#I always think that nelya is the voice of reason | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

outofangband · 3 years

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Hi! Could you possibly do 30 for Maedhros?

(And if possible, with Fingolfin comforting him at some point?)

The prompt was 'locked in a room' so I thought I'd revise and add to this older fic and then write a continuance where Maedhros can get some comfort

CW: blanket post Angband warning for trauma following captivity and torture. trauma response.

Takes place around the time of this story here!

Masterlist

Note: I am probably going to have to make a second masterlist for writing as there is a link limit.

“Where is Nelya?” Nolofinwë's voice was full of alarm. Finding his nephew out of bed, the covers thrown off and the door open had badly jarred him, particularly as even that morning it did not seem as though Nelyafinwë could sit up without help much less move from the room. The servant he was speaking to looked sheepish with a growing anxiety when they could not provide him with an answer. Nolofinwë closed his eyes for a moment as he worked to compose himself. It was not the servant’s fault, they were stretched thin enough as it was and becoming angry and berating them would be no help at all. He actually had a quill out to dictate a letter to the guards outside when he heard his son behind him.

“Ataya, I have found him.” Fingon spoke from the entryway, looking grim. There was a terrible instance where Nolofinwë did not quite know what he would hear. His eyes hardened and he threw out a hand towards the wall as though for support. Fingon seemed to realize this. “He is unhurt, Ataya,” the younger elf says quickly, “Nelyo has seen to lock himself within the confines of the linen room.” Fingolfin’s eyes narrowed, the stark panic releasing its grip on him but his confusion and concern remaining. He nods to the servant before setting off down the hall, pausing outside the linen closet. Even as Nolofinwë tried to keep the younger elf's quarters as quiet and dim as possible, it did not always seem to be enough to prevent Nelyo from seeking smaller, safer corners. On more than one occasion Fingolfin had found him asleep in the space between his bed and the wall. He thought he understood the appeal these spaces had though he tried not to think about it. It lead his mind down unhelpfully dark paths.

Fingolfin knocked but received no answer. He had a key, of course, but did not want to use it yet. Clearly Maitimo had desired to be alone and Fingolfin felt he should respect his privacy. It was hard enough to convince the younger elf that he was safe, that he would not be forcibly moved or confined. But he could not deny that the behavior was unsettling.

...

It took considerable restraint not to simply wait outside the door but Nolofinwë knew that he could not place his own comfort above Maitimo's well-being. He could not crowd him. So instead he walked to the end of the hall and sat with his quill, writing out a letter in his imperfect Sindarin.

He was soon to the point of nodding off when the sound of the lock coming undone roused him again. Nelyafinwë exited the closet, dressed in his overlarge sleeping robes and still looking exhausted. Not wanting to startle him, Fingolfin waited until the younger elf raised his eyes and paused, unsure.

“I fell asleep, My Lord,” Nelyo explained quietly, clearly searching Fingolfin’s face and posture for a sign. The Noldo felt something warm well up in his throat but offered a small smile.

“That is alright, Nelya,” he says softly, “I hope I did not disturb thee upon knocking.” Maedhros shakes his head. Fingolfin watches as he walks back across the hall to his room, left leg dragging noticeably, the result, the healers told him, of several breaks and extended periods of immobility. It must have been quite painful though for reasons he didn’t entirely understand, his nephew had so far refused to take anything alleviate it.

The door was cracked open and so Nolofinwë was able to entire soundlessly. Despite the night outside, he saw clearly when Maitimo’s body tensed under his covers.

“I apologize, Nelya,” Fingolfin said gently, “I merely wanted to ensure you were comfortable. I shall let you rest now.”

“Thank you, Uncle,” was barely audible as he turned to leave but it nonetheless brought the ghost of a smile to Fingolfin’s face.

#Post Angband #Maedhros #Fingolfin #The Silmarillion #short writings

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anarimamoved · 5 years

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crafting new life

A tiny Nerdanal/Fëanor ft. baby Maedhros fic I wrote to give myself a break from another fic I’m writing!

On AO3

Fëanáro’s throat was dry, his Adam’s apple bobbing helplessly, and he told himself the dryness was the reason he was incapable of creating words, because words were, and had always been, his greatest power… And it was impossible to fathom that that power was failing him…. But it was the truth, the tiny bundle of elf in his arms had utterly robbed him of his beloved words, of his power.

He was an extremely young father, by elven standards, his father had been centuries older than him when he was born, but Fëanáro had always charged into everything, head first, his entire life. He had known Nerdanel was the spouse for him as soon as he met her… why wait? And when they had been married, why wait for a child? But here he was, Fëanáro’s son, and Fëanáro felt… young, and helpless. He could feel the echoes of his own fëa in the child, and he could feel Nerdanel as well, and he could feel that flare of spirit that was uniquely the child’s own.

Fëanáro leaned down and kissed his brow, breathlessly he said, “You shall be great, yondoya. You will make the earth move and entire people’s will follow the power of your fëa and your words…” “He will be beautiful, Fëanáro.” Nerdanel said wearily. Fëanáro looked up at her. Her voice sounded tired, but she was sitting up, strong. The fire that burned, always, in Fëanáro’s heart blazed, suddenly, for her. Many said she was ugly, her strong bone structure and the countless splatters of freckles across the skin all over her body, so typical of Mahtan’s people, were viewed as unbecoming in one of the Quendi, particularly in an elleth. But Fëanáro had never been so shallow, or singularly minded; and if he was fire, she was clay, which does not bend to the whims of fire the way stone, ore, and iron do, but harnesses it, growing stronger and more beautiful by its hand. There would be no other for him, there could not be. “Aye,” Fëanáro said, bouncing the baby, “Already he is the most handsome babe I have ever seen.” “Have you seen many babes?” Nerdanel laughed. He shot her a hard look, “My father has 4 other children, I was there for all their births, and none of them came anywhere near to my son’s beauty…. Nolofinwë was particularly ugly.” “Oh, but he has grown up so handsome, Fëanáro. Perhaps then our son will be the reverse.” Fëanáro made no comment, but glared at her, and she settled back into her pillows. “No, he will grow up to be stunning, he will have all your beauty.” “A piece of craft is only as beautiful as it’s makers skills might allow, regardless of how fine the material. Our son is beautiful, for his mother is great.” She smiled at the baby, “He is a well-formed little figure, isn’t he?” She murmured. “Aye,” Fëanáro said again, softly, “and it maybe that he has my beauty, but he looks like you.... The flame of your hair, the structure of your face.” “He is ours, Fëanáro.” “The greatest work of the two greatest craftsman of all the Noldor,” He said with a wicked grin. She laughed, “You flatter yourself, and me, loved one…. But ai, I can think of no one thing greater that I have ever made… Though I long to make more. More children, I mean.” Fëanáro looked up again, with a frown. “Can you bear it?” He murmured.

“I am not your mother, Fëanáro.” Nerdanel said, flatly, “I cannot know what pain she endured, nor why, but I am certain that the pain would have existed regardless of what child she bore. Bearing your children is no great danger.” She reached out, “I know you fear yourself, though you would never admit it, but I do not fear you… Little harm could you ever do to me, least of all by way of the wonders of creating a child.” Fëanáro seized her hand then, and kissed it, “My Nerdanel….” The baby began to cry, an unpleasant sound, and Fëanáro pulled back to turn his attention to it, “Hush, sh, one so beautiful should not make such displeasing sounds.” He raised the baby up so he could see his father’s face more clearly. “Do not cry, Nelyafinwë…” “Nelyafinwë?” She asked, brows raised. Fëanáro didn’t turn to look at her, “His grandfather is Finwë, and his father is Curufinwë, why should he not be Nelya?” Nerdanel made no comment but listened as Fëanáro murmured a few more of his beautiful words to the baby and kissed his brow. “It would seem that the power of your words works even on a baby. How fearful.” Nerdanel commented, readjusting more comfortably in her pillows, then closing her eyes. “Even still, perhaps the next child we shall endeavor to make a child shall be beautiful not his form, but in his voice… So that even the sound of his cries might be music.” She cracked an eye open and gave a mischievous grin, “Should his father not be there to soothe him.” “Do not tempt me, Nerdanel, with the idea that we may have some influence in crafting our children, less the urge to create them never be quieted in me, or you, and it may be we never stop having children.” “Oh,” she said, eyes fluttering close and beginning to drift, “How many babies could we even have? It seems the upwards limits for you race is 4…. I suppose my body would simply stop, after a while.” Fëanáro gave a non-committal hmmm, continue to bounce his baby, and to dream of a whole brood of children, just as wonderful as this one.

#don't tell my younger self i'm writing positive feanor fic or feanor/nerdanel fic she would have a stroke #feanor #nerdanel #maedhros #tolkien #my writes

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