. Pretty much the only positive is that, again, Artanáro/Rodnor suits well as a name for Finrod's son. I don't think many people like this theory - we need not consider it further here. No fic recs. 2/10.

Gil-galad descendant of Fëanor. By far the most intriguing and also most implausible canon-esque theory, and as I understand only from one early draft of the legendarium. But there is so much to play with here. If Gil-galad's father is one of the sons of Fëanor, he has a rock-solid reason to lie about his parentage. His claim to the throne is also dubious, because Maedhros abdicated on behalf of the entire house. This gives excellent con-artist Gil-galad flavours to play with. On the narrative/emotional arc metric, this one falls a little short, though. We don't need another descendant of Fëanor in the Second Age struggling with the dark and messy legacy of their family - we have Celebrimbor! And Celebrimbor's status as the last scion of his house, and how his eventual tragedy owes so much to his heritage, is very important to me. Besides, the house of Fëanor going from 7 sons in the first generation to literally just one grandchild is so haunting. On a more practical level, I also don't think Gil-galad reads as particularly close to Celebrimbor? They seem more "distant relations" than first cousins. On the other hand, if Gil-galad simply doesn't know who his parents are, a lot of these problems disappear. We can also double up a few textual ghosts by making his mother one of the unnamed wives - preferably Maglor's or Caranthir's, because Gil-galad son of Curufin feels. doubtful. Fics which use this theory: A Gift from Father to Son by @amethysttribble explores every single potential Fëanorian parentage which is very fun, for a value of "fun" involving "sobbing on the floor about how terrible all these people are". Check it out! Theory as a whole gets 5/10.

#silmarillion #meta #fic rec #gil galad

[ladysternchen]

Yet Were Its Making Good, For This- Part Two- Reunited

“Oh come on, love. You’re tired, and the only thing to do about that is sleep.”

Mablung savoured each word, unable to keep himself from grinning broadly. He had been forced to watch Elu’s quirks quietly for thousands of years and thus hugely enjoyed being able to openly tease him about them now. And -more importantly- look after him properly. 

Elu didn’t react at once but after a while said quietly:

“I miss my cloak.”

“I know. Let us share mine for now. The night is balmy, we shall not be cold, and then tomorrow we’ll see what we can do to give the Greycloak back his mantle.”

Elu smiled a little, and then pulled his tunic over his head at last. As he bared his torso Mablung’s breath caught in his chest.

“You bear your scars still.” he whispered. 

He had not heard of that before, safe in Maedhros, whose right wrist was still encircled with a fine scar, reminiscent of a silver-white bracelet. That scar, he claimed, meant something to him, for it had been Fingon who had cut off his hand out of love and so he bore it even in his new body. Mablung had until now put that off as something weird the Fëanorians would do, who could after all not deny to be Finwë’s descendants. Apparently, he had been mistaken about that. Apparently, bearing one’s scars was not only some Finwëan antic. 

He caught himself quickly, holding his arm out in invitation, and Elu complied by crawling over to him and lying down in the soft grass as well, arms crossed behind his head. Mablung could not keep his eyes from hungrily roaming his body, inwardly longing to just bend over him and cover every inch of his skin with kisses. He was so lost in thought that he almost started when Elu spoke once more, having apparently just coming out of his own line of thoughts. 

“Yes, I carry the marks of my death. I am not whole, not how I should be. That is, I think, also why I remember the time in the Halls when everyone else doesn’t.”

“That does make sense, yes. But I shall love you regardless. You can be the oddest elf there is, and the most marked, it doesn’t matter to me. I’ll love you on the good days and the bad ones. You know that.”

“I do.” Elu said simply. 

They lay side by side quietly for a while as night properly fell around them, then Mablung sighed.

“I could never forgive the Dwarves of Nogrod that. My own death, yes, but never what they did to you.” he said, pressing a gentle kiss to Elu’s upper arm.

“I insulted them, Mablung.” Elu stated quietly. “I behaved like the very worst possible version of myself…”

“No insult rectifies murder. You were alone and unarmed. Whatever it was you said, killing you there and then was never just, under no law within Arda safe perhaps that of the orcs.”

Mablung could not keep the heat out of his tone, as much as he tried to. 

“They might have declared war on Doriath, I’ll admit to that, but not kill its king.”

“I never said that they were in the right. But I had my hand in my own murder, there is no way denying that.”

Mablung knew that Elu was right, had in his mind scolded him many times for it, yet still he could not bring himself to agree now. Not now that Elu was so openly admitting to his own faults.

“You were ill then, Elu. Quite ill. You were not yourself.”

That, too, was no lie, and Elu sighed, nodding slightly.

“True. But put your anger to rest now, Mablung, at least that part of your anger that you feel on my behalf. They killed me swiftly, it was all over in a matter of moments. And they… I cannot be sure of this, but… I think they actually let me look into the Silmaril’s light. Which is strange, for they could in truth not have known what unspeakable comfort that meant to me, but they did not take it away, nor cover it before I was dead. So even in their wrath they showed me that act of mercy. 

So really, I bear no grudge against them and I never did. Well, no, that’s not true, I was -and am- quite angry about being robbed, about what they did to my people and my city afterwards, and most importantly about what they did to you and Elmo. But they paid heavily for that, and if their belief is true and they reside in Aulë’s keeping after their deaths, I am sure that Aulë will have dealt with those specific crimes. Or is still dealing with them, for I cannot imagine Dwarves being any less headstrong in death than they are in life.”

He laughed a little and Mablung grudgingly smiled, too.

“But after all, it was the Dwarves who built me Menegroth, and wrought me my sword and shield and armour that saved my life and realm in battle. I am loathe to being the one who sparked so much hatred between our peoples. Melian says that this was ever designed so by Ilúvatar, but I hate to be an instrument of his will in just such a way. That’s almost worse than all that strife being caused by my own temper after all. Or rather my failure to keep it.”

“That strife is settled now, though, at least in parts. Galadriel played a huge role in that, but most of all the grandson of Oropher. He is called Legolas and did great deeds during the defeat of Sauron. He even smuggled his dwarven best friend to the undying lands, believe it or not. Gimli son of Gloin was well beloved in Tol Eressëa until his passing and is mourned there still.”

Some of the tension seemed to leave Elu’s body at those words, and he shifted his position a little to smile gladly at Mablung.

“That is beautiful to hear.” he said quietly. “I should have liked to make Master Gimli’s acquaintance.”

Mablung chuckled.

“Oh, I don’t know. Legolas is bold for sure, but I think having to introduce his smuggled best friend to the legendary elf his father ever idolised… I think that might have been too much for the poor chap.”

Both again laughed, and the laughter drove out the last bit of shock at seeing Elu so scarred. Now Mablung dared, and carefully traced the scar that ran from Elu’s sternum down beyond his navel, feeling him shiver at the touch. Instantly Mablung made to redraw his hand, humming apologetically, but Elu quickly seized his hand, holding it steady on his skin.

“Don’t stop. Never not touch me, Mablung.”

Mablung stopped trying to pull away and allowed his fingers to relax, and after a moment started to caress Elu again, who closed his eyes for a moment to of relish.

“Alright.” Mablung whispered. “If you promise me to never not kiss me when my memories overwhelm me.”

“Promised.” Elu breathed.

They could no longer deny their longing for each other now, and Mablung spread his cloak over both of them, drawing even closer to his companion as he did so.

“Do you remember our first kiss?” he asked hoarsely.

“Of course I do. You took my virginity that day in more than one way, so how could I not remember? I cherished that memory throughout the Ages, both in Beleriand and Mandos.”

Mablung smiled.

“A part of me rued the fact, then, that it was not the first time for me as well. But then, had it been, I could not have pretended not to bond.”

“Aye, and it was clumsy enough with me having no clue. Imagine us both… nah, I’d rather not. I was so overwhelmed. Nobody had ever touched me, never before had I been at someone’s mercy. I felt so vulnerable then, but you… you were so gentle.”

“I wonder if it will feel like that again. Like the first time. After all, our bodies are not the same bodies that… well.”

Elu took a moment to answer, but then said:

“It is different, and yet the first time again. I… Melian and I could not keep off each other after I was re-embodied. It surprised even us, the longing we felt when we held each other again, as that was never the most important part of our relationship.”

“No…” Mablung smirked “… you cuddled. All the time. I guessed after a while that not every touch could lead to more, not given the amount of time you spent in court.”

Elu snorted, pushing himself away from Mablung a little so that he could look him in the face.

“Mablung, what exactly… have you been pondering my love life the whole time?”

He sounded both amused and indignant, which made Mablung laugh.

“What else should I have done when standing guard behind you? Why do you think I was so keen to take on the post as the King’s guard whenever I was off my hunter’s duty? Because then it was actually my job to watch you, and I could do so without it seeming odd.”

“And being horny that entire time?”

“Mh, maybe not the entire time, but often enough. But then, tonight, the tables shall truly be turned. I have not been intimate with anyone since Mandos, not even Beleg. This time, in this body, my first time shall be with you.”

“I’m honoured” Elu said softly, and then he pulled Mablung a real kiss at last. 

For all Mablung knew as they lay beneath the stars, loving each other, they might have been the only beings in the fathomless Void, for it would surly not have felt any different. Nothing was real anymore for Mablung safe Elu alone, and their entwined bodies, and touching him and being touched. He knew Elu thanked him for his love and patience with every tender caress, every kiss, every careful movement within him, and Mablung gave himself to his companion wholly, having never before known his pleasure to reach such heights. 

Only when he thought he would not be able to hold back another moment did he open his eyes again, cupping Elu’s face with a trembling hand. Elu, too, was shaking with his arousal, and by his ragged breathing Mablung knew that he could not be in any other state than he himself.

“I’m close now.” Mablung breathed huskily “And I want us to come together. I need us to come together.”

“Oh Mablung…” Elu panted, hiding his face for a moment in the crook of Mablung’s neck, until he had somewhat steadied his breathing. Then he looked up again, reached very deliberately for Mablung’s hand and interlocked their fingers.

“Eru be our witness, then.” he said hoarsely.

“Eru be our witness.” Mablung repeated, before he again lost himself in Elu’s embrace. 

He  knew that this was a life-changing moment, but just then he could not have cared less. He only cared about Elu moving within him, and his hands between Mablung's legs, and the words he whispered into his ear:

“You’re mine.”

Only once they had come down from their climax and somewhat steadied their breathing did Elu add:

“That is, if you want to be mine.”

Mablung laughed and kissed Elu passionately. This small double-take was so endearingly familiar to him that he could not help it.

“That is so you. Everyone else would have just left it there. I have always been yours, Elu. Since I could walk and talk, I have been yours. I admired you, I trusted you, I wanted to be close to you. Only my childish self did not recognise that feeling as love then. And I will remain yours forevermore. I love you.”

Elu smiled, sniffing a little.

“I love you, too. But now I am going to cry you know? As you said, the tables are turned. You cried our first first time, I cry this second first time.”

“You noticed? Then?”

Mablung was both touched and embarrassed. He had thought that Elu had remained oblivious to his tears back then, but apparently he had been mistaken. 

“Have I noticed… of course I noticed. Honestly, Mablung, how could I not notice? Do you think I haven’t watched you just as much as you watched me? It touched me so deeply to know what this first time meant to you. I cannot say how much I admired your strength, because I knew what you put yourself into. I’m so sorry that I could not give you what you needed.”

“No. No, love, you gave me what I needed. And we have each other now. Thanks to Melian, and I will never stop thanking her for that.”

A loving smile swept over Elu’s face as he nodded.

“I still cannot believe that I will truly have you both with me. And oh, I look forward to see you and Melian just… be together. She always put all her trust in you, and I love to see how that friendship will grow now that she is no longer your queen.”

For a moment Mablung just looked at Elu, then he laughed. Of course, he could know nothing of the relationship that had grown between him and Melian over the past millennia. Mablung chose not to mention that now, though. Elu would soon find out himself.

A content sleepiness came over them both now, and Elu had already turned back onto his back, lying with his eyes closed, strands of hair having come loose from his braid after their love-making. Mablung gazed at him raptly, marvelling at his beauty, yet also reminded painfully of Elu lying dead, and as much as he tried to calm himself, he couldn’t keep a small noise of dismay escaping his throat. Elu opened his eyes again in concern, and Mablung hastened to reassure him.

“Sleep. I’m sorry. It is just that seeing you like this… it brings back memories.”

Elu, to Mablung’s great surprise, smiled wryly and sighed.

“You’re like Elmo when he was a child. He could never bear to see me sleep, unless he lay with his ear over my heart. Come here then.”

Mablung wanted to protest, to tell Elu that he was not to be compared to the frightened little elfling Elmo had been at Cuiviénen, but snuggled into Elu’s arms nonetheless.

“I’m not your brother.” he grumbled, and felt Elu chuckle. 

“Of course not, my love. Otherwise I would hardly have bedded you.”

Mablung really wanted to argue some more, to tell Elu that unlike little Elmo, whose fear for Elu had been borne of the assault on their parents he had witnessed as an infant, his pain came from an entirely different experience. He had been the one to slide Elu’s eyes shut so that neither Melian nor Elmo had to go through that experience, had seen Elu lie in state, had stood hours and hours by his body in grief so profound that it was true physical pain. He wanted to tell Elu that it was for these memories that watching him sleep was painful, but Mablung found he was really too tired to talk anymore. The last thing he felt was Elu lay his hand on his head and stroke his hair tenderly and within moments he was sound asleep. 

#yet were its making good for this #silmarillion fanfiction #ao3 #chapter 26 #part two- reunited #afterlife in valinor #reembodied elves #mablung #elu thingol #I hope there aren't too many typos/editing mistakes but I got eye-drops put in yesterday and looking at a screen is still painful

[ladygavroche]

I have been thinking about Gil-galad’s parentage (as one does…) and one thing striked me as odd in the version where he is Fingon’s son. 

In the Silmarillion’s index, you find the following explanation for the entry on Gil-galad: “‘Star of Radiance’, the name by which Ereinion son of Fingon was afterwards known. After the death of Turgon he became the last High King of the Noldor in Middle-earth [...].”

If Fingon had a son, why did High Kingship go to Turgon after his death? Why did Gil-galad only inherit the (metaphorical) crown after his father’s brother died? You may say that Gil-galad was probably too young at the time of Fingon’s death; but after the Nirnaeth, Turgon went back to Gondolin, effectively disappearing from the surface of Middle-earth and the rest of the Noldor could not rally to him. Not exactly a strong candidate for kingship. 

I think this shows something quite interesting about the Noldor’s rules of succession or rather lack thereof (note: I have not read the Laws and Customs of the Eldar, so there might be something there; please correct if I’m wrong, I’m just trying to deduce from what we are told in the Silm). After all, why would immortal beings living in a deathless paradise need clear guidelines for when one of them passes away? And when things take a turn for the worse, it is already too late to settle it.

The key ambiguity seems to lie in the order of succession, when an Elf dies between his son(s) and his brother(s) (I’ll get back to the issue of daughters and sisters in a minute). We see a first instance of this in Fëanor’s behaviour in Valinor - the only one, at the time, to have lost a parent and so probably much more preoccupied by the issue of succession than other people. We see that he is obsessed by the idea that Fingolfin will steal his (or even Finwë’s) position. He also goes out of his way to name his 1st son “Third Finwë”, making a point about what he thinks should be the order of succession. 

After the Darkening, there are not that many opportunities to put the succession rules to the test. When Fëanor dies, Fingolfin is still on the other side of the sea, so there is no question that Maedhros will be the heir; and when Maedhros is captured, he has no son, so Maglor is once again the only option. After that, the crown comes to Fingolfin because Maedhros renounces it, not because of some pre-establish rules. 

When Fingolfin is killed, there are not, once again, many options, since Finarfin is not there; Fingon seems the only candidate. I did read somewhere (can’t find the exact reference though) that, when Finrod translated his father’s name in Sindarin, he put a second ‘fin’ in it (normally, the translation should be just Arfin), just like Fingolfin did, to underline his link to Finwë: this was probably Finrod subtle way of saying that he believe his own father is Fingolfin’s rightful heir, not Fingon. But it would have been foolish to openly challenge Fingon at this point, and definitely out of character for Finrod.

As for the rights of women to inherit the crown… this is even more unclear. We do not actually see any of Finwë’s female descendants wield political power on their own; in particular, Aredhel follows Turgon, and Galadriel does not get a kingdom of her own before she is married.

All of this has very interesting implications for Gondolin. Because depending on how you settle the question of brother vs son and of whether it works the same with women, Maeglin’s claim to Turgon’s succession might be better than Idril’s. 

It is a bit of a reach, of course; he would need to demonstrate that, as Turgon’s sister, Aredhel came before Idril in the order of succession, and that this still stands even though she died before her brother. Or he could take the patriarcal road and claim that only males could inherit the crown. But, in the end, since there are no rules, it is all about who has the most followers and can best plead his/her case. 

I think I would like to write an AU where Turgon dies in the Nirnaeth: who would succeed him then? Sure, Idril is beloved by all. But Maeglin is also well respected, and he is a warrior, who has just fought bravely and this is a time of war and extreme peril. Upon Turgon’s death, command of Gondolin’s army probably fell to Maeglin, which gives him considerable advantage. He is also not going to rush and claim the crown right away. He will claim that he wants to support his cousin in this difficult time… he'll deal with everything while she takes the time to grieve… make sure no one disturbs her… and then start to take over all matters of security, since he has more experience there… I’ll love to see it play out.

#silmarillion #noldorin society #who's Gil galad's dad #gil galad #fingon #turgon #maeglin #idril

[riding-with-the-wild-hunt]

Shattered: the Importance of Finarfin

From what I've seen, the Silm fandom as a whole doesn't pay a lot of attention to Finarfin. In most of the content I've seen about him, he's reduced to "the calm one," or even "the boring one." Fëanor gets attention (a lot of attention), Fingolfin gets attention too but Finarfin often just gets shunted to the side. The sedate one. The useless one.

And early this morning, I just started thinking about that. And I realized that, like, there's a whole lot of interesting stuff about Finarfin. So I thought I'd talk a bit about that here. :)

(TW for some violence and death/suicide mentions)

For the purposes of this post, I'm just going to be focusing on Finarfin's adult life. Maybe I'll do one on his childhood later if I have the spoons/people are interested.

But anyways. On to the writing.

I'm going to start our timeline when Fëanor threatens Fingolfin in Tirion. Chances are, since it was very public, Finarfin was there. He was aware, of course, that his brothers didn't get along, but watching one of your brothers take action to hurt the other? That's got to be really upsetting, especially for Finarfin, who seems to be much less volatile than either of his brothers, and much more interested in keeping the peace.

And after that? Well, we all know what happens. Fëanor's exile to Formenos. But not just Fëanor, because all his children, plus Nerdanel, go with him. Oh, and Finwë. He goes too.

Finwë who is also Finarfin's father. What do you do when your father so publicly shows that he, essentially, likes your half-brother better than you? You can't help but have a suspicion that if it had been you who'd been exiled, your father wouldn't have gone with you.

But, because you're Finarfin and you've got to be there for Fingolfin, you don't say anything. You say goodbye to your sister-in-law, and your nephews, and your father and then you set about trying to pick up the pieces. Because that's what you always do, isn't it?

And then the debacle with the Trees happens. Your home is in a blackout. This is your first time experiencing real darkness, because you were born in Valinor and have pretty much seen only light or twilight. You're confused and frightened already, and then you find out that your father is dead.

You haven't seen him for years. And now he's gone.

But you've got to be there for your wife, and your children, and your brother, so you deal with it (like you always do).

And then, suddenly, Fëanor's a Valar-hating revolutionary and you're trying to calm him down, but does he even recognize you at this point?

And then he's leaving, and Fingolfin and your other set of sibkids are packing up too, because apparently he has to go to make sure Fëanor will be all right, and Fingon needs to follow his cousin, and the others want to see Middle Earth. You try to persuade them not too, but it it doesn't work. Well, at least you have your children, you think.

And then they come to you and tell you that they're leaving too. And what can you do but follow them? Eärwen says she won't, and someone has to be with them. So you pack your things and you tell your wife you are sorry and you go.

It couldn't possibly get worse, could it? And then, of course, it does, because when you reach the Swanhavens, the beautiful, pearly harbor city where your in-laws live, Fëanor doesn't take no for an answer and decides to just take what he wants.

And there's blood in the sea and the white paving stones turn red, and you and your children are just trying to stop it all but then you look down and you see Eärwen's parents lying on the pier with their throats cut and you know you have to go back.

So you do. Alone. You throw yourself on the mercy of the Valar and they grant it. You go home to your wife and neither of you speak for days because what is there to say when everything has fallen apart?

But, because you are Finarfin and it's what you do, you and Eärwen start organizing relief for the surviving Teleri, and you help the Valar as much as you can. You light lamps in the darkness until the moon rises. You wonder if your children are looking at it too.

From some stragglers of Fëanor's pack, coming back to Tirion, you learn that Fingolfin was betrayed. That Fëanor burned the ships.

And you learn that your children, and your brother, and your niece and nephews, and everyone else, are all on the Helcaraxë. You try not to imagine them freezing to death, or drowning in a black ocean, or buried in the snow, or all the other things that keep you up at night.

Things go back to normal, essentially. Tirion stops being quite as much of a ghost city, and you and Eärwen learn to live in your silent, silent house.

And years pass. You learn from one of the Returned that Fëanor is dead, has been dead for a long time, and you feel a numb sort of grief but it doesn’t really touch you anymore. Your nephew comes home, serious and dull-eyed. You embrace him and you weep. 

It would be a lie to say that you weren’t expecting it someday, but when you open the door to a soft knocking and see Angrod standing outside, you and Eärwen cry and cry. He tells you that Aegnor will not be coming back, that he fell in love with a mortal woman and waits for her with Mandos. You learn to accept this, because there is no alternative. You are Finarfin. You should be used to this by now.

And the years pass, and the years pass, and its a Maia of Námo knocking at your door this time, telling you that Fingolfin is dead, killed by Morgoth, and that he will not be returning from Mandos anytime soon. You ask if you can see him. You hear that he will see no one. You write him a letter for every day anyways.

And there are many more. Five of your nephews from Fëanor’s side are dead, but who knows where they are. Finrod comes home, smiling a smile that doesn’t touch his haunted eyes. Fingon comes too, and sits in your garden for hours, staring at Nerdanel’s statue of Maitimo. Aredhel appears and stands at the seashore, waiting for her son to join her. He does, with Turgon and thousands of others behind him. Aredhel weeps. You rub her back and feel just as helpless as you did at the beginning of it all. 

And the years pass, and the years pass, and Tyelpë comes home, wary and weary, and tells Finarfin that Galadriel has gotten married. 

But she is a child, you almost say, and then you realize that she is not. Not anymore.

And the years pass, and the years pass, and suddenly your are going to Middle Earth again, with a divine army behind you, and you are standing at the gates of Angband and listening to Morgoth’s screams. You stand beside Eönwë and you feel nothing but revulsion. You do not touch the Silmarils when they are taken down.

You had hoped to see Galadriel, but she is not there. Someone tells you that she is expecting a child.

And then there are your two remaining nephews, desperate and wracked with pain, and they beg for the Silmarils, and you would’ve given them, but Eönwë shakes his regal, feathered head.

So they steal them in the night. It isn’t surprising. Why are you surprised? Why are you crying?

Later, you hear that Maitimo--Maedhros, now--killed himself. You begin steeling yourself to tell Fingon when you get home. 

And the years pass, and the years pass, and you wait for your daughter, but it is her daughter that comes first, barely able to stand, her hand shaking like leaves in the wind. She looks up at you and then buries her head in your chest. You stroke her hacked-off hair and this time you do not cry. 

You wait, with Eärwen, with Finrod and Angrod, and now Celebrían, who is waiting thrice over, for her parents, for her children, for her husband. You wait.

And finally, finally she comes home, flickering like a candle in the wind. Her husband, Celeborn, comes first, tells you that she will soon arrive, embraces you and calls you ada.

And then Celebrían’s husband comes, breaks the news that their daughter is not coming, will never come. Finarfin rests his hands on their shoulders as their tears fall into the sea. 

His great-grandsons come later, and bearing a bedraggled someone between them, and it is first Finarfin and then Elrond who recognizes those grey eyes, that once-melodious voice. 

Uncle, says your one surviving nephew. I am sorry.

And, because you are Finarfin, you take his burned, bloody hands and lead him up the beach and towards the city, because if this can happen, perhaps there’s hope for all the others too. 

#finarfin #silmfic #my writing #long post #galadriel #finrod #angrod #aegnor #celebrian #celeborn #fanfiction #this got really long #oh my gosh #if you had the patience to read all the way to the end #I'm impressed and full of gratitude #kinslaying #earwen #the silmarillion #tolkienfic #jrr tolkien #valinor #eonwe #maglor #maedhros #feanor #fingolfin #tolkien #middle earth #aman #aredhel

[zealouswerewolfcollector]

Sundering

A confrontation between the children of Fingolfin and Finarfin after the kinslaying at Alqualondë.

On Ao3

Fingon heard the approaching footsteps and let out a small breath. He had known this was coming. He hadn’t been looking forward to it, but he wouldn’t avoid it. The ground nearly shook under Angrod’s determined and furious steps. Fingon knew that Aegnor would be with him, no less angry but more restrained. He turned to face them.

His cousins were marching towards him, rage and betrayal in their bright eyes. Finrod and Galadriel were behind them, moving soundlessly, almost sliding over the ground. Fingon’s own siblings weren’t too far away, nearly running to catch up with their cousins.

“Why?” Angrod said without preamble, as soon as they stopped in front of Fingon. “We loved you as a brother.”

“I still do,” Fingon said.

Aegnor barked out a laugh that Fingon had never heard from him before.

“Does a brother do what you did?” he asked. “Does a brother steal from his brother’s kin? Does a brother take up a sword against his brother’s kin?”

Galadriel and Finrod were now next to their siblings. An unpleasant tingle went down Fingon’s spine. Standing together like this, the children of Finarfin didn’t look like the cousins he knew. They seemed more than Elves; they looked like vengeful Maiar, who had come to bring Fingon to justice. If Aegnor’s look was fire, Finrod’s was ice. If Angrod pinned Fingon with his heavy gaze, Galadriel dissected him, laid him bare.

Fingon rolled his shoulders and winced slightly at the pain in the left one.

“I will not deny I was rush in joining the battle. I was thinking only of aiding my kin, who seemed to be in mortal danger. I did not stop to consider the reasons.”

Aredhel and Turgon had reached the group by then. Fingon’s sister was looking at their cousins sternly, almost challenging them. Turgon stood a little to the side, his gaze flickering between his siblings and his cousins.

“Ignorance is no excuse for my actions,” Fingon continued. “I betrayed our bonds. I betrayed you and myself. Nothing I say will ever undo that. Still, I ask for your forgiveness even without hope that you would grant it to me.”

He cast his gaze down and waited. When a moment later, unable to bear the tension, he looked up, he found his cousins deep in conversation, though no words were shared. Aegnor turned to him.

“Forgiveness you should ask from those you slew, from our grandfather, whose treasures you helped to steal. We cannot give it to you in the name of those you wronged. From us, you will receive nothing but judgment.”

“I do not see your grandfather here,” Aredhel said. “I see only my cousins, who presume to have the right to judge but not the right to grant forgiveness. So be it. If that is your wish, I will try to respect it. You said your piece. Now leave my brother. What more do you want?”

“I have not said my piece yet,” Angrod said, his every word a rock thrown at Fingon’s chest. “You claimed ignorance of the matter. You claimed to believe the attackers were our grandfather’s kin. Answer then! If you knew the truth, would you stay your hand? Would you let justice prevail and our bloodthirsty cousins meet their deserved end? Would you raise your sword to slay them? Would you protect the side that was truly wronged?”

Fingon’s throat was dry. He had no answer for Angrod, no answer for himself, and it terrified him as much as the first drops of blood on his blade had.

“No use now to ponder upon what he would have done,” Aredhel answered in his stead. “What is done is done.”

“I would hear him speak. I would like to see him look into my eyes and lie. I would like to see him try to deny it, try to deny that even now he would do the same if Maitimo asked him. Even now, when the true nature of our cousins cannot be denied, he would follow them. If Maitimo whistled for him, he would obediently run to him, forgetting everything and everyone, just like he has always, always done.”

“You will not speak so to my brother,” Turgon said quietly, furiously, and through the growing painful haze, Fingon felt a pang of shame for being surprised, for thinking that in his heart his brother agreed with their cousins.

“Am I not your brother too, Turvo?” Finrod asked. His look, colder than the wind blowing from the Helcaraxë when directed at Fingon, warmed when it turned to Turgon. “For I have always thought you mine.”

“How very kind of you,” Aredhel said. “Oh, virtuous Ingoldo, so honorable that he will board the ships stolen from his massacred kin and sail in search of a kingdom to rule.”

For the first time, Finrod seemed to lose his composure. His beautiful face twisted. Galadriel, though, turned her gaze, full of contempt, to Aredhel.

“I would not expect you to understand ambition,” she said coldly.

Aredhel bristled. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“I did not see you standing among us to decide the fate of the Noldor.”

“I wished no part in Fëanáro’s madness.”

“Yet you follow him.”

“Not him. I follow my father, the true king. As do you.”

“I follow no one.”

Turgon laughed. “You are as deluded as you are arrogant, little cousin.”

“Turvo, I do not appreciate the way you talk to my sister.”

“Keep her and your brothers in check then.”

“Neither Nerwen, nor we are the ones who need to be kept in check, Turukáno. Address your words to your own elder brother.”

“My brother is honest at least. It is not him that condemns the massacre and still wants to benefit from it.”

“Do you think we could return after what happened? After our beloved cousin slaughtered our kin?”

“You try to return then. Could you even—”

“What was he supposed to do? He saw that our—”

“He could have waited! He could have tried to find out—”

“He could have—”

“Oh, it is so easy! I would like to see you try—”

“—in the middle of a battle when you only have time—”

“—no blood on our swords.”

“—myself in that situation in the first place.”

“That is easy to say but hard—”

“—hard for those who—”

“Not hard if—”

“—calling dull-witted?”

“—not brave enough—”

“—bravery, I call it—”

“—the Valar—”

“—if not before, then now for sure—”

“—one more word and—”

“—a kinslayer just like—”

“—has to pay for—”

“—justice should—”

“—no right—”

“Enough.”

Distantly, Fingon was pleased to discover that one quiet word from him still could silence his younger siblings and cousins.

“Enough,” he repeated. “I will not have you at each other’s throats because of me. What we have seen, what we-what I have done went beyond our worst nightmares, and we know not what awaits us ahead. I will always bear the mark of a kinslayer, I can never atone for the grief I have caused, but I will not become the origin of strife between dear friends. For the sake of the love we bear for each other and for the sake of the Noldor, let us stand united in the face of the unknown. Let us brave the darkness and reach the vast lands we were promised. Let us emerge victorious in our fight. Then I will surrender myself to your judgment, cousins.” Turgon made to protest, but Fingon didn’t let him speak. “Would that satisfy you?”

Fingon’s cousins contemplated it silently. Angrod looked like he wanted to say something, but before he could, Finrod nodded, and they turned away, leaving without another word.

When they were out of sight, Turgon grasped Fingon’s shoulder. “You handled it gracefully,” he said.

Fingon shrugged, bowing his head. There were little spots on his sleeve, caked with something rusty brown, though Fingon remembered changing his clothes after the bloodshed. He started scratching at it frantically with a fingernail. Aredhel caught his hand and folded his sleeve, but Fingon could still see the remaining faint stain.

#silmarillion #fingon #angrod #aredhel #galadriel #aegnor #turgon #don't worry they'll make up later #being betrayed and abandoned #and crossing an icy hellscape will unite them #zwc fic #finrod

[jengajives]

Lots of feelings about how my fave siblings would have felt about Maedhros’s fun trip on Thangorodrim. Also Best Cousins as well

“Wake up, Your Majesty.”

Maedhros didn’t move until the sharp toe of an iron boot jabbed his side. Then he grumbled and rolled over, but would not rise.

“Your Highness,” sang the serpent’s voice from somewhere above him. “Your feast awaits, oh King.”

A clatter. The tray of whatever food he was gifted with for the day hitting the damp stone floor. Maedhros still did not move.

“No appetite, hm? Your Majesty just isn’t himself this morning. Usually you’re so excited for your meals.”

A high, hot laugh. Maedhros got the idea Sauron was putting his boot in the food. A lovely image.

“You can tell your master,” he said flatly, without cracking an eye or rolling over, “that if He wants me mocked and ridiculed, He’d better come down here and do it Himself. I give little weight to the word of lesser servants.”

“Lesser?” Sauron repeated. Heat leached into his voice; Maedhros could feel it rising from the coward’s skin even before the fire-bright hands reached down to grab him, burning another set of hand prints into his shoulders with fat, red welts.

“I will show you lesser, pup,” Sauron seethed, “Are the failure son of failure fathers, and I am Flame itself!”

“You,” Maedhros said though his voice quivered with exhaustion, “are just a slinking dog afraid to leave his master’s heels. More likely to roll over than to stand up and fight.”

The pain of heat grew red and wild, like touching molten metal. Sauron’s fingertips dug in and Maedhros found himself locked in a fiery scarlet gaze.

“We shall see who rolls over for whom,” Sauron snarled, and dragged Maedhros unresisting from the cell.

“Look at you!”

Sauron’s eyes glowed in the dim light, gleaming with smug victory. His hands, so rarely idle, twitched by his side until he had to grab Maedhros by the hair and yank his head up so he could get a good look at his face.

The small myriad of new cuts went from cheekbone to cheekbone. Jaw to jaw. It was nothing, of course, compared to the pain against his spine he was convinced would never leave.

It had been hours and still it hurt sharp and blazing hot as ever.

It seemed like Sauron was trying to burn letters into his very skin, though he worked too gradually for Maedhros to make out the script.

Sauron laughed and gave him a sharp slap.

“The High King of the Noldor, eh? I don’t see it. All I can see is a houseless and pathetic murderer getting what he deserves.”

Maedhros spit at him, splattering his face with blood. Immediately the flame in Sauron’s eyes went white hot.

“Why, you little-“

“Mairon.”

Sauron paused, one hand drawn back and glowing like molten metal, as his master appeared looming like a mountain in the doorway.

“That’s enough. Leave him.”

His eye twitched but slowly he straightened and obeyed, with a courteous bow.

“Of course, Master.”

He shot Maedhros a spiteful glare as he stalked from the room, still wiping blood and spit away with a sleeve.

The sound of Morgoth’s approach was like a rumbling in the earth, but Maedhros had learned to ignore it. He let his head hang limp, cheek pressed to the cold stone, breathing steadily, trying to convince his scrambled mind it was safe to rest, even if only for an instant.

He hadn’t yet fully mastered the terror when Morgoth reached him and lifted his head by the hair.

No rest. No rest was fine. He didn’t need to rest.

“I’m afraid I have bad news for you, Nelyo,” said Morgoth with mock pity, his expression twisted into a deep frown. “I’ve just gotten message back from your dear brothers.”

Something cold that probably had been hope once rose into Maedhros’s throat, and he didn’t have the energy to keep it from showing. Cruel amusement flashed behind Morgoth’s heavy eyes.

“Unfortunately, it seems they’ve abandoned you to torment and pain for the rest of eternity.” The sympathy dripping from his voice tasted like poison; it was difficult not to choke on it. “Isn’t that just awful? Your own family... not even willing to save their sweet Nelyo. Their King. How horribly tragic.”

Any attempt to think through the news logically failed, so the only thought going through Maedhros’s head was the certainty that it was a lie. Maglor and Celegorm wouldn’t abandon him to this, surely. Fingon wouldn’t... Fingon...

No. Fingon wasn’t here. He wasn’t coming, he couldn’t be, and even if he was, why would he want anything other than pain for the sons of Fëanor? After what they had done... after what Maedhros had done to him. No, there was no rescue. No freedom. The Oath bound his brothers never to give up the pursuit of their enemy, not even for his sake.

“Get on with it,” Maedhros growled, raising his gaze to meet Morgoth’s. “I’ll be avenged. You’ll be paid for the lives of my grandfather, and my father, and... and me. Go ahead and do it.”

A pause, and then Morgoth laughed wild and cold.

“Oh, sweet boy. You think I want you dead? You think I want to kill you? No, no...” He leaned closer, his breath a whisper of ice and stone. “I want you to watch your brothers die. I want you to see exactly how fruitless all your labors have been. You, my dear Nelyo, are not going anywhere.”

Maglor was so distracted looking out over the mountains that he didn’t notice he was no longer alone until he got a hand clapped on his shoulder.

“Brother.”

He almost jumped as he flipped around, but managed to restrain himself.

“Celegorm!”

“Your hair is getting long,” Celegorm said, with a weak smile on his face as he rustle his fingers through the growing curls. Trying not to look as sad as he was. “It looks nice. Going to braid it again soon?”

“Oh. Yes, I think so.” Maglor did not have the energy to attempt a smile. Didn’t have the will.

“Good.” Celegorm patted him on the shoulder again. “Good. A king should have braids, yeah?”

Maglor was nodding along until he processed the words.

“K-King?”

“Yes.” Celegorm straightened up, resting a hand on the hilt of his sword. He had the same cool, collected expression that most of them wore nowadays. “You are next in line, Maglor.”

“Next in...” he trailed off, glancing east again to the mountains. “Wait, no, Celegorm, Maedhros is-“

“Maedhros is gone.” He would not meet Maglor’s shocked gaze. “It’s time we start accepting that. Our people need a king, and you-“

“No!” Maglor stepped back. “He is alive! Maedhros is our king, and he’s alive, and we aren’t going to abandon him like that!”

“I’m just saying we should think about it,” Celegorm said. “That’s all.”

“No.” Maglor looked at his brother in horror. “That’s awful, Celegorm, I’m not leaving him like that!”

“I’m sorry.” Celegorm backed up, hand raised. “But he’s gone. There’s nothing we can do. I’m sorry.”

He turned and left the room, and Maglor put his face in his hands and wept.

The air was bitter cold up here. Bitter cold and reeking of smoke.

Maedhros tried so hard not to feel the pain anymore. Tried to close his eyes and drift to sleep but he couldn’t. The pain was too constant.

If his hand could have come off, it would have by now. It hurt. It hurt so bad.

The stone was razor sharp and tore at his back like knives. The wind bit into his flesh. And the manacle sliced his wrist and sent a constant stream of blood down his arm.

It hurt too bad to find escape in sleep.

It hurt too bad to think.

When the clear sound of horns rang across the hills and echoed through the peaks, Maedhros almost thought his mind had wandered entirely out of reality.

But then he saw the blue banners of Fingolfin in the valley below, and the horns rang out deafening and clear, and it was so loud it shook him to his core.

Fingolfin.

Fingolfin was here.

He was here, waving his banners, banging on the gates of Angband under the light of the silver newborn moon.

Strength flowed immediately through Maedhros and he squirmed, pulling himself up by the chain around his wrist. The white gleam of armor and jewels glittered like a living river of hope.

“Uncle!”

He twisted, trying to get enough air to his lungs to scream.

“Uncle!”

He didn’t know how Fingolfin had gotten here but he was here. He had come.

“Fingon! Uncle! Aredhel!”

His voice rang across the rocks loud and clear. Surely loud enough to be heard. Surely.

Surely. Please.

Please.

Night and sat blurred into one honey-slow and unsteady pulse, so slow. So slow and he had hung here longer than he could comprehend.

His back was sliced to ribbons by the stone face behind, and the cuts around his wrist were never properly allowed to heal and had turned his entire site dull copper with dry blood. It rained every once in a while and rinsed him clean, but mostly he was suspended there in his own blood and sweat and filth without escape.

No escape.

Never any way out.

Never.

The sound of strings on the wind couldn’t be real because no one would ever crawl up here for his sake, for any sake, let alone play. Let alone sing. Sing a beautiful song in Quenya that Maglor had written about the white streets of Tirion like some ghost of long-lost peace.

His body shook with shivers and fever and he closed his eyes and raised his nose to the wind.

Humming along brought momentarily peace, so Maedhros parted his dry, cracked lips and took up the tune slow and gentle. His voice was in no shape for singing, but he managed it, and it made him feel at home, so he tried anyway.

Abruptly the song stopped. The music died. He lowered his head and returned to the cold and the torment.

“Maedhros?” called a voice, and over a face of rock far below poked the dark head of Fingon.

Fingon.

Fingon was here for him.

He’d come.

Tears steamed hot down his cheeks, the only water he had left.

Fingon crawled onto the flat granite shelf and got to his feet, a vision in gleaming blue with a harp at his side. He stood for a moment studying the rock and the sheer face between himself and his cousin, then he cupped his hands over his mouth and called again.

“Maedhros, I can’t reach you!”

Even from this distance, Maedhros could see the silver bow slung across Fingon’s back.

He croaked words and just had to hope they reached all the way down.

“Just shoot.”

Blood ran down his bicep and dripped through the hollow of his spine.

“Fingon. Please. Just shoot me.”

He closed his eyes and missed if Fingon replied, because his arm ached so horribly he couldn’t even think.

It seemed to him a long time before he opened his eyes again and saw Fingon sat on the stone with his face in his hands and the bow resting next to him. He was crying. Maedhros could see his shoulders shaking from here.

Eventually he stood, picked up the bow and turned around to face the precipice.

Maedhros saw his lips moving, but he couldn’t hear the words. All he could see was the gleam of the bow as he drew it.

He closed his eyes again.

Awaiting the momentary pain that would herald his release.

It did not come.

He heard the wind of a hurricane, felt it push against his face and smack him back to the rock, and the roar of beating wings, and then hands on his shoulders holding him, warm, and firm, and present.

“It’s alright!” Fingon spoke through tears, a desperate smile on his face. “I’m here. I’m here, Maedhros. I’m going to take you home!”

Maedhros did not answer. It hurt. It hurt and it wasn’t like Fingon would be able to get rid of it.

He could feel him tugging at the chains. Trying to pry the manacle off the rock. Trying everything.

“Fingon,” Maedhros breathed. “Fingon, please. You can’t get me out of here. There’s no way out. Just... if you could just... please...” He looked meaningfully at the sword his cousin wore at his hip. “Just end it. Please. I can’t...”

“No, no. Stop that, I’m not leaving you. You’re going to be fine!”

“I’m sorry.” He wanted to cry but his body wouldn’t manage it. “Fingon. I’m sorry. I-I never meant to leave you b-behind.”

“Just hush. Keep your strength.”

“I’m sorry...”

Another tug at the manacle. It wouldn’t budge.

Finally, Maedhros heard the scrape of a sword being drawn, and a silver flash of sunlight blinded him.

Yes. Yes, at last. At last.

“Hold still. It’ll only hurt for a second, cousin, I promise. Just- Just don’t move!”

The dull pain in his wrist turned sharp and he let out a scream that echoed endlessly across the peaks.

So sharp. So cold.

Turned him to ice.

Froze him all up.

He didn’t even notice Fingon holding him, wrapping him in a cloak, forcing warmth back into his body. Binding his hand tight and clean.

His hand his hand his fingers were twitching and he could still feel the manacles.

“I’m so sorry,” he sobbed quietly into Fingon’s chest, and for the first time in too long he received an affectionate touch.

He closed his eyes and went at last to sleep.

#jenga makes junk #fanfic #fic #writers #silmarillion #sons of feanor #maedhros #maglor #celegorm #fingon #sauron #mairon #morgoth #tw blood #tw sucidal thoughts #look sometimes you just be in the mood for torture ya know #this is probably shit but you know what I do not care #good time for losing a hand you know

[saurons-pr-department]

Thank you for the tag @finwaytootired I know you tagged me in this ages ago, but I'm just like this T_T

How many works do you have on AO3?

16 apparently! Some are very very short though, 'cause they're part of a little rambly Mairon series

What’s your total AO3 word count?

33238 See! Short!

How many fandoms have you written for and what are they?

2-3 depending on how you group them. 1) The Silmarillion 2) The Hobbit 3) Star Wars

What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

1) There's a First Time for Everything (or Why Only Good Things Come From Spying on Wood Elves) 2) Let me Please You 3) Can Toddlers be Tried for War Crimes? 4) An Embrace of the Spirit (I'm actually surprised by this one XD) 5) Dark Days Lie Still Before Us

Do you respond to comments, why or why not?

Yes! ...Unless I forget to... If I've ever forgotten to get back to a comment you've left, I am so sorry T_T

What’s the fic you’ve written with the angstiest ending?

Oh that definitely has to be Take it Back. I even got complaints about it (more on that later)

Do you write crossovers? If so what is the craziest one you’ve written?

Not on AO3..... *sigh* confession time... back in the day... on FFN... I had a SpongeBob and Phineas and Ferb crossover (the lads built a submarine and went to BikiniBottom).

Have you ever received hate on a fic?

Hmmm.... not 'hate' exactly... but in Take it Back I decided to break up Russingon (I know, I know, I'm a monster) because Fingon thought that Maedhros had abandoned him and so had moved on. Someone left this big long rant about how I should write a sequel that basically undid everything that I had done in this one shot so that Fingon left his wife and new child (Gil-Galad Plotholeion) and went back to Maedhros and like... I get it but also, who leaves a comment on a fic saying that the writer should write a story where none of the original story happens or un-happens???

It also got a bit of a mixed comment where the person just generally seemed to enjoy the angst but also felt the need to tell me that they don't agree with the interpretation of the characters and that the characters had gone about the interaction all wrong. Messy emotions lead to messy conversations dear commenter..?

Do you write smut? If so what kind?

Sometimes. Pretty tame though. It usually involves one character not really being that experienced. On one occasion it was for comedic effect, the other was because I accidently but not so accidentally wrote an aroace Melkor

Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Not that I'm aware of. Do I have anything worth stealing??

I was accused of plagiarising once though! Someone thought my MaironxEonwe fic was too similar to another MaironxEonwe fic on the grounds that they both showed Mairon in Aule's forges and the two were talking about a festival happening in Valinor. You know, because no one in the history of Silm fandom has ever depicted Mairon in a forge and as we all know festivals never happen in Valinor.... -_-

Have you ever had a fic translated?

Not that I'm aware of!

Have you ever co-written a fic before?

Myself and @outofangband wrote a short piece on Tumblr together once! Well, it was more like they wrote something and I jumped on to their post XD It was really fun though!

What’s your all time favorite ship?

Hmmm.... Angbang? Silvergifting? Fallen Banners? Mairon/Maeglin? (which I have now just decided to call Fall and Drown XD), Mairon/Eonwe?

What’s a WIP that you want to finish but don’t think you ever will?

Hmmm.... there's nothing at the moment that I feel like I won't finish... but in terms of a WIP that I really want to finish? Dark Days lie Still Before Us

What are your writing strengths?

Honestly...? No clue...

What are your writing weaknesses?

I completely fail at getting myself to actually sit down and write in the first place. Does that count?

What are your thoughts on writing dialogue in other languages in a fic?

Oooffff, it depends... How long do I have to scroll down to the a/n at the end to get the translation and how easy is it to find my place again? XD

Can I get the gist without knowing the words (the comment was an insult or term of endearment maybe?) or have I missed out on an important convo?

How much is it breaking up my reading experience?

Sometimes it's fine, and sometimes it's a pain in the ass.

What was the first fandom you wrote for?

(Don't worry Elian, we've all been there XD)

Mine would be Star Wars. Not cringy in and of itself, but the writing was deeply cringy stuff though T_T

What’s your favorite fic you’ve written?

I had a lot of fun writing Sometimes Curiosity is Rewarded for the Secret Santa last year!

It's about Celebrimbor wanting to have a nose around Annatar's office and then essentially accidentally pledging himself to a Dark Lord (but he doesn't know that)

tagging: @foxindarkness @elennalore ahhhh, I'm blanking on who writes XD

#tag games